Love Letters and Hate Mail

Disclaimer: Sadly, I do not own Criminal Minds, or any of its characters. If I did, I would not be wasting my time writing this fan-fiction. I would be out with Reid. Because I love him. I really do. (if any other brand names are mentioned that I have forgotten about, I probably don’t own them either…)

Author’s Note: Firstly, congratulations to Phate3092, who correctly answered that Mandy Patinkin, Thomas Gibson, and Shemar Moore all appeared on the 1990’s television show Chicago Hope and, incidentally, also are on this show called Criminal Minds. I hear it’s pretty good. The show also has fantastic fanfiction writers. Also, in the future, I may try to reply via the little link on the page as opposed to here, as suggested. This does mean, however, that I cannot respond to anonymous reviews. So…uhm…sorry. Thanks to Bibilein for the idea. I am too lazy to respond to last chapter’s reviews, so I am terribly sorry, but review this chapter and if you have an account I promise to reply. I have a habit of doing things the most absolutely difficult way first. And second. And third. Often into the double digits as well. ANYways… Oh yeah, and it was pointed out to me that Hotch’s kid is a boy, and I am too lazy to change it at the moment. I may change it, or I may do something clever with the plot to make it relevant. Who knows? On another note, I know that some of you were kinda bugged by my cheesy tie between all the shows and whatnot, but I was really bored at the time and was myself amused by the fact that they all had worked together before on Chicago Hope. Boredom is my only defense. Sorry. Won’t happen again. Unless it does. Oh, one more thing—there’s a lovely little thing in there about the proper use of the word ‘commandeer’ which, I recognize, Reid rightfully won. She was messing with him. Please don’t tell me ‘OI! You there, who is irked by inaccuracy! He can use the word commandeer like that if he so chose!’ I know. I only bring this up because that’s the first thing that my mom brought up when she read it. Ok, you can read it now! Go on, read. You know you want to.

p.s. Time frame apology at the end. Enjoy!

Chapter Six: Such a Feury the Bureau has never seen…

Spencer’s life settled—or, rather, continued to settle—into a comfortable, dependable rhythm. It was disturbed by the abrupt departure of Elle (not to mention the manner in which she left) but soon enough, that too faded into the background. He contentedly drifted through his rhythmic, cyclical life like a grain of sand drifts in the ebb and flow of the tide.

Everyday was essentially the same. Hotch would call very early in the morning and he would drive to work in a dangerous state of lethargy. He would arrive and learn about the case, fly out to the location for a few days, find Mr. and/or Ms. Crazy, and catch them. More often than not, weapons would be pulled, fired, emptied into the middle mass of another human—some deserving, some innocent. On the flight back to Virginia, he would lose spectacularly at chess to Gideon…

Rhythm was good. Lists, organization, control, rules, routine—these were the things that Spencer valued most in this world. After Hotch’s news had some time to sink in, he was most unhappy about the possibility—nay, inevitability—of new blood in their small office.

The date that Hotch had set for this new person’s arrival came with anticipation…

And the date that Hotch had set for this new person’s arrival went without incident. Many wondered if Hotch was just testing them, seeing if they would react positively to new people. Or perhaps he had simply changed his mind. They were on a need-to-know basis, after all.

It never occurred to anyone that a person (a rookie no less) would dare not show up when Hotch had obviously already approved of them.

A day passed… a week, two weeks…nothing.

Then…

Someone was sitting in Reid’s chair. A woman someone, as a matter of fact, and she had no business there. She sat in his chair like she belonged there and her bright cherry-coloured converse-clad feet were resting easily on the corner of his desk. She was chewing on the end of a green pen (Reid noted that it was in fact his green pen that she was so determinedly infusing with her DNA) and staring fixedly, unblinkingly, at a crossword puzzle book with a picture of Garfield on the cover. A muscle on the left side of her face twitched very slightly as they entered, but she showed no further signs that she could see or hear them.

Reid slammed his books and bag down on the desk loudly. When she failed to react, he demanded:

“Who are you?”

“Who wants to know?” she replied in a dull, bored sort of voice. She made no further motions and again failed to make eye contact. She removed the pen from between her teeth and marked something in the book.

“The person whose name is on the desk you commandeered.”

She sighed at this and slowly, carefully, painstakingly marked her place in the puzzle book. She placed the book back in its drawer (it was at this point that he realized that the book, too, belonged to him) and looked up at him at last.

