Chapter 2: Paige's POV
After a bout of incredible sex, Spencer and I lay in bed. We were both naked, thinly covered with a white sheet. The lights were off and I could only see by the moonlight that streamed in through the open window. The summer night was hot and humid, a typical Virginia summer night. There was a breeze rustling the curtains and the sound of crickets drifted in.
The moonlight made everything in the room look silver, even Spencer who was lying next to me. His eyes were closed, and I couldn't tell if he was sleeping or just resting his eyes. I was curled up against him, my head resting on his chest, and I could hear his heartbeat like a soothing distant song. I looked down at our bodies that were twisted up together. We both carried scars that shone like glowing jagged lines in the moonlight. I winced, remembering how I got my scars, and how he got most of his. I ran a finger softly over the raised scar that ran across his chest.
I was back in the room, the one the man kept me in, the man I only knew as what he told me to call him, Master. It was completely dark and smelled like rotting flesh and filth. It had been hours since I'd seen light or a person. I'd long since given up hope of leaving this room alive. Movement was painful from all the injuries Master had given me, and the ones he'd forced me to give myself.
The door opened in the ceiling and quick light steps started down the stairs. I was instantly alert. Master's steps were heavy and slow. Who was this? I pressed my back against the damp wall and waited.
"Paige Stewart?" he asked quietly. He sounded young and nervous. I shifted, trying to see him in the dim light. I could tell he was studying me. He had an unusually perceptive gaze.
"Who are you?" I asked.
"My name is Spencer Reid, I'm a special agent for the FBI. I'm going to get you out of here." My hope flared like a struck match, but I didn't move or say anything. This could be a trick, another way for Master to lull me into complacency before he destroyed me even further. He'd been hinting that something was going to happen, something that he would enjoy immensely and I would not. Could this be it?
He approached me and knelt down, inspecting the rope that tied my wrists together. I wished that he would remove it. The rope was cutting into my already torn skin. I could barely see it under the blood. He took out a knife and fear gripped me. Knives were now what I associated with pain and suffering. I saw a shadow over the young man's shoulder and I stiffened, my whole body responding with panic to Master's form.
"I'm not going to hurt you," said the young man. "I'm going to cut the ropes on your hands and ankles, then I'm going to get you out of here." I tried to speak, to tell him, but Master had a gun to the back of his head.
"Drop the knife," said Master. The young man's eyes darted back and forth, he was obviously thinking hard.
"I'm here for Paige," he said. "I have no interest in arresting you, I just want to bring Paige somewhere safe. Just let us go, and I won't tell anyone about you. I'll say I found her somewhere..."
"Shut up," said Master. "Get over there." Master shoved the FBI agent in a corner furthest from the stairs. Master turned on the light and I blinked as my eyes burned from the intensity I wasn't used to. Master cut the ropes tying my wrists together and I almost cried from the relief and fresh pain from the scabs that were ripped off with the ropes. "Pick up the knife," said Master, and I complied, knowing that to disobey was to ask for more pain later.
"Paige, darling," said Master. "I want you to decorate Mister Cop here with his own blood. I want you to slice him up, anywhere you want. I want him to be colored red." I knew that Master had taught me how to cut with a knife to cause the most damage, and the most pain. So far, I'd only used the methods he'd taught me on myself.
I looked at the young man's face and for the first time I felt something other than pain and fear. He looked like a nice person, and he was looking at me with pity. I felt regret for what I knew I had to do.
"I'm sorry," I said softly, and I didn't know if he heard me or not before I slashed the knife across his chest, trying to cause as little damage as possible.
"Cut it deeper," said Master, and I raised the knife again and slashed once more in the same place, feeling the knife slice through more flesh. The young man closed his eyes and I could see he was trying to escape from the pain. God knew I'd tried the same thing at first. Maybe it would work for him for a while...
I snapped back to reality as Spencer rolled over so that he was facing me, our chests pressed together. He opened his eyes and I realized he hadn't been sleeping at all.
"What are you thinking about?" he asked. My finger stopped running over his scar and I blinked, remembering where I was.
"Do you like my hair better red or brown?" I asked. My hair had been red when we'd met the first time, and brown by the time we'd met again after my arrival in Washington for my internship. He furrowed his brow, looking into my eyes.
"That's not what you were thinking about," he said. "You were thinking about...the abduction." We had never really talked about it. I knew he didn't want to remind me about the attack I hadn't fully recovered from. It was a painful memory for both of us, the torture I'd been forced to inflict on him. I bit my bottom lip, not sure what to say. I didn't want to ruin an otherwise very good night with memories of when I'd been the victim of the case he was working.
He seemed to sense that I didn't want to talk about it and pulled me close, resting his chin on the top of my head. We lay there for a couple moments and I knew that he was sheltering me with his arms, trying to tell me without saying a word that he would always protect me, no matter what. I lifted my head and starting rubbing my cheek against his like a cat, startling a laugh out of him.
"What are you doing?" he asked.
"I like it when you have stubble on your face at the end of the day," I said. "It feels nice against my skin." He obligingly rubbed his chin across the sensitive skin of my neck and shoulders, making me squirm and giggle at the sensation. After a few minutes of fooling around we settled down. I was starting to drift off, lulled to sleep by the sound of his breathing. I was just on the edge of dreamland, when he spoke.
