Disclaimer 1: I do not own Criminal Minds.
Disclaimer 2: I do not own Caltech, although I did go to college there. All characters are fictional, regardless of how much they may resemble actual persons.
Author's Note: The format of this story is unusual. It alternates between 1994-1995 and 2010. I hope the weird format doesn't bother people too much, since I've already got a bunch of chapters written and plan to update regularly. I just need to proofread the chapters before I add them to the story.
Some of the chapters contain quite a bit of nerd speak, but I reserve the right to nerd speak as much as I want in a story about my favorite TV nerds. Nerd speak clarifications may be found at the end of each chapter.
This is my first ever fanfiction. Reading &/ Reviewing are much appreciated. Enjoy!
Chapter 11
January 1995
"Tell us the truth, Spender. Do you have a secret girlfriend?" asked Pierre.
"No," said Spencer, assuming the most impassive expression that he could muster in the face of the unexpected question. He shifted his armchair closer to the fireplace and stared into the flames.
"A secret boyfriend?" asked Sarah, her eyes brightening hopefully. She licked her lips in a hungry, almost predatory, manner.
"No!" replied Spencer, wrinkling his nose in disgust.
He continued staring into the fire, locked into its flames, trapped in the circle of seats around it. He wished to flee, but there were too many people in the Ricketts House lounge. They blocked the exits on every side, watching "The Simpsons" as they did every night after dinner. Besides, fleeing would look mighty suspicious after his adamant denials. He would have to stand his ground and fight.
"So, where have you been disappearing to for hours at a time in the middle of the night?" asked Keith.
"Yeah," said Eric, "You're never around when we're looking for you to do our problem sets. I mean, when we're looking for you so we can all do our problem sets together," he corrected himself.
"I'm always around," Spencer insisted. "Last night, we did our physics sets in your room, remember?"
"Yeah," said Sarah, "And we finished before midnight for the first time in recorded history. That was when you disappeared. We went looking for you, because we wanted to go to the Coffeehouse, but we couldn't find you."
"Oh, right," said Spencer, as if he were suddenly remembering something. "I went to mail a letter to my mom in the SAC," he lied. "I write her a letter everyday," he admitted, feigning hesitation at the disclosure. "I don't want her to be lonely at home," he dropped his puppy dog eyes sadly into his lap.
"Awwwwwww," said Pierre, "What a sweet baby boy!"
He reached over with his long ape-like arms and ruffled Spencer's hair.
"If you ever meet my parents, do not, I repeat, do not tell them that you write your mother everyday," said Eric. "They're going to expect me to do the same. It's bad enough as it is. They make me call them every other day to tell them that I'm still alive."
"At least your parents are 3,000 miles away," said Sarah. "My parents showed up at my door last Saturday. It was noon, so I was asleep. When I heard them knocking and calling me from outside the door, I fell out of bed and landed on my bike. Do you know how much it hurts to land on a bike? I was lucky not to be impaled on the handlebars!"
Spencer settled back into his armchair as his friends complained about their parents. He had successfully diverted the conversation away from his midnight trysts with his secret girlfriend.
"She's not your girlfriend!" he reprimanded himself, "You're not having trysts with her! Stop thinking about it like that! It's insane!"
Spencer had not told any of his friends about the girl in the four-story pit, because his instincts told him not to. There was an unspoken understanding between them, that he would never speak of her to anyone else. She would not ask him about the things that he wished to keep to himself, and he would not ask her about why she lived in The Pit, why she only ventured outside after dark or in disguise, why she didn't socialize with anyone except for him. When it came to Princess Grendelin, Sir Rubik's instincts told him to lie, lie, lie.
In her dream, Princess Grendelin glided over the red-tiled roofs of the South Houses. The large white cloud that carried her across the sky dipped at each of the windows of Ricketts House. So far, none of the small narrow rooms had held any sign of her noblest Knight.
She swallowed painfully into a sore throat. Her head ached, and she decided to rest for a moment on the roof overhanging the first floor. She hovered under a set of open windows.
Through watery eyes, she watched a figure sleeping in its bed. An arm and a leg dangled over the edge of the bunk bed. It was the highest bunk bed that she had ever seen, at least six feet tall, built into the three walls surrounding it in the tiny room. It was more like a platform than a bed.
As she watched, the figure in the bunk bed rolled over, hung at the precipice, and plunged over the side. Princess Grendelin screamed. She felt herself pitch forwards off her cloud - falling, falling, falling until she hit her bedroom floor.
"Ouch, I can't breathe..." came the sound of muffled voice beneath her.