“First of all,” she said in a casual voice, taking off her narrow, rectangular glasses and cleaning them on the hem of her shirt, “People do not commandeer desks. People commandeer ships. Perhaps ‘took possession of’ would be a more accurate term. Second, possession is nine tenths of the law. I have, as you said, however inaccurately, procured for myself the possession of your desk. I suppose you will have to discuss the matter with facilities. And third,” here she rose slowly and gracefully, extending her hand and inclining her head ever so slightly, “I am agent Feury. Sam Feury. Pleasure to meet you,” she glanced at his name plate, “Mr. Reid.”

“Doctor,” he corrected her through gritted teeth. When he did not extend his own hand, she withdrew hers easily as though he had welcomed her warmly, as etiquette would dictate.

“Feury,” said a loud, stern voice at the top of the stairs. It was Hotch.

“Your emotion of choice, Hotchner,” she said cheerfully.

“Too true.”

They smiled at each other like they were old friends sharing an inside joke. Clearly, they in fact were old friends sharing an inside joke. Go figure.

“You always did like to make an entrance, Feury.” Hotch said with a mock-reproachful tone.

Reid gaped and stared. She was the last kind of person who he would expect to be in the good graces of Hotch.

She had red hair and bright, resolutely emerald eyes. Both ears had gold hoops from the cartilage to just above the earlobes; skull and crossbones hung from her ears as well. Reid was not sure what precisely it was, but he was certain that there was ink of the permanent variety on her neck and back. Her clothing was hardly bureau policy. She wore brown cargo shorts that hit her somewhere just at the knees. Beneath these were black fishnet leggings that extended five or six inches past the hem of her shorts, leaving a small patch of skin between the leggings and the top of her scarlet converse. She wore an FBI t-shirt over a long-sleeved red top and fingerless gloves made of the same material as her leggings.

“Yeah,” she was saying, “well, Julliard wouldn’t take me, so the obvious second choice was the FBI. But I have to get out all that pent-up energy somehow.”

Hotch noticed Reid’s rather sour expression and looked back at Feury.

“Wow. You didn’t call him ‘doctor,’ you took his chair, and you finished his crossword puzzle book. You are in trouble.”

“I didn’t completely finish it…”

“Just beware of flying physics magic. He’s getting some good distance.”

If Feury was confused by this rather cryptic message, she hid it well.

“Dually noted, sir.”

“Good. Go get a desk.”

“Ok.”

“And Feury?”

“Yeah boss?”

“I never want to see you dressed like that in here again.”

Here the team breathed a collective sigh of relief; he was still Hotch…ish…

“Yeah, I figured as much. It was mostly a joke, but I’ll admit that if you didn’t say anything I would have kept wearing these…they’re actually quite comfy.”

“Never again.”

“Yes sir.”

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Perhaps, in some other situation, with a better first impression, Reid may have eventually grown to like her a little. Or at least tolerate her. But after a few seconds of long, hard thinking, he determined that this would never happen. The woman—Feury (and what kind of a name is Feury anyway?)—was doomed to be quietly despised by a super genius for all of eternity….

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Reid kept shooting her furtive glances throughout the remainder of the day, which luckily was a relatively short time. Her desk was positioned strategically (in his mind) so that he had little choice but to look at her every time he looked up from his paperwork. He soon stopped looking up. His mind was in a furiously tumultuous kind of whirl. An advantage (that was, perhaps, not so advantageous in hindsight) of an IQ of 187 is that one can simultaneously—and instantaneously-- come up with approximately thirty eight reasons for the immediate dismissal of any given employee. Reid’s thought process, though impossible to accurately document, looked something like this:

Are you kidding? Those clothes are not permissible in a place of business, even ones that don’t work for the government-

And anyway, she was insubordinate to a superior. I couldn’t get away with something like that. It was probably because she’s a woman-

She was sitting at my desk, and picked the lock of my desk! I have items of a sensitive nature in there! Hey, that sounds like-

But she was sitting at my desk! Breaking in was the destruction of the property of the federal government, a breach of security, and she finished my crossword! So rude-

Not to mention she was extremely late. She was due to report weeks ago-

Actually it was only two weeks-

But still! You don’t do that-

And she put her feet on my desk, so I’m probably going to have to clean it again-

Talking to me like that, who does she think she is?? Honestly, I may be young, but she is the rookie here, now, not me-

I hate her-

I hate her-

I HATE HER!

It appears that he nursed something of a deep, abiding dislike for the woman.

