June 16, 10:30 pm, Louisville, KY:

He has created the perfect cocoon.

This isn't as simple as it might seem, given the limitations of motel beds, but the sheer number of motels he's stayed in over the course of this job has given him plenty of practice. He has a routine worked out for these stays. Come back to the room for the night, turn the AC way down, change into ancient sweats so ratty he's a little embarrassed for anyone to see him in them, lie sideways on the bed, and roll up in the blankets burrito-fashion. One pillow for his head, the other behind his back, TV remote and pertinent case files and his phone within reach. It's so immediately calming that he doesn't mind paying extra for a room to himself, to be able to do it without puzzled looks or temperature arguments. (Hotch had never minded, but Morgan had made mummification jokes the one time he'd seen it, and as for the only time he'd ever had to share with Rossi...)

He's turned out the lamp. Occasionally yellowy sweeps of light pass across the ceiling, from headlights of cars turning into the parking lot below. The curtains are closed, but in any paid lodging, there always seems to be that one gap along the top that lets a little outside light in. The TV's slightly bluish flicker is the only steady illumination. He's got it on mute with the captions on, tuned to a TNG marathon. It was helping get the images from the day's work out of his mind, but he's seen this particular episode - the one where Picard goes back home for the first time after being de-Borgified - so many times he can practically recite all the lines.

He decides to leave the TV on anyway, as a night-light. Usually, on away cases, he wakes up a few times every night. If he's lucky, it's not nightmares waking him. Sleeping in complete darkness would be bad enough at home. Forget it here.

He jumps when the phone buzzes, then sighs and snakes an arm out of the blankets to grab it. Please, don't be another development in the case, it's already bad enough - then he sees the number on the screen, and grins.

"Hi."

"Hi there, special agent!" Maeve's voice sounds cheerful, but also distinctly congested. "Is this a good time? I didn't get you in the middle of something, or too late or - "

"No. No, it's fine." He sits up a little, to check the bedside table clock. DC's an hour ahead - why's she up so late? "Having trouble sleeping again?"

"Yeah. You okay? You sound tired."

"I am. You sound sick."

"I am. I got one of those nasty summer colds. It feels like someone's slowly pouring a pitcher of water into my head. Haven't moved off the couch most of the day. I've been drinking some of that tea you gave me, the chamomile stuff. It's helping a little."

"Good." He rolls over on his back. "I'd rather I was there keeping an eye on you, but that's the next best thing."

"Is it a bad one?"

"Bad enough. I don't want to talk about details. We don't know if one of the victims is alive or dead for sure, but there was enough blood at the kidnap scene that everyone's basically assuming we're just waiting for a body to turn up. Sorry, I probably shouldn't be putting that kind of imagery in your head. Especially this late at night."

"It's not a problem. I'm a doctor, remember?"

"How much blood, exactly, can someone lose at one time before it's...the point of no return?" He knew this once. Emily had mentioned the specific amount when first telling him about Foyet nearly gutting Hotch. But his brain is too overstimulated right now to remember.

"Four pints, more or less. Whether they die and how quickly depends on their size, how and where they're hurt, and whether there's any first aid to slow it down." Maeve's voice tightens around the last few words. Then she starts coughing, a long, ugly spasm that makes him wince and hold the phone slightly away from his ear. When she stops, she gasps for breath a little, then croaks: "I...guess I won't be...doing any exposure exercises for a few days."

"Don't. Stay in."

"I hate staying in. It's not like I didn't spend a year stuck here. It's miserable not to be able to go out easily, and it's a lot worse being sick here." A small, wheezy sigh. "I just feel...trapped."

"I know." That sounds so inadequate, but he can't figure out what else to say.

"I did manage to walk down to the convenience store and get soup and cough medicine." She laughs a little. "Convenience store, hell. They charge three times as much as the supermarket. Speaking of food, are you remembering to eat?"

"Yeah. That watch-alarm-reminder idea of yours is really working. We were right, I really can't tell very well if I'm hungry. Not till my blood sugar drops to wooziness levels, anyway."

"Interoception issues. Particularly when you get into the crime-solving zone, I bet."

"One time? We were in Florida. The main crime scene was this unventilated shed, and it was summer. I was in there, reading this creep's journals and going through his things. I was so absorbed for so long, I didn't realize how close I was to passing out till JJ came in and practically dragged me out."

"Maybe you should set an alarm for that sort of thing, too."

"Usually I just take my cues from the others. I thought the heat would be okay that time, since I have tolerance from growing up in Las Vegas. I just forgot to factor in the humidity."

Maeve's voice turns slightly playful. "I deduce that...you're cocooning right now."

"You deduce correctly. It helps, some. But it's hard to get the right amount of pressure. I'd love to have you on top of me right now." He realizes what he just said, and groans slightly. "Um, I didn't mean that to sound quite so obscene."

"I wouldn't call it obscene. An amusing double entendre, sure." He can hear the smile in her voice. "I know what you meant, Spencer. Although, for the record, I wouldn't have minded if you'd meant it the other way."

"Hm." He can feel himself blushing.

"I wish I was there. I like being your deep pressure. Maybe I could do the thing to your ears again, just for extra distraction."

"Hmm." So far, they've only had two bouts of anything you could call making out, all very tentative and rather ticklish. Thinking about her nibbling his ears last time gives him a lovely, distracting pang of heat deep inside. He's jolted away from that thought by her coughing, smaller and more painful-sounding this time.

"Except I'd probably give you this damn cold," she rasps, once she stops.

"Then wait till you're better." His eyes are starting to close involuntarily. "This phone talking...like old times."

"Yeah. I like things better now, though."

"Likewise." He rolls over on his side, to curl up.

There's a pause, and then a little hesitation in her voice when she answers: "It's just...after that whole business with the Replicator, now I want to...I don't know...check in on you when you're away? Look, I'll never try to push you to do anything else, this job is too important to you and you're too important to your team, but it scares me sometimes."

"Maeve." He's suddenly awake again, processing that. "It's all right. Check in on me if you want. I won't always be able to answer right away, but I get back to messages."

Her voice, very quiet: "Okay. I don't mean to get maudlin, or distract you from things."

"Don't worry about it."

He hears her yawning. "I think the cold medicine is kicking in again. The last dose knocked me out most of the afternoon. I took the second one right before I called you."

"If you're tired, sleep. I'm kind of passing out myself."

"Sounds good." Her tone is a little distant and floaty now. "Spencer?"

"Mm?"

"Love you."

It still stops his breath for an instant when she says that. "Love you back."

He's asleep within a few minutes of her hanging up. He only wakes up once in the night this time, the TV flickering with an infomercial and the phone still in his hand.