Fandom: Criminal Minds
Summary: You are the I love you, to my I love you, too. (Save me, I‛m yours. (I‛ve always been yours. He is everything that you‛ve ever, ever, ever wanted, and you think you could die, or break, or just simply smile, because you love him and maybe you don‛t deserve him but it‛s not about that at all, it‛s about more than that, because you think he loves you, too (because you know he loves you, too).))
Notes: I am in love with this, too (and you <3). <3 I wrote this at three AM, thinking of Hotch and Reid and love and all of you, because I love you, I really do. <3 I really love you. <3333
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(Foyet breaks something in you, something hard and deep and good. And this is how the story begins.
Reid quotes you things, sometimes, and you watch him while his mouth moves and you wish you could kiss him. Sometimes you lean towards him and curl a little bit into him, when you think that he won‛t notice or when he laughs, because he looks at you like you are the whole, entire world and it makes you stop breathing for a little while and you love him (but not because of that–, because sometimes, you believe in true love again, and maybe he is why. Because you love him and you don‛t have a reason for it at all, and that is why you know that you really love him. You want to tell him, wondering what he would say, because you can imagine the hundreds of statistics that he will ramble and the thousands of flashes of little things that will go in his eyes and you will watch them and they will look like tiny little stars all moving at once. You want to ask him the statistical anomaly of that, because is it even possible? He makes you believe in that thousands of stars can shoot through the sky all at once, and you love him.
He makes you believe in stars and planets and people and science and books and art and him and yourself and the world and everything, and you love him, and you want to tell him so that he can tell you, so that he can tell you...‛You make me believe in true love again,‛ you say, and he smiles, that lovely curl of his mouth and his face lightening like meteor showers and maybe the apocalypse (except you think if it were that beautiful then you wouldn‛t quite mind, not really, not really, really) and all meanings of light. And he passes it off, as Chaucer and Cohen and Plath and Neruda, because Spencer is the type of person who believes that it is never him, not ever, who makes people believe in love again, or maybe in anything.
You think to yourself that he hides behind statistics and rambling and art and other people because he believes that he can‛t make people believe, except maybe in what other people believe in that he believes in already, too. You think that he thinks that everybody else is better than him, in some way, even though you always want to tell him that you believe in everything about him, because he thinks that Plath and Neruda and Cohen and Chaucer can say what love is better than he can.
Spencer thinks that other people believe in what he believes in, and they don‛t ever believe in him. But you want to tell him, you want to tell him so badly that he makes you believe in true love again. It‛s not Chaucer, it‛s not Neruda, it‛s not Plath, and it‛s not Cohen. It‛s the way that he makes you ache, so happy you‛re nearly sad, a type of life deep, deep, deep down in you that is so living that it almost makes you want to die. It fills up your chest and it fills up your head and it fills up your heart, and it is the best feeling, but it is also the most hurtful thing that you have ever felt, something that sits heavy and light and airy and thick on your chest, curls its fingers around your belly and latches itself onto you, even though you really wish you could hold him instead.
It‛s the best feeling, the best. You are the happiest you have ever been.
And in some ways, you are the saddest.
Foyet drags you down and Haley drags you down and Jack drags you down, because when you see them, sometimes all you see is blood and crying and sadnesses, and sometimes all you think about is crawling away somewhere, into some hole, to live there and to curl yourself up and to pretend that you don‛t exist. That you never have, like if you didn‛t, none of this would have happened, because maybe it wouldn‛t.
Foyet drags you down, because when you think of Jack and Haley, his is the face that you see.
You don‛t even remember her face anymore, and you have to curl up with Jack and have midnight sessions when both of you wake each-other up with your crying, watching old videos of her and somewhat new videos of her and making yourself sick off of them, the type of repeated and repeated and repeated repitition that almost makes you dizzy.
Haley drags you down, because you love her, and you can‛t stop loving her, and you will not ever. It makes you sick sometimes, too, vomiting in the bathroom at three-in-the-morning when you think of her face and her eyes and her smile, and how she kissed you when she wanted you to believe in that she love(loves)d you, because sometimes you didn‛t, and you wish that you could go back and somehow tell her, ‛I do, I do, I do, I do believe so much that you love me‛.
You wish that you could be the ‛I love you, too‛, to her ‛I love you‛, because sometimes you think that she knew already so much that you loved her, but sometimes it was that she didn‛t always know if you knew that she loved you that hurt her her absolute most. Sometimes, that is why you think that it ended in-between the two of you.