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Spencer, a dangerous driver at best, only just made it home. It is said that it is perilous to drive while angry. He discovered that it is far more so to drive while furious beyond all reasonable thought or judgment. He ran over three curbs on his way home, and may or may not have annihilated a mailbox.

Spencer did the only thing that he really could do. He made meatloaf and mashed potatoes, listened to unhealthily loud angry punk rock music, and made hot chocolate that was more powder than water, making it vaguely the consistency of quicksand. And one more thing…

He emailed Leilynn.

Spencer’s keyboard, now well used to the daily onslaught of discontent, was extremely well-worn now. Though relatively new and not yet obsolete, the keys for ‘L’, ‘K’, and ‘C’ began to stick and the letters were fading. Listening to himself type was almost as therapeutic for Spencer as the actual letter he was writing. The cadence, always a happy thing, was soothing. The tapping and occasional picking up and slamming of the keyboard to unstick the keys soon developed its own unique rhythm. Spencer learned quickly how to pick up and slam the keyboard without stopping, so he typed and unstuck at an almost comical rate.

Leilynn,

I wish I could tell you that I had the day from hell. I didn’t. I had the day that hell thought about, decided was too bothersome, and gave back. These people! I really don’t like people. Too bad being a hermit doesn’t pay well. It’s something that I have been considering. See, there’s this woman… She’s new. And she’s completely insane…

And so he went on. For nearly three-quarters of an hour, he typed. He told her the long, horrific tale in all its morbid glory. He laughed, he cried (there was something in his eye), he ate hot chocolate (it had by now solidified into a kind of cake)… The planets in Spencer’s universe were realigning. Almost. No matter how he felt in the here and the now, he still had to go to work tomorrow, and deal with…her…

That night, he had some of the most bizarre dreams he had ever experienced.

He was building a wall. A brick wall. He stood on a rope ladder that extended forever below him. Someone was standing on top of it, yelling down to him.

“You used to do this so well!” said Hotch’s voice. His torso was silhouetted against bright sunlight, which bored painfully into his eyes. He was suddenly plunged into an immense darkness that consumed him. Through the darkness, he heard an unkind, laughing voice.

“Mr. Reid,” it echoed.

“She does this much better,” said Hotch.

“How do you know?” Reid asked the voice angrily, trying to keep the childish accusatory notes out of his voice, “You’ve never seen her work!”

His ladder began moving beneath him; it turned into hissing, poisonous snakes. Somewhere in the back of his mind he noted with distaste how uncreative his subconscious was. Something hard hit him in the head. It was his cell phone. It lit up the darkness and rang loudly at him. He was falling, falling, falling—

His eyes flew open, his heart pounding. The room was filled with a loud ringing. Reid opened it, yelled into the receiver, and closed it.

This was going to be a very, very long day. Again.

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Someone was sitting in Reid’s chair. Again. Another woman someone, as a matter of fact, and she still had no business there. She sat in his chair like she belonged there and her black-and-white Vans-clad feet were resting easily on the corner of his desk. She was chewing on the end of a black pen (Reid noted that it was in fact his black pen that she was so determinedly infusing with her DNA) and staring fixedly, unblinkingly, at a sudoku puzzle book with a picture of…well, of a sudoku puzzle on the cover. There are no Garfield sudoku books, you see. It’s their loss, really, but they nonetheless do not exist.

‘What is it about my desk that makes people want to sit at it despite the fact that it does not belong to them?’ Reid thought furiously, marching over to his desk with the air of one more than ready for a fight.

However, mid-march, he felt himself slide sideways, hard and very much against his will, into an office. He looked around and was not remotely surprised to find himself in a room filled with computer screens. He sighed and sank into a chair.

“How may I help you, Garcia?” Reid asked with a valiant effort at pleasantry.

“Be nice to her, Reid.” Garcia said simply. It was more of an order than anything else.

“Why should I? She’s in my chair!”

“I know her. I respect her. As such, you do as well. You may go.”

“Gee, thanks,” Reid muttered on his way out the door.

Nonetheless…

“Excuse me, but you’re sitting at my desk.” Reid said as politely as he could muster.

“Terribly sorry,” she said distractedly, standing and stepping aside, but not taking her eyes off of the book. He sat down cautiously, watching her as though she might suddenly spontaneously combust and set his sudoku book on fire before he finished the last nine puzzles…Well, eight, now, he supposed.