"You've never told me anything about your family," he said. I knew what he was thinking about.
"I could say the same about you," I mumbled, then repented. "What do you want to know?"
"Are you close with your parents? Do you have brothers and sisters?" I sighed.
"My family and I used to be weirdly happy, like a TV family or something. They were so proud of me for going to college and pursuing my career. After the...abduction everything changed." Spencer's arms tightened around me. "My mother kept asking all kinds of questions, wanting to know everything that happened to me. She couldn't understand that I couldn't talk about it, least of all with her. My father started avoiding me completely. He couldn't look at me. I don't know if he felt guilty about not being there to protect me or just didn't want to think about what had happened to me...but he couldn't bear to be in the same room. My older brother didn't even come home for Christmas. My little sister just looks at me with this disgusted look on her face, like it's all my fault." I didn't mean to, but a tear slid down my cheek. Spencer wiped it away tenderly with his thumb.
"That sounds awful," he said comfortingly. "I've seen families break apart like that before. Unfortunately it's a common occurrence. The stress just fractures relationships." I nodded.
"I understand why...I just can't stand being around it," I said. "It was a big part of the reason I applied for internships this summer." We lay in silence for a few moments.
"You know," I said after a moment, "You never talk about your family either. I think you've mentioned your mother once, and just because I referenced something she'd read to you." I watched guilt and sadness flit across his features and I was sorry I'd asked. "Never mind," I said. "You don't have to tell me." He quirked his lips in a small smile.
"My mother...my mother is a paranoid schizophrenic. My father left us when I was very young, so she raised me by herself. When I was eighteen I had her committed to a sanitarium near where we lived in Las Vegas. She still lives there." He looked away, and I could tell he felt guilty, even now. I wrapped my arms around his waist and nuzzled my head into his chest, trying to comfort him with my presence.
"How often do you contact her?" I asked.
"I write her a letter every day," he told me. I blinked with surprise.
"Every day?" I echoed. I'd never seen him writing these letters. He nodded confirmation. "Do you...tell her about me?" I asked. He looked embarrassed.
"I tell her everything," he said. "Well...almost everything." I giggled.
"It would be a little weird if you told her everything," I said. He smiled. "Someday," I said, "and only if you want, I'd like to meet her. She must be a special person to have raised such a wonderful son." His smile looked more ironic than sincere.
"I guess you could say that," he said. "It was more like the other way around. She couldn't even remember to eat if she wasn't on her medication." I felt foolish. His childhood had never really been a childhood at all.
"I always wondered why you were so mature at such a young age," I said. "I thought maybe it was just because you're so brilliant...but now I know." I snorted. "You know, most people our age are more concerned about getting drunk and having sex with strangers than anything else? I'm glad I found someone who actually has priorities."
"Even if my priorities are a bit skewed?" he asked. I stroked his face and smiled.
"They aren't skewed to me," I said. He seemed to relax a bit. I noticed that each time I stroked his face his eyes closed involuntarily. I smiled. "Someone's falling asleep," I accused. He murmured something, his long eyelashes brushing his cheeks. I looked at him for a long moment, memorizing his face as he was falling asleep. He was so sweet and innocent looking.
"I love you Spencer," I said. His eyes fluttered open.
"I love you too, Paige," he said, then he fell asleep. I lay awake a bit longer, my head resting on his chest. I wondered how after having such a difficult childhood, someone so brilliant and socially awkward could have turned out so well. If things hadn't turned out the way they did, he may have been one of the people the BAU chased, instead of being in the unit. This thought disturbed me, and I tried to think about something else.
The next morning I woke up early, and saw Spencer was still fast asleep. It was his day off, and I decided to let him sleep. I got up, put on a robe and went quietly to the kitchen. I filled the coffeemaker and turned it on, knowing that eventually the smell would tempt Spencer from bed. He was even more of a coffee addict than me, and that was saying something.
I turned on the radio quietly and started singing softly to myself as I filled the sink with hot soapy water. I wanted to try and finish the dishes before Spencer woke up. He shouldn't worry whether or not the kitchen was clean on his day off. He had enough to worry about, like serial killers.
Spencer had been right about the dishes. The food had dried to the plates, making them very difficult to clean. I didn't really care, the music and the warm water were relaxing and I was enjoying the peace of it.
I had been scrubbing and singing for almost an hour when I heard footsteps coming from the bedroom. I turned and saw Spencer, barefooted and shirtless, wearing only sweatpants. His hair was all mussed and he was rubbing his eyes. He looked so cute.
"Coffee?" he mumbled. I chuckled.
"It's in the pot, babe," I said. He pulled a mug from the cupboard and poured himself a cup. He took a long sip and then looked up, confused.
"The kitchen's clean," he said, sounding surprised.
"Yep," I said. "So now we have the rest of the day to do whatever we want." I put an arm around him and slid my hand up his bare chest. He put his mug down and caught my roving hand with his, pulling it around his neck and pulling me against him.
"I didn't know you could sing," he said. I blushed.
"Only when there's no one else around," I said. I've always been self-conscious of my singing voice.
"Well it sounds pretty," he said. I smiled. "You're not wearing anything under your bathrobe," he informed me. I laughed.
"True," I admitted. "What are you gonna do about it?"