You wish that you could be the ‛I love you, too‛, to her ‛I love you‛, so badly so much that it hurts you. And you don‛t know what to do anymore, but when you can‛t breathe, and you start to not-eat and your hands start to shake, and you can‛t even fill-out your papers anymore or wipe your eyes or clean-up your face, you go to Jack, because you think that you love plenty of people in the world and plenty of people in the world love you, and you know that plenty of persons in your world love you, but you think that maybe Jack is the only person in the whole, entire world who believes that you love him, too.
It aches, and it burns, and it makes you so happy, and when he rubs your noses together, and smiles at you as if you are everything ever, he opens his eyes and he sees you maybe more clear than anyone else has ever seen you.
He touches your face, gently, like children both are and never are, gentle with pureness, but harsh with inexperience and innocence and the same naivety that makes their touch still so gentle in the first place, and he looks-up-at-you and he smiles and you love him (‛oh, how I love you, let me love you as though...‛) and he says, "Daddy, daddy, she loved you like I love you."
"She loved you like I love you like you love me like you loved her. It‛s like this." He strings his fingers together, knots them tightly together like he is lonely and his hands don‛t have anyone else‛s hands to hold. You won‛t let him be lonely, so you tug your hands together, hold them softly, like there is nothing that you are missing here, and it is just you and him and the world, and you don‛t need anything else, really.
But you do and you feel so guilty for it, like everything that you have, it should be enough, and it is, but it isn‛t. And you want to say that, somehow, if he hadn‛t ever been there, Spencer, you wouldn‛t have ever really needed him, like you need him out of opportunity, or something, like you need him like you need modern technology, like you need him like Garcia needs computers and Reid needs statistics (Neruda and Cohen and Plath included), except you can‛t help but thinking that there would always be something missing if they didn‛t have them, like if they didn‛t have those things, they wouldn‛t be the same persons not quite at all.
You feel somehow like even if you never even knew him, you would still need him, somewhere deep in your heart, an ache and a hole and a longing for him that has maybe always been there, because maybe it has been with you all your life.
And you love him.
So, he is there, and he is reading you statistics like lovesongs, he is almost really singing. And he tells you, he tells you things that you have never ever really thought-of, and he is looking at you like he loves you, and you want to tell him that you love him, too.
You are sitting in your hospital bed, and he is sitting next to you, and you think that you nearly look like lovers, because he has a book propped-up in his hand and his other hand is so close to you that you wouldn‛t even have to reach for it if you wanted to ever hold-it, which you do, but you can‛t, because he looks at you like this.
Because he looks at you as though he understands everything, and he believes that he is not good at you, like he often believes this for everybody, because Spencer believes that people don‛t believe in him, that they shouldn‛t, that they won‛t.
You want to tell him that you will, that you do. But when you open your mouth, all that you seem to be able to say to him is this, ‛Read me another one,‛ and he smiles and he does as you ask of him because he loves you and oh, you love him, too, you really do.
And you don‛t have an eidetic memory, but sometimes you do when it comes to him, just simply a little bit, because you love him and when he speaks you hold it close to yourself like it is everything, everything, everything.
And you don‛t have an eidetic memory, but you do sometimes when it comes to him, and so you say, "I love you because I know no other way."
He has just finished with his ‛and so...‛, and your words fit together perfectly, and your poetry hangs softly in the air like it always has and always does and always ever will.
He smiles, that smile, and when he collects his bags and he leaves it is with hesitancy and tentativeness and you love him so much and so terribly much that you could die, you could die but you just simply live because it is more about that feeling that dying, it is more about living than dying, and with him, with him, you want to live and love him forever. That feeling burns so brightly in you, and you smile, and he smiles back again, and waves, leisurely, because you will see you tomorrow or maybe later tonight, and also sadly, because for a while he won‛t see you at all.
And he loves you. He loves you. He really loves you.
And, you want him to know, so badly, that you love him, too.
You want him to know so badly that you love him, too.
And you want him to know that you love him, too.
(‛I do not just love you, but I love you, too.‛ It is something like this, you think, and your heart aches, full and bursting with happiness.)
You watch Jack play from across the room (‛oh, and let me love you as though I could forget everything, and love only you and you and you–, but mostly, darling, please do let me love you like I can remember everything, and love myself, and love everything, like I love you so much, that I love everything else in my whole, entire world, too‛...), and he somehow looks a little bit empty-sided, too. You call him over, pleadingly, beggingly, gently as you can possibly ever be and then a little bit more-so than that, and you let him sit at the edge of your feet, and then a little bit closer, because your wounds hurt and they ache and they will probably scar sometimes, but he is so close to your chest already, that having him there physically, too, it hardly ever even hurts you at all anymore. It never has, maybe. It never has, maybe, probably, perhaps, certainly, honestly, truthfