"What's it about?"
She glanced up from the pages she had lost herself in, not attempting to hide the irritated frown on her lips in response to the interruption. She hated nothing more, in fact she would go so far as to say she despised it, when someone rudely cut into her fantasies as she read. Books were made to be an experience - little, beautiful worlds to which you could utterly immerse - and finding yourself stolen from that world unexpectedly, while you were in the middle of a daring sword fight, or soaring over the highest mountains, or declaring your undying love in the pouring rain… it was simply cruel. Being stolen from a world you had made a temporary home in felt - if you were being dramatic - a little like the ending of a life.
"The book…" He clarified, nodding toward her hands, looking a little sheepish under her scrutinous gaze.
Her judgement dissipated at the exact moment she met his eye because he wasn't being rude. He wasn't one of those overconfident men who thought asking her about a book he didn't care about would get her attention. He was nervous, that much was clear by the way he drummed his fingers against his coffee cup and twisted the strap of his satchel anxiously. He looked kind, and the weak smile he had forced onto his lips despite his nerves was so beautifully endearing.
"I'm uh- I'm sorry. I disturbed you. I'll go." He stumbled over his words, shaking his head and averting his gaze as he moved to leave, only turning back when she finally responded.
"It's a love story." She replied quietly, glancing down at the pages in her hands with a wistful smile before meeting his eye again.
"A love story?" He repeated in questioning, and she nodded.
"And it's a tragedy." She added, gesturing to the chair across from her in an invitation. He accepted.
"Those two often tend to go hand in hand. It's a sad fact of life." She quirked her head at his words, placing her book on the table.
"I think it's a bit beautiful, actually." She started, continuing when he quirked a questioning brow. "Well… we couldn't really fall in love without tragedy, could we? It's like how people say you don't know what you've got until it's gone. Without feeling that horrible, hollow emptiness that loss, heartache, and sadness give you… you wouldn't be able to appreciate the way love fills you up again. It's like a sip of water when you've been in the desert for a week. It's…" She paused, taking a breath as she searched for the words to best describe such an indescribable feeling. "…hearing a song from your childhood that you loved and you'd forgotten about, or… finally catching sight of the most breathtaking view you've ever seen after being locked in a windowless room for a month. It becomes everything."
He laughed softly, a curious look in his eyes as she spoke.
"I've never heard anyone describe love that way."
"I'm sorry," She laughed averting her eyes, a little embarrassed by how carried away she'd gotten. "I'm sure you didn't expect a monologue when you came over here. That's what you get for interrupting me when I'm in a literary mood."
He laughed, and that feeling that she had read about, that she spoke about so easily as though she had any experience of it, suddenly made a little more sense. His laugh was like the first fall of rain after a drought, and she hadn't even realised that she was parched. She smiled along with him, the book in her hands long forgotten as she lost herself in him instead of it; this complete stranger who with a few quiet words and a single laugh had sucked her in like no book ever had. Whoever he was, this man contained multitudes and she wanted to explore each facet of him.
She reached across the table, offering her hand with a curious determination behind her eyes. She wanted to know more… needed to know more. He appeared to hesitate, eyeing her hand warily.
"Matilda."
After a moment of contemplation he reached back, taking her hand in an act that though simple, felt like the start of something big.
"Spencer."
The next time he visited the cafe, she wasn't there. He hadn't necessarily expected her to be, but a small part of him had hoped. His eyes had scanned the cafe once before settling on the table where she had sat a week earlier, nose buried in her book in a way that intrigued him to such an extent he had done something he never imagined he would do. He'd spoken to her.
At first, she'd looked at him as though he'd just slapped her in the face, not politely asked about the book she was reading, though he was well aware of how annoying it was when someone interrupted you while you were lost in a story. Whether she had actually decided he was worth talking to or simply felt guilty for glaring at him, she had responded, and it wasn't to tell him to go away.
The way she'd spoken about love, as though she wasn't a twenty-something-year-old girl but more like someone who had lived a thousand lives and had her heart filled and broken in each one; it fascinated him.
He'd wanted to go back to the cafe the next day, and the day after that and the day after that, but a case had pulled him out of town and he'd only just got back late the previous night. He passed the cafe on his way into work and had decided that morning he was going to make it his regular stop… for the coffee, of course.
"What can I get you?" A polite, mousey-haired woman smiled at him from behind the counter, quirking her head as she waited patiently for his answer.
"Uh, just a coffee with creamer, please." He relayed his order distractedly as his phone buzzed in his pocket, fumbling with the device until the screen flashed to life and revealed a text.
"Sure thing, can I take a name?" The barista asked as he tapped at the screen, responding to Derek with an 'On my way - 10 minutes.'
"Spencer." He gave her his name, stuffing his phone back into his pocket as she replied.
"Spencer?" She repeated in question, and he looked up to see curiosity on her face.
"Yes…" He replied, a little confused.
"Spencer Reid?" She asked, and his confusion only grew.
"Yes… uh, how did you-?" She cut him off before he could finish, smiling as she reached behind the counter and pulled out a book, a post-it note stuck on the front that read 'for Spencer Reid'.
"I believe this is for you." She held the book out to him and he took it with a frown as she scribbled his name onto his cup and moved on to the next customer.
He stepped aside, analysing the book in his hands for a few moments, turning it over this way and that as though that might give him some clue as to why it was left for him and who by. That was until his pre-coffee mind cleared and he recognised the name of the book. The book she had held between gentle manicured fingers as she sipped at her tea, lost in her own world. The book she had been reading when his attention was captured in a way he'd least expected.
As he waited for his coffee, he flipped the book open to reveal a scribbled note in black ink beneath the dedication.
'Love is… many a poetic analogy - M'
He smiled, closing the book and taking his coffee from the barista with a polite thank you, turning and leaving the cafe in a much better mood than he had expected on that rainy Thursday morning.
"The tragedy far outweighed the love." The woman startled slightly as a voice spoke from behind her. She turned in her seat, looking up to meet a gentle smile and curious eyes.
"I never said it had a happy ending." She replied as he moved around her, taking the seat opposite and sliding the book across the table. "You've read it already? I only left it here on Tuesday."
"I'm a fast reader." He replied, taking a sip of his coffee and leaning back in his seat.
"You should read it again. It's a book that's made to be read twice, given the way the twist changes things." She met his eye with a raised brow, and his smile widened a little.
"I did read it twice." He replied, and she narrowed her eyes.
"In four days?" No one could read a book in four days, let alone read it twice.
"Actually, I didn't get the book till Thursday, so… two days." He corrected, and she fell silent, fingers tapping absentmindedly against her coffee cup as she considered him.
He looked tired, more so than the first time they'd met, just over a week ago. She'd hoped, when she sat in the cafe on Monday morning, that she might see him again, but he hadn't shown up. He hadn't been there Tuesday or Wednesday either. It was after her third morning of sitting alone in the cafe waiting for a man she'd had one single conversation with that she realised how unhinged she was being, and was a little thankful that he hadn't shown up. She didn't go back to the cafe on Thursday, or Friday.
"I won't ask you what you thought, I'd rather not know, just in case it's bad." She laughed quietly, taking a sip of her coffee and watching him from over the top of her mug.
"It's your favourite." He didn't ask so much as he stated, as though this was a fact he was unquestionably aware of.
"How did you know?" She replied, her eyes drifting to his hands as he mimicked her action, tapping his fingertips against his cup, his focus remaining locked on her. He met her eye, the pair holding each other's gaze for a moment before he reached over and picked up the book, looking down at it as he flicked through the pages.
"The pages are worn, and not because the book is old, because it's well read." Matilda leaned back in her seat, hands resting either side of her coffee cup, attention fixed on the man as he spoke. "There are notes in the margins - you like to annotate - but some have been erased, replaced with a new opinion that you've formed after reading it again. There are a lot of those. You were also careful with it last week, when you put it down you avoided the ring the mug left on the table, closed it so the pages were protected."
"You're very observant, Dr Reid." She smiled, and he raised a brow.
"And you've looked me up." His lips quirked, and she shrugged nonchalantly.
"I was curious." Her answer was simple, and he was beginning to realise that she wasn't the type to give anything away, at least, not easily.
"And?" He pressed. She quirked her head.
"And what?"
"Did you find anything interesting?" She smiled.
"Lots." Her single-word answer revealed nothing, but her eyes sparkled with an excited curiosity that he couldn't help but adore. He sucked in a breath, sitting a little straighter and narrowing his eyes.
"Why did you lend me the book? I'm a complete stranger and it's your favourite."
She shrugged. "It's just a book."
"No, it's not."
"No, it's not…" She considered his question for a moment, assessing him in the same way he was currently assessing her. "I suppose you seemed trustworthy."
"Thank you." He replied simply and she smiled.
"You're welcome."
His phone buzzed, and whatever silent spell had been lingering between them evaporated. She watched on silently as he raised the phone to his ear, offering her an apologetic look as he answered.
"Yeah… yeah I'm on my way now - no I just got distracted-" his eyes flicked back to Matilda at that point, her lips quirking in an amused smile, which he matched. "Yeah don't worry, I'll be there in ten… cya."
He ended the call, stuffing his phone into his satchel, a book replacing the device as he pulled his hand back out. He rose from his seat, grabbing his cardboard coffee cup and pausing at her side, looking down at her as she looked up at him.
"Here." He handed her the book, which she took with a quiet thank you as he walked away, pausing and glancing back over his shoulder. "Goodbye, Matilda."
"Goodbye, Spencer."
As the door of the cafe jingled, announcing his exit, she flicked the book open to the dedication page with a hopeful feeling. She was pleased when she was met with scrawled handwriting, breathing a laugh as she read the note.
'Love is… giving up the last cookie in the packet - S'
It was another week before they saw each other again, though it wasn't through a lack of trying. Sometimes the stars just didn't align and two people didn't end up in the same coffee shop at the same moment. The universe couldn't get it right all of the time.
She wasn't reading this time, or doing much of anything really, apart from staring unseeingly at a spot on the far wall. Clearly her mind was elsewhere, and he allowed her a few more moments of silent peace before interrupting.
He didn't speak as he dropped into the seat opposite her, simply offering a smile which she returned, the faraway look in her eyes becoming a little less prevalent as she turned her attention to him. But there was something different about her that day. Her eyes didn't sparkle with their usual curiousness, and her smile didn't quite reach as far as it had a week earlier.
"Are you ok?" He asked, and she met his eye but didn't reply immediately, sighing so gently that it was almost imperceptible before shaking her head.
"Do you want to talk about it?" He asked hopefully, but she shook her head once more.
"I'd rather not." Her words were quiet, almost spoken on a breath and he hesitated before nodding, fingers tightening around his coffee cup.
"Ok… did you like the book?" He turned the conversation on to a new topic, pleased when she visibly relaxed.
She shrugged. "It was sad."
"That isn't what I asked." He responded and she smiled.
"I loved it." She placed a hand on the front cover before sliding it across the table to him. He smiled, clearly pleased by the answer as he reached out and took the book from her. "It made me cry."
"Me too." He replied, picking up the book and flicking through the pages before stuffing it into his satchel.
They descended into silence then, sipping at their respective coffees in quiet reverie. They had both, individually, accepted that it wasn't a day for chatter, and neither would deny that they enjoyed the silent company as much as they did their normal conversation, but as Matilda watched him, she realised something.
"You have a proper cup." He paused mid-sip to glance at her over his mug with a frown.
"What?" He placed his drink back on the table and she quirked her head curiously.
"You didn't get a take-out cup. You got a proper cup." She repeated, nodding toward the white ceramic cupped between his palms. Following her eye-line, he glanced down, before looking back up with a small shrug.
"I'm not in a rush." He confirmed, sinking back in his chair. "Are you?"
"No." She replied before glancing out of the window wistfully. "In fact, I might just stay here all day."
He wished he could say he was just curious, just analysing her to try and figure her out but even he couldn't deny that what he was doing was not analysing; it was admiring. The first time he'd seen her it had been the way she was so completely lost in her book that had drawn him in, but the more he sat there across the small table from her, the more he noticed.
He noticed the way her nose was dotted with freckles, the same shade as the golden honey of her hair. He noticed the little scar that sat just above her right eyebrow and the way she chewed at the skin on her lips when she was thinking. He noticed the way her fingernails were perfectly manicured but the skin around them was sore and picked at. He'd even noticed the turquoise ring that circled the cerulean blue of her eyes, like two oceans meeting. He wondered when he'd started to think so poetically.
