September 26:
At first she thinks she imagined the knocking, some fragment of dream still clinging to her synapses as she comes blurrily awake. She rolls over on the elderly beanbag, the pellets inside crunching under her ear, and is immediately jolted into full consciousness by the jab of bright pain flaring in her bandaged hand. She yelps and sits up.
Another tentative knock, and a muffled voice. "Maeve?"
Spencer. Oh no. Not now, I -
She looks around. The light in here's dim, yes, but the mess is still obvious. Dirty dishes, food wrappers, books and newspapers strewn everywhere, the spot where she'd knocked over that cup of coffee and hadn't even bothered with cleaning it up. And she hasn't changed clothes. When was the last time she changed clothes, anyway? She can't remember.
The hole in the wall. God, how's she going to explain that?
Spencer's voice outside, more tentative. "Hey. You okay? I heard you yell."
Too late to pretend she's not home, then. Her voice cracks when she answers, words feeling strange in a cotton-dry mouth. "Coming . . . just a second." Maybe she can talk to him outside.
She opens the door partway, trying to stand there in a way that obscures the view of the room behind her.
Spencer's long black coat is damp - it must be raining outside - and he's got an overstuffed duffel bag in one hand. He must have come straight here after landing at Quantico, then. He looks pale and worn and noticeably thinner than when she last saw him, more than three weeks ago, but when he sees her, he smiles.
"Happy birthday!" His voice sounds ragged around the edges with fatigue.
Is that what day it is? she thinks. She makes herself smile. "Thanks. Um, you didn't have to come straight here if you just got back, even if it is my birthday. I mean, I like seeing you, but didn't you want to stop at home first?" Try to act normal, Donovan.
"That was the original plan. But when I was on the train, I thought, why not? I haven't seen you for weeks, and I have something for you, and I thought maybe I could take you out to Fiorini's or . . . " His brow furrows, and he starts bouncing up and down on his toes a little. "Um, were you sleeping? Maybe I should've called first. Bad time? Or did I miss some social cue here? I never know if I should just drop in, even if someone says I can, I - "
"No, it's fine." Go out to dinner? Go out, period? She can't even get her mind around the idea. "I . . . don't really know if - "
"What happened to your hand?"
She realizes, too late, that she's put her right hand on the doorjamb. He's staring at the dirty, blood-spotted bandage wrapped around her knuckles.
"I - " Damnit. She sighs and looks down at her feet, then opens the door all the way and steps aside to let him in.
She puts the chain on and rattles the door to be sure it's locked. Even though she knows it's silly, she can't shake the habit. She turns back to Spencer, who's looking around at the mess, eyes widening. Her stomach clenches in embarrassment.
"Maeve?" His voice is quiet, but tense with worry. The only other time she's ever heard him sound like that was when she was kidnapped, and she can't stand that she's put that tone in his voice again, especially not right after the horrendous case the team had just been on, and he'd just wanted to surprise her and here he was getting greeted with this -
She goes back over to the beanbag and sits down, arms folded on her knees, head down. She hears the light thump of Spencer dropping his bag, then the slight shifting and crunching of the beanbag as he sits down next to her. She doesn't look at him.
"What happened?" His voice is soft and bewildered.
She sighs. Her thoughts feel slow and muddy. "About . . . a week after you left - "
A sound comes from the direction of the kitchen, surprisingly loud even in the apartment's small space: "RIAAOW!"
She looks up. Spencer's leaning forward, staring at the small black kitten standing in the kitchen doorway. The kitten's staring back at him, very still, tail straight up and back arched slightly.
"Maeve?" Spencer sounds bemused now. "There's a cat in here."
"About that . . . remember when we were on the phone the first week you were gone, and I asked whether you were allergic to cats? He's why. One of the neighbors downstairs has a cat who had kittens, and he's trying to unload them. I thought, why not?" She scratches the carpet, remembering to use her unhurt left hand. The kitten pricks up his ears at the sound and darts over. "This is Schrodinger. Schrodie for short. Schrodie, this is Spencer."
She watches Spencer cautiously extend a hand, and Schrodie stretch to sniff it thoroughly. Schrodie's not much bigger than Spencer's hand, she notes. Ordinarily seeing this would be making her smile, but she just feels . . . empty. Heavy, like cold gray stone.
