COVERT : Spencer Reid (II)

30

"It's more tedious than prohibitive," Spencer sets.

He's retying his blindfold again. I lost count after the 4th time he removed it. Rarely, I described him as antsy. Were on the floor of his sitting room period he sits cross legged, blinded, and he's trying to do the puzzle with me. His fingers twitch whenever he leans forward to hover over pieces, but mostly he sits and thinks.

Unfortunately, I keep moving the pieces slightly when i pick them up. It's not intentional but still, he keeps grabbing the wrong pieces.

"Are you ambidextrous?"

"Colette, please don't tie a hand behind my back."

He's smiling though. Just from the way I say the words, no visual input required to understand my insinuation. With the blindfold on, he can't see that I'm smiling too. We're drinking espresso martinis, sitting in his living room. One is our limit, because I got too drunk a few days ago. He could handle a few more. Spencer has never relapsed, though the possibility is always there, in my brain. The two year anniversary of his abduction was about two weeks ago. February 5th, and the knowledge doesn't escape both of us. I wonder if he cans ee that too, with his blindfold on snug against his face.

I don't want to bring it up. After all, there's no guarantee ever that we will have a conversation without interruption. Spencer could be called out any second for a case. So could I, I guess now. Even if I wasn't called out, I'd also have to leave here. His home isn't mine, no matter how many toiletries he collects on my behalf.

"I'm buying you a plant," I decide.

His brow twitches and he moves a hand to readjust his blindfold.

"I can't have any," he says. "Unless it's a succulent or some other plant that doesn't require regular watering. A spider plant would do me well, I suppose, but they require indirect sunlight and I'm not sure where it would be best to put one. Snake plants can deal with more variation in the sunlight, but they require watering more often."

I'd let him talk for the rest of the night, but the oven dings. I'm on my feet before he is. The blindfold is definitely tedious since he grunts while fiddling with the not. The kitchen smells divine. It's woody almost, more then his home which smells like him. Leather and coffee, and wool. Although, his hair distinctly smells like coconut. I've seen his conditioner.

Footsteps tapped me back. I step through the kitchen and grab oven mitts. The cheese on the pizza looks gooey, slightly Browning his plain but mine has feta, spinach, and sundried tomato. Stéphane would gag eating it. I don't mind. The heat engulfs me as I open the oven and pull them out.

"They're done."

Behind me, Spencer is setting his kitchen table. His face is aglow with candlelight. I think they were just for me if the candles weren't getting smaller between our visits. There are lights here, but he never uses the overhead ones. For every dozen books here there must be a lamp, and he's got hundreds of books. He's always lit from below, dim and hard to see. I feel at home in this kind of like, but he looks less like himself here.

Only recently, with my help organizing the place, has he allowed himself to use candles here. It's less of an archive now, and more of a home. The wallpaper even, seems stuck more firmly too the wall.

We sit down at the table. We start to eat. The thin slices are a bit floppy, but they taste even better than the smell. Gooey and rich and wonderful.

"Just need someone to water it when you aren't around," I say, wiping the corners of my mouth. "A plant, I mean."

"I wouldn't trust most people alone in here," Spencer gestures to his right. "My office is too many confidential files. Hotch said in my review that I need to start digitizing information this year. It seems more tedious than your blindfold. I'm never going to want to use a computer no matter how much Garcia shows me, or how Hotch stresses security. Screens are too bright."