"You sure you don't want to talk about it?" He pressed once more, and she turned back to him with a soft smile.
"Have you ever questioned… everything?" She asked, and he pondered for a moment before answering.
"Once or twice." He admitted, truthfully. She appeared sated by the answer, nodding softly with a quiet hum.
"Did you ever figure it out?"
"Did I ever figure out everything?" He breathed a laugh and she admired the sound. "No, I don't think anyone does."
She hummed in agreement, picking up her coffee cup and swirling the dark liquid, watching it spin as though it were the most mesmerising thing in existence. Or perhaps it was just more interesting than her own thoughts at that moment.
"You work for the FBI." She announced, a sudden change of conversation topic, and he nodded.
"You did your research." He quirked his lips and she shrugged.
"It wasn't hard to find…" She paused, taking a sip of her drink. "What does the BAU do?"
"We create profiles that help catch serial killers." He explained, very simply, and she raised a brow.
"That sounds like an incredibly dumbed-down overview." He smiled with a shrug.
"It sums it up."
"Do you like it?" She asked, and he appeared to think before replying.
"I like helping people… getting justice for families of victims."
"Saving lives?" She asked, and he frowned.
"Sometimes." He wasn't going to get into the details of all the people he hadn't been able to save. There were far too many for that. So instead he changed the conversation. "You're an actress."
She scoffed, shaking her head.
"Not a very good one… I see you've also done your research." He shrugged with a smile.
"I wanted to know more about the pretty girl in the cafe than just her name… and that she likes sad books." She smiled, meeting his eye.
"You think I'm pretty?" She asked with a raised brow and a smirk, to which he nodded.
"I do." She had just opened her mouth to reply, despite not really knowing what to say to that, when she was saved by the quiet buzz of her phone on the table. She glanced down at the screen, and he didn't miss the way her mood instantly dropped, her smile replaced with a deep frown.
She stared at the screen until it went black again, choosing not to respond to whatever message had interrupted them, instead stuffing the phone in her bag.
"The universe is against us, Spencer Reid." She sighed, rising from her seat and slinging her bag over her shoulder. She reached in and produced a book, sliding it across the table with a smile before taking a step back and turning to leave.
"Wait." He called out, standing from his seat, the book clutched in his hand. "Do we just keep hoping that the universe places us in the same cafe at the same time?"
Matilda smiled back over her shoulder before reaching out for the door.
"Read the book."
With that, she slipped out of the cafe and so too out of Spencer's life once more. He dropped back into his seat with a disappointed sigh before flipping the book open. There, on the dedication page was the note he had been expecting, though with a slightly more sombre air to it than the last.
'Love is… carrying on even through the hard parts - M'
What he hadn't expected was the mobile number scribbled beneath it, punctuated affectionately with a kiss.
Spencer had been distracted the entire flight, listening but not really taking in the discussion that was happening around him. He was far too busy thinking to listen, and while he knew he should be thinking about the case he couldn't seem to force his mind away from Matilda. In fact, he hadn't been able to stop thinking about her since a day earlier, when she had walked out of the cafe and left him with only a book and a scribbled note.
He wanted to call her… he was going to call her. But he hadn't worked out what to say yet. He'd been at home, staring at her number on his phone when the call had come in about the case, and he'd been forced to put aside thoughts of her. Or at least, he'd tried.
"Hey, Reid." He was broken from his thoughts by his name being called, turning to meet the concerned furrow of Derek's brow. "Everything ok kid?"
"Yeah, sorry I was just… thinking." He replied vaguely, and Derek hummed doubtfully in response.
"What's it about?" He asked, and Spencer frowned questioningly before Derek nodded toward the book he hadn't even realised he had been clutching in his hand. He shrugged, handing the book over to Derek who flipped it over to read the back.
"It's a love story." He explained before continuing. "It doesn't end well… they never end well."
Derek breathed a laugh with a sharp nod. "Don't I know it kid."