“Ah,” said a brisk, businesslike voice that he knew to belong to a certain Aaron Hotcher, “I see you’ve met our second addition to the team. Reid, this is Special Agent Robyn O’Brien. O’Brien, this is Dr. Spencer Reid.”

She extended her hand, which he shook warily.

“Rob,” she corrected.

“…Hi.” Reid said awkwardly. She was pretty. Or rather, she was probably pretty, if she let her hair out of its bun and was wearing something other than the suit which had a tendency to make even the most stunning woman look intimidating and unapproachable. Morgan, who could smell such potential from a mile away, was there the instant Hotch left for his office.

“You don’t look like an O’Brien,” he said, casually leaning against the partition. As annoyed as Reid was, he had to admit that this was true. O’Brien, an Irish name, did not seem to fit well with her dark complexion, hair, and eyes, all of which were varying shades of brown.

“That’s an interesting line,” she said just as casually, but with a hint of annoyance as she began distributing things into her new desk. Morgan, veteran that he was, stumbled only momentarily.

“Perhaps, but it’s a valid question. I’m sure Reid will back me up here.”

Such was his curiosity, Reid did not protest.

“Well, O’Brien is an Irish name, meaning son—or in this case daughter—of Brien. You do not look Irish.” Reid rattled off, as was his way.

“And you do not look old enough to drive, let alone be in the FBI. People are full of surprises,” she turned to a snickering Morgan, “And you. I will make a little bet with you. If you guess what I am, I’ll go on one date with you. That’s what you want isn’t it?”

“Well--”

“Take it or leave it.”

“Done,” Morgan agreed, extending his hand, which she apparently did not see in all her paper-shuffling. He suddenly felt inexplicably brave.

“That was easy,” he said with a smile. She returned the smile, but it was considerably less warm than his.

“You will find that I am not easy at all, Agent Morgan.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“I am sixteen different races. You have to guess them all correctly the first time to get the date. Guess the percentages correctly and you get a second date. Maybe.”

“Sixteen diff—”

“That will be all, thank you for your warm welcome,” she said, breaking out into the first genuine smile Reid had seen her wear. He suspected that Morgan was off to coerce Garcia into giving him the genealogical scoop on this Rob O’Brien.

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“But Sweetie--”

“Don’t you but sweetie me, mister! If she said that you have to guess, I’m not helping you cheat!!”

Garcia smiled sweetly at him and turned around to face her computers. She heard Morgan sigh with comedic exasperation and leave, closing the door behind him. At this sound, she placed her head in her hands and screamed inside of her head. She couldn’t cry. Not here. She wore too much makeup— everyone would know and ask her what was wrong in that tone that always made her cry more. Why did she wear so much makeup? Well, that was easy. For him. But why? When she knew it was one-way? That was easy, too. She just wished it would go away.

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Reid couldn’t wait to tell Leilynn—not one new addition, but two? This was just too good to leave til morning. He knew that when the sun rose, he would regret it, but he simply couldn’t resist telling her all about Morgan’s utter failure. For surely he couldn’t succeed, not this time. Not with sixteen races to get right the first time out…right?

So thrilled was he at the happy prospect of Morgan finally letting one get away, he failed to notice that it was nearly two-thirty in the morning by the time he was done reenacting the scene in loving detail. He quickly sent and closed his computer, making sure to turn the volume off, and went directly to bed without even changing his clothes. He rolled over with a slight grin on his face. It wasn’t so bad of a day after all.

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A/N: OMG I am sooooo sorry this took so long. You try teaching YOURSELF two AP classes. Neither of my teachers were any good, you see. One was a very nice man who was simply new and unsure how to teach an AP class. That will come with time and I forgive him. The other was simply an ass who decided that as we were AP students, we all knew everything and there was no need for him to teach us anything. Rawr. I have been fighting with that. I know, I know, there’s no excuse, but please still love me. Please forgive me. I will try to do better, I promise. PLEASE READ AND REVIEW AND MAKE ME FEEL BETTER ABOUT MY MISERABLE SELF!! YOU GUYS KEEP ME ALIVE!!

p.s. Obviously, one of these women is Leilynn. I would love to know which one you think it is. Please include this, and I will post a tally next chappie!

Thanks!

p.p.s. Rather large mistake, I accidentally put them both down as Sam at first. That is how tired I have been lately. O’Brien’s first name is supposed to be Rob. I think I fixed it. If I missed any, let me know please. Thanks!