The Princess pulled herself to her feet. Her noblest Knight lay flat on the floor, red-faced and wheezing, utterly disoriented by their tumble out of bed. They sneezed in unison.
"Did we just fall out of bed?" asked Sir Rubik.
"I believe so," replied the Princess, "You rolled around too much and kicked us out."
"You're the one who landed on top of me," Sir Rubik retorted.
"Only because we somersaulted over the edge," explained the Princess.
Sir Rubik crawled onto his hands and knees and flipped himself back onto the bed. Princess Grendelin was taken aback by his agility. She flopped down next to him, causing the mattress to creak under their combined weight.
"I warned you," said Sir Rubik. "I'm like Typhoid Mary. I'm a super spreader. Don't blame me for getting the flu! I told you I was contagious, but you insisted that I come down over the weekend."
"Oh, dear Rube, how could I ever blame you?" asked the Princess. "What's a measly little virus anyway? It's not that bad. Sometimes, you just need to lie down and take it easy for awhile."
She took a swig from a bottle of NyQuil and passed the bottle to Rube. Rube took a larger swig before setting the bottle down on a bedside spool.
"I like NyQuil," he declared, "It's almost as good as pumpkin ale."
Princess Grendelin reached across Sir Rubik and snatched the bottle of NyQuil off the spool. She set it down on the floor beside the bed, wagging her finger at Sir Rubik, warning him to stay away from the intoxicating elixir until their next allotted dose.
"Tell me a story," she demanded.
She burrowed into the covers and folded her hands over her stomach. Sir Rubik did the same, his curly brown hair brushing against her shoulders as he snuggled deeper into the sheets. He cleared his throat to speak.
"Once upon a time, in an old treehouse in a forested glen, there lived a family of crime-fighters who watched over the world and kept it safe from evil."
"They were a family of seven - three brothers, three sisters, and an eccentric old uncle. Every time the call came, the family would pack into their tank, and the uncle would set the destinator. Only he could set the destinator, because he was one who had invented the tank. The tank would disappear in a puff of smoke and reappear at its desired destination."
"A tank, a wormhole-traversing tank?" asked the Princess, excited by the prospect.
"A wormhole-traversing tank," Sir Rubik confirmed, "Their very own wormhole-traversing tank..."
"But how did they decide where to go?" asked the Princess.
"That was the job of the youngest sister," explained Sir Rubik. "She kept a herd of butterflies in the room that she shared with her middle sister, the one who shared her hair of spun gold. Their oldest sister had a room of her own, and her locks were raven, the kind that glinted violet in the light of the sun."
"Every night, the butterflies would venture out into the world beyond the glen. Every morning, they would return, fluttering with news of all the ills that had taken place overnight. The youngest sister would question the butterflies in the secret language that only she could speak, and she would choose one of their stories to tell. The family would gather at a big round table in the kitchen to listen to her story over breakfast."
"She spoke a secret language?" asked the Princess, "A secret butterfly language?"
"Indeed," replied Sir Rubik, "It was a natural-born talent of hers. They were of the same kind, she and the butterflies - light, airy, delicate. Their beauty gave solace to the family in the midst of death and decay."
"What about the other sisters? Did they speak secret languages too?" asked the Princess.
"The oldest sister spoke many languages, but none were secret. The middle sister was shy around people. She spoke only to her family and her gadgets. She spoke a mysterious binary language that had taken many years to master."
"And the brothers? What were they like?"
"The oldest brother was the leader of the family. He was stern but fair, strong in body and strong in mind. The middle brother was brave and charming. He attracted the attention of all the nymphs who lived in the wood. He liked to tease his youngest brother, who was small and skinny and had a penchant for getting into trouble."
"What kind of trouble?" asked the Princess.
"Deep dangerous trouble," said Sir Rubik. "The youngest brother had a lot of book knowledge, but not a lot of common sense. Thankfully, he was a magician as well as a crime-fighter. He usually got himself out of trouble just as quickly as he got himself into trouble."
Sir Rubik paused, waiting for the Princess to chirp in with another question. She was quiet, and he continued.
"It was whispered door to door in the villages surrounding the glen that the family was not a natural family at all. It was said that they had been brought together by the eccentric old uncle and his eccentric old friend many years ago. The brothers and sisters were rumored to be Children of the Shadow, tortured souls who had suffered untold miseries in their youth and now desired nothing more than to protect the young and innocent from harm."