He paused then, lingering on the dedication page of the book, eyes scanning over the handwritten note that Spencer had read himself more times than he could count. Not because he was trying to understand it, or because he was expecting to learn from it. He just liked knowing she had written it.
"Who's M?" Derek asked with a raised brow, and Spencer shrugged, taking the book back from him and closing it.
"No one."
"No one? And I assume that's 'no one's' number there at the bottom?" He didn't believe the no-one lie, but Spencer was hardly trying to be convincing. He hesitated before meeting Derek's eye with a sigh.
"Someone." He admitted quietly.
"Someone you like?" Derek replied, a knowing look in his eyes.
"Someone I barely know." Spencer corrected. Or diverted, because Derek was right, it was someone he liked, but he wasn't ready to think about that yet.
"What's her name?" He asked and Spencer hesitated. There was a part of him, some strange selfish part he hadn't come across before that wanted to keep her name himself. He didn't want to share her because she was his secret, his Matilda. Except, she wasn't.
"Matilda."
"Matilda… pretty name." Derek smiled, and Spencer managed a smile of his own, as well as a small nod. "Have you called her?"
Spencer frowned. "Not yet."
"Why not?" Derek asked, receiving a shrug in response.
"I don't know what to say." He wasn't sure what advice he was expecting, not something profound because this was Derek, but he was expecting a little more than what he got.
"How about starting with hello."
It wasn't until three days later, around 11 pm on a Thursday, that Matilda's phone rang, an unknown number lighting up the screen. She hesitated, of course, pausing and taking a breath to steady her heart, convince herself not to get her hopes up. And then she answered.
"Matilda Wright." She answered with her name, practically holding her breath as she waited for a reply.
"Matilda, hi… it's Spencer." She'd expected to release her breath then, maybe in relief, maybe in excitement. But instead, it remained in her lungs, tight against her chest.
"Spencer, hi." She finally breathed, sinking back into her couch as her lungs relaxed.
"I uh… I'm sorry I'm calling so late, I got caught up on a case and I was going to call you sooner but I got busy and I-" She smiled to herself as he stumbled over his words.
"It's ok Spence," She laughed, wondering when she had decided to shorten his name. She could practically hear his breath of relief through the phone.
"Tomorrow morning, at around 8… I'll be at the coffee shop. I'm hoping I'll see you there…" He paused, a hopefulness to his tone, and she smiled.
"The universe couldn't keep me away."
She expected to be nervous. Bumping into one another by subtly planned coincidence was a lot different to setting a time and date. He would be there, waiting when she arrived. Waiting for her. Or, she would be waiting there for him, which was more likely considering she had arrived at the cafe fifteen minutes before 8.
But to her surprise, as she arrived, there he was, a smile on his face as he spoke with the barista, not yet noticing that she had entered the cafe behind him. The door jingled as it closed behind her and the sound drew his attention.
"Matilda." He smiled, and she sucked in a breath to control the fluttering feeling in her chest.
"Spencer." She responded, hoping she sounded calmer than she felt.
He held up two mugs, whatever conversation he was having with the barista ending abruptly as though he hadn't been speaking with her at all. She didn't look as though she minded.
"Peppermint green tea." He confirmed, closing the space between them and holding the mug out for her to take. She wasn't sure how he knew, but something about him having her drink ready for her had that fluttering in her chest returning with a renewed force. She quirked her head, taking the mug from him with a small smile, a thank you leaving her lips on a breath.
"This feels different," Matilda commented quietly after a few minutes of sitting silently across from one another, periodically sipping their drinks and sparing not-so-subtle glances.
"What feels different?" He asked.
"This."
"This?" He frowned.
"Us."
He watched her over his mug in that psychologically evaluating way he thought people didn't notice. She noticed.
"Good different? Or bad different?" He asked, and she hummed in thought.
"Undecided." Despite her concerns, she smiled, and when he smiled back, her worries faded just a little. "Did you read the book?"
He smiled, reaching into his bag and pulling out the book she had given him on their last visit.
"I read it twice."
"Of course you did." His lips twitched at her comment, fingers flipping the pages open to the dedication page, his eyes lingering on the words she had written there. The words she'd written for him.
She watched him as he appeared to think, her eyes also flicking to the words before returning to his face. He looked younger that day, perhaps he'd gotten more sleep. She was sure she didn't look quite as youthful as him.