"You were saying?" Spencer asks, without looking up from Schrodie.
She stares at her kneecaps. "A couple of my friends from the lab invited me for lunch. Stephanie and Donna. They . . . well, I hadn't seen them in a while. There was a Chinese restaurant we used to go to for lunch sometimes, when I still worked there. We met there." She pauses, searching for words. Spencer waits.
"I got there on the train okay. It was kind of crowded. I didn't like it and I doubt I ever will again, really, but I managed. We met up and it . . . I didn't remember it being quite that crowded at lunchtime. As for conversation, well . . ." She sighs. "Here they are, chattering away about work things I didn't understand because I'm not there anymore. Asking me about my job hunt - " she laughs at that, a small, irritated laugh - "yeah, with my current amazing zero-for-twelve interview record.
"I told them about you, and about Schrodie, but it was just . . . hard carrying on a conversation. The noise, and all the people I couldn't not try to keep an eye on . . .we were sitting at a table near the kitchen. That was pretty loud. I was on the aisle. I hate that. I'd rather have a wall behind me now if I can help it. But I didn't want to make a big deal out of it when we sat down. Except people kept coming up behind me, just walking around, and I'd jump when they did. Every time." She shivers. The whirl of noise and movement in the restaurant's small, dark space, the feeling of eyes eyes eyes on her almost tangible, like spiders on her skin, the jolt of adrenaline every time she felt someone looming up behind her the way Diane had done when -
"Stephanie and Donna started looking at me kind of strangely after a while. Then they'd look at each other, and - well, it wasn't too hard to figure out what they were thinking. They were really friendly and polite when it was time for us to go, talking about doing this again sometime, et cetera. I'm pretty sure I smiled in all the right places, but I knew they - " She pauses. "I had a hard time on the train back. A lot of deep breathing on the first one. Then at the station where I changed trains to get home, I kind of . . . ended up hiding in the bathroom for a while."
Her cheeks burn, remembering: standing on the platform, panic welling up and tearing her breath out of her throat, barely managing to hold it together long enough to get to the bathroom. Sitting down with no thought for the dirty floor, head pressed against the cool tile of the wall, rocking with her eyes closed and her hands over her ears. Thinking: quiet, you gotta be quiet, don't freak out again because if the cops pick you up again they might really put you away this time, and what happens to Schrodie all alone at home if they do?
"Eventually I got it together enough to get home. Kept my eyes closed on the train, that helped. I got home and realized there was a voicemail on my phone." She looks around for her phone, and spots it under a splayed-open G.K. Chesterton paperback. She really doesn't want to hear this again, but playing it back is easier than trying to explain the content.
"Hey, Maeve? It's Steph. Um, I just wanted to call and see if you were okay. You didn't look so good today. Donna and I are . . . kinda worried about you. I mean, please don't take this the wrong way, I know what happened to you was bad, but it's been long enough that if you're still having that much trouble just going to lunch, maybe you should . . . get some help or something. Um. I know we talked about meeting up again, but maybe that's not such a great idea till you've resolved some stuff? I don't know. Anyway. Call me when you get a chance, okay? Bye."
Spencer's eyebrows go up. "How long have you been friends?"
"Almost four years. Though I didn't get to see or talk to her much that whole year I was hiding out."
"Did you call her back?"
"I emailed her. Lots of false cheeriness, reassurance, telling her crowds still weird me out but I'm dealing with it, don't worry about me. I didn't want to call her because I didn't think I could sound okay over the phone. I walked down to the convenience store. I really didn't want to, but I had to get more kibble for Schrodie." Schrodie, hearing his name, starts mewing and sniffing ticklishly around her feet. She scratches his head with her unhurt hand. "While I was there, I . . . got something to drink."
"Hydration's a good idea when you're under stress."
"Not that. I meant, to drink drink."
"Oh."
"Yeah. A big bottle of horrible cheap wine. I came home and fed Schrodie and watched the news and got drunk. The cable news stations were talking about your case, did you know that? I forget which one it was, but one showed a quick clip of your friend JJ talking to reporters."
"Doesn't surprise me. Spree killers usually make the news, especially if they're targeting children." Spencer's voice suddenly sounds much more tired when he says that.
"Well. I hadn't eaten much that day, I was too nervous at lunch, and I'm not really used to drinking much anyway, so it . . . hit me pretty hard before I really knew it. I just started pacing around, feeling . . . I mean, I lost over a year out of my life, my job, all my connections with my friends. I spent that time thinking someone I once planned to marry was behind it and I was wrong. Then I almost get killed, but then it was over and things were supposed to get better after that, right?" She gives a little disgusted laugh and shakes her head. "Nine months later and I still have trouble just riding the train or going to lunch with friends? How the hell am I supposed to get a teaching job? Or a job doing anything? I just got so mad, I, well, punched the wall."
Spencer turns to look at the hole in the plaster above them. "I was wondering about that. Remind me not to ever get you that mad at me."
"Spencer. I could never hit you."
"I didn't think you really would." He smiles at her, but it's a small, pained smile. "That's how you hurt your hand?"
She nods. "At first I thought I might have broken something. Then I was really panicked. How was I supposed to explain it to a doctor if I had? To say nothing of having no spare funds to pay for seeing one. I was bleeding. Schrodie ran and hid when I did it. That made me feel really bad. I remember going in the bathroom and patching it up, and then I guess I must've come back out here and passed out. I woke up on this - " she pats the beanbag - "and spent most of the next day being sick."
She looks down at a slight rustling. Schrodie's lost interest in her feet and started investigating an empty chip bag instead.
"Once I was feeling better, I tried to go out later that afternoon and I . . . couldn't."
Spencer doesn't say anything, but he puts a hand on her shoulder. She presses a fist against her mouth. It takes her a moment to continue.
"I stopped caring about picking anything up. I only got up if I had to. I . . . haven't left this apartment in almost two weeks."
Spencer goes very still. There's no sound in the room except Schrodie burrowing into the chip bag.
"Why didn't you call me?"
"Are you serious?"
"I meant what I told you before about - "
"You and your team were kind of occupied chasing someone who was shooting kids on school playgrounds! I was supposed to distract you from that with my problems? You're out in the world, catching murderers, doing something worthwhile with your life, and I'm just - sitting here letting crap pile up and being a damsel in distress - " She's having trouble speaking around the lump starting to form in her throat.
Spencer's curling and uncurling his hands now, the more subtle almost-flap of agitation. "You're hardly a damsel in distress."
"Sometimes I wonder when you're gonna get sick of it, God knows I am, I - " Her voice breaks. She puts her head down on her knees and, with vague surprise, hears herself start crying in sudden, heaving sobs.
She feels Spencer move over, closer, and his arms around her. She turns in toward him, her face against the damp fabric of his coat, and cries until she can't breathe properly, not caring if the neighbors might hear. It doesn't feel like any crying she's ever done before. It's more like freshman year and her failed sorority pledge attempt, the hazing and having to drink big glasses of tequila till she'd run outside and thrown up horribly, over and over, body going into automatic purge-the-poison mode. Now it feels like her soul's doing the same thing.
Eventually it slows enough that she starts coming back to awareness: Spencer's hand cupping the back of her head, Schrodie applying a tiny, cold wet nose to her leg.
"I'm sorry," she manages, hiccuping.
"You didn't do anything wrong." Spencer's mouth is moving against her hair as he speaks, his voice very soft. She goes limp against him with her head on his chest, her eyes closed.
"No, you didn't - need this after - that case." Her voice is raspy and choked now. She clears her throat.
"You needed it. You've had a rough last year and a half, okay? Setbacks happen sometimes."
She nods. "And I bawled all over you and I - probably smell bad."
"You are a little ripe."
Schrodie gives a loud squeak from where he's digging at the beanbag behind her knees. She sighs at that. "Well. If even the cat agrees, I better make myself take a shower." She sits up, sniffling and wiping her nose on her sleeve. Her sinuses feel like they're clogged with clay.
"Is it all right if I stay tonight?"
"Don't you have work tomorrow?"
"Unless an emergency comes up, we've all been ordered to take two days' leave. Hotch's orders."
"Case was that bad?"
"Yes. As for staying - " Spencer pauses. "I was making the maybe-not-accurate assumption you might want company? Non-feline company, I mean?"
"Only if that company's yours. You know my bed's kind of narrow, though. There's a reason we've only ever, you know, gotten up to stuff at your place."