"The villagers respected the family and its occupation, but they also suspected that the family's adventures took a hefty toll upon its members. The uncle's eccentric old friend, the one with the brash exterior and fragile interior, had suddenly left the family several years ago. He had fought a mighty foe, and he had lost. There had been another sister, but she had lost her way during an adventure. She had been banished to the world beyond the glen."
"Where are they now?" asked Princess Grendelin, "The ones who left the family?"
"No one knows, not even the family," replied Sir Rubik, "I suppose they have moved on in search of their own happy endings."
"This is the story of the family as they are today," he continued. "I speak now of their latest adventure together, of a time when a bad man with rotting yellow teeth terrorized a great city under cover of darkness..."
In his dream, Spencer leaned back against the rough bark of an ancient oak tree. He waved his wand in the air, conjuring up a ring of puffy clouds that twirled around the tree trunk before settling gently onto the dewy grass. The clouds smelled sweet, like cotton candy. They were sure to attract the attention of his heart's desire.
She floated in upon the southerly breeze, soft and warm as always. She petted the cooing clouds, and their colors rubbed off on her milky white hands. She wiped her hands on her gown, not caring a bit about the colors that stained its silky ruffles.
Spencer offered her his hand. He was a bit surprised when she took hold of it. He was even more surprised when she took hold of his other hand as well, the hand holding the wand. She swung his hand back and forth in the air, laughing as silver sparks flew out the tip of the wand.
The clouds responded to the Magician's incantation. They flew up from their stations on the grass and bunched together to form a large white cloud that hovered at his knees.
He fell backwards onto the cloud, pulling her down with him as the cloud lifted up into the clear blue sky. It soared over red-tiled roofs and dipped over wooded glens, but Spencer ignored the scenery below. He was enthralled with the kiss that she bestowed upon him. The kiss was soft and warm, just like her. It felt like nothing he had ever felt before.
Spencer awoke in a sweaty daze. He was no longer feverish, thanks to the bottle of NyQuil that he had stolen from Princess Grendelin before leaving The Pit.
He rolled over onto his side and sputtered into the sheets. He, too, had finally hit puberty.
Penelope tapped a pair of fake driver's licenses against the surface of her desk. She pondered the fake names and fake birthdates upon them. Fake selves with real faces stared up at her from the laminated cards.
Her fake self was twenty-one, which was two years older than her real age. She could easily pass for twenty-one.
His fake self was eighteen, which was five years older than his real age. There was no way he could pass for eighteen.
Penelope smiled at herself. Here she was, nineteen years old, living in a four-story pit, playing with a little boy who was younger than her youngest brothers.
Her smile did not know what to make of itself. It did not know if it was a smile of pleasure or pain.
In ten years, she would be old, nearly thirty. She did not know if she would be living in The Pit, but she did know that he wouldn't be around to play with her. He would still be young, twenty-three, and he would be going about with his exciting life in his exciting genius.
In fifteen years, she would be thirty-four, ancient and decrepit, suffering from a case of rickets caused by years of living in The Pit. He would still be young, twenty-eight, and he would be finding love and being happy with the object of his heart's desire.
The real bond between the fake selves, so strong today, would pull apart and stretch like taffy as the years passed. In ten years, in fifteen years, Penelope would be well and whole and herself again. She would have a job, and friends, and brothers, and an object of her own heart's desire. Everyday, she would lose another piece of The Pit, until one day, she would twirl about under the mid-day sun, and she would not remember why she cherished the daily ritual. The mid-day sun would melt the shreds of taffy, shreds like cobwebs that dangled in the air, unnoticed until an unfortunate interloper stepped into the silky strands.
Princess Grendelin would be buried, when she was no longer needed, and Sir Rubik, who deserved better, would be buried along with her. In life, everything came with a cost, and this would have to be the price of Penelope's healing. As for the boy in the sun-lit world above, he was not broken, so he would not have to be healed.
Penelope sighed and took a swig of NyQuil. She was running low on NyQuil. She remembered buying two bottles at the grocery store, but she couldn't find the unopened bottle anywhere within her domain.
She leaned back in her swivel chair and ceased her contemplations of fake selves and real selves, of fantasy, reality, and future.
At the moment, she was content. She had only the sweetest purest thing on Earth and in Heaven - the unconditional love of a child.
Nerd speak clarifications
1) Typhoid Mary/super spreaders
In an outbreak of infectious disease, super spreaders are individuals who can spread the disease to a large number of people. Super spreaders have been identified from the SARS outbreak in Asia. Typhoid Mary was an early example who spread typhoid fever to more than 50 people while she remained healthy herself.
