The Keeping of Words | Spencer Reid

18: The History of Love

When he had arrived in the Mission District, the entire team was startled by Reid's reappearance. He'd realized something then – firstly, about the unsub's motivations, but secondly, that the his team cared about him; and maybe the best way to heal was to be with them, working rather than wallowing alone in his apartment.

Reid knew that Hotch understood his situation better than anyone. The unit chief told him that it would take time to move forward. "How much time?" he had asked, his voice cracking, sounding so broken as he begged for Hotch to tell him that this feeling could be fixed.

It was Hotch he went to now for advice, knocking lightly on the office door. "Come in," he said from inside. Reid closed the door behind him as Hotch looked up from his desk.

"Reid," he said, surprised. "Is something wrong?"

"No. Um, well, not really. I don't think?" Reid was stumbling over the words. "I just wanted to ask you something... because I think you would understand. I need advice."

Hotch folded his hands, his face still poker-straight. "Is this about Maeve?"

"Sort of," he admitted. How was he supposed to begin this conversation? Every week he seemed to be crossing into a new kind of uncharted territory. How to love, how to grieve, how to move forward, how to forgive and apologize and reconcile. He could still remember that vivid dream, music playing in the library and dancing slowly with Maeve in his arms, every bit of her feeling as real and tangible as she had been when she was alive.

"Hotch, you love ... Haley and Beth?" He could still remember talking to Garcia that day on the plane, explaining how male widowers tended to move on faster than females. He never imagined that statistic would be relevant to his own life.

A flash of understanding passed over Hotch's face. He hadn't been expecting that question. "I do," he said steadily. "Haley and I were high school sweethearts. We were married young, and back then neither one of us had expected my career to become what it is. It was hard for her to deal with that, which is why she left. It was hard for both of us, but that doesn't mean we stopped caring about each other.

"When she died, I wasn't sure I would ever recover, let alone meet someone else. I thought that would be betraying her. But then I met Beth. And I realized that above all else, Haley and I wanted the other to be happy. If it had been me in her place, I wouldn't have wanted her to avoid loving someone. I would have wanted her to be happy, and living her life to the fullest. When I realized that, I knew that Haley would want the same for me."

Love was wanting what was best for each other. If that was true for Hotch and Haley, didn't it follow that it could be true for him? "Are you asking me this because you've found yourself caring about someone?"

Reid gulped, nodding. He hadn't even realized it was happening at first. He found himself looking forward to seeing Bianca, and then he found himself needing to see her. He bought her coffee and tried to find things that would make her smile, and that was just what a good friend did, right? He was simply going out of his way to make her happy and asking about her life because friends did that - friends missed the sound of their friend's voice, stayed up late to watch a movie they'd already seen just to spend a little more time with their friend, found themselves replaying a memory of the last time they'd hugged their friend - right? It wasn't until that moment in his apartment that it hit him.

This was a different kind of caring.

"But you waited two years and nineteen days after Haley's murder. Even then, you worried it was two soon. It's only been five months and twenty-six days since Maeve died. How can I love someone for ten months, and spend two thousand, four hundred and twelve hours communicating with her, only to... to think about someone else so soon?" The question was laced with pain, recalling what she had told him as the record player spun. I want to hold you once before I'm a ghost of a memory. He wasn't about to let that happen.