"I wasn't propositioning you or anything like that. I mean, not that I wouldn't find it appealing under different circumstances, but this is hardly the time and - " She's not entirely sure in the dim light, but Spencer looks like he's blushing.
"I didn't think you were. I just don't want you rolling out in the middle of the night."
"I think I'll manage." Spencer puts his hands behind his head and stretches, arching his back. It reminds her of Schrodie in the early morning. "Um, is there a laundry room in this building? Every item of clothing I have with me is dirty."
"In the basement."
"I'll deal with that while you get cleaned up. Have you eaten yet?"
"No." She thinks for a second. "Hey. Does Fiorini's deliver?"
She ends up taking a very long, very hot bath instead of a shower. The sound of shower water beating against the inside of the tub bothers her these days. The gash across the knuckles of her right hand is starting to heal, scabbing over thickly. She washes with her left hand, then crouches in the water for a while, listening to the soothing roar of the bathroom fan and idly stirring bubbles to watch them evaporate.
Eventually the water goes cold. She turns off the fan after getting out. As she's drying off and re-bandaging her hand, she hears sounds of crumpling and cupboard doors opening and closing outside, then clanking from the kitchen.
The living room floor is clean when she comes out, except for the coffee stain and a pile of books and Spencer's empty bag next to the beanbag.
The softer hanging lamp over the kitchen table is on. Schrodie's at his bowl, crunching down the remains of a scoop of kibble.
Spencer's shutting the dishwasher door. He looks up as she pads in.
"You cleaned up. You didn't have to do that." She's not really sure what to add. She definitely hadn't been expecting this. For an awful moment, she can almost see him as a little boy, doing the same thing for his mom when she was in bad shape. She hopes she hasn't triggered some sort of automatic response in him.
"Consider it part of your birthday present." Spencer sits down at the table and rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands. She joins him.
There's a bottle of 7Up and mugs on the table, and two boxes. One is small and brown, the other -
"How much pizza did Fiorini's send?"
"I ordered a large. I forgot how big their large is."
"It's fine. We can have leftovers for breakfast tomorrow. There's practically no human food left in the house."
Spencer nods, then yawns.
"You switched sodas."
"Wanted something without caffeine. I've had way too much the whole duration of this case, and we both need to get a lot of real sleep tonight."
"I let Schrodie sleep with me, if he wants. Is that okay?"
"As long as he doesn't sleep on my face or anything."
"The most he does is start walking all over you and mewing for his breakfast in the morning."
"That's fine." Spencer waves for her to stop as she's about to open the pizza box, then hands her the smaller box. "You'd probably better open your present before you eat."
Opening it takes a little fumbling, with her hurt hand. Inside is a pewter dragon, with spread wings and a sheepish expression and a little pewter flower in its mouth. It fits in her palm.
"It's adorable." She turns it back and forth under the light. "Thanks."
"There's something else in there."
She sets the dragon down and peers into the box. There are some little wads of tissue paper, and the glint of metal -
"A key?" She holds it up. It's unmarked and shiny, obviously new, with a metal loop attached.
"It's to my place. I figured, that way you can come over when you want, even if I'm not there. Just to, I don't know, get out of here for a while if you needed? Or for us to just meet up, or - " The look on his face is turning doubtful. "If it's not being presumptive, or - "
"Spencer." Tears are starting to sting her eyes again. She blinks them away, fast. "This is . . . wow. Thanks."
"I had it made before the case, fortunately. Wouldn't have had time otherwise." Spencer's smiling now, the big dorky grin she loves.
"If I do come over when you're away? Can I bring Schrodie?"
"As long as you remember to bring a litter box for him, too." Spencer opens the pizza box and fishes out a slice, and she follows. "Okay. Lots of sleep. Pizza for breakfast tomorrow, and then we're going for a walk, maybe to the coffee shop too."
"Why did I know you were going to say that?"
"We've got to get you back out doing exposures as soon as possible. Start small. The good thing is, you've worked your way back from this stage once before, so the second time should be a little easier."
"I hope - agh!"
There's a sudden blur in the corner of her eye, and then Schrodie is on the table, nosing the pizza box. She grabs him and lowers him to the floor, and Spencer's laughing a little, and she feels a real smile spreading across her face.