"How are you feeling now?" He asked suddenly, and she was broken from the spell he'd cast on her simply by existing.
How was she feeling? Generally… ok, she supposed. Better than before. At that moment? Fantastic.
"Good." She answered, knowing full well that it was a weak response. Good. What did good even mean?
"Good is a terrible adjective." He complained, and she smiled.
"Better." She corrected, and she almost convinced herself it was true. Maybe if she kept saying it, eventually she would feel it.
He watched as her gaze drifted, lingering on some unknown spot on the wall. She was quieter that day, more closed off, but he got the feeling it wasn't because she was there with him. It seemed to him, like more of a natural state of being for her. But he wanted to know more, he wanted to open her up like a book and read each and every page. And then read again, and again, until he understood her to her very core. He'd never felt a want like it before.
"The author Francois de la Rochefoucauld wrote, 'we are so accustomed to disguise ourselves to others that in the end, we become disguised to ourselves'." She turned her attention back towards him, though her lips remained pressed together. He'd gone about it in an oddly philosophical way that actually didn't surprise her, but it was clear what he was asking.
"What do you want to know about me, Spencer Reid?" She asked quietly, as though she wasn't sure she wanted to ask it at all. She wasn't. She didn't like people to know her, not at her very core anyway. She liked people to know the shell, the facade she put on show like the actress she was. But then he smiled, and she realised, she would tell him anything he asked.
"Everything." He replied, and she raised a brow.
"That could take a while."
He smiled. "I have time."
Love is… being vulnerable - S
He was right.
But she was scared.
Love is… noticing a new haircut - M
She was avoiding, but he'd play along. He didn't mind.
He minded a little.
Love is… sending a good morning text - S
His phone buzzed at 7:23 am. The text read 'good morning'.
Love is… making sure they get home safe - M
He'd walked her all the way to her front door, even when she insisted she didn't need him to.
She needed him to.
Love is… understanding without judgement - S
She knew this, and she knew he was referring to how he felt about her.
And somehow she knew it was true.
Love is… trusting even when you're scared - M
The note was more for her than it was for him as if writing down the words would make it easier to do. It almost did.
Love is… going to the same coffee shop every day because you know they'll be there - S
It was the first time one of them had said it. The first time they'd taken that leap to compare what they had to something more than encounters with a stranger in a coffee shop.
It made her feel brave.
Love is… annotating books with quotes about what love is - M
Somehow, nothing had ever made more sense to him in his life.
The next time they sat across from each other, mugs cradled between cold palms, shielded from the chill of a late autumn day, things felt different. Good different. Scary different. See, she had decided, late the previous evening, as she listened to the rain tapping against her window pane and stared at the shadow cast by the streetlight outside, that she was ready.
"I wish I could tell you what you want to know about me." She started, pausing thoughtfully with a frown. "But I don't think I know the things about me you want to know."
He considered her words for a moment.
"What if we figure it out together?" He sounded hopeful, and she wished she could feel the same. She breathed a sigh.
"What if the answers we figure out aren't the answers you want?" He softened slightly, noting the almost imperceptible tremor in her voice. He got it, better than most. Letting people see you, really see you, was the most vulnerable thing you could do. It opened you up to judgement and criticism and heartache.
"I'm not going anywhere, Matilda." He spoke with such conviction that she immediately believed him, without question, without doubt.
She smiled, a newfound wave of confidence washing over her as she reached into her bag, ignoring the slightly larger book in lieu of the smaller one beside it. The book that had sat in her bag the last few weeks, longing to be taken out and opened but left to hide in the darkness until the right time. Now, she thought, was the right time.
She placed the book on the table, hesitating for a moment before sliding it across to him. Her hand lingered on the cover for a second, his hand coming to rest on top of hers, both pausing in that position for a minute before she slipped her hand from beneath his, sitting back in her chair with a steadying breath.
His eyes remained on her as he flipped the book open, silently conveying that she didn't need to worry before he looked down. He scanned the words on the page, re-reading them more times than necessary, allowing the weight of them to sink in, to fill him up in a way he hadn't felt before. And he smiled.
Love is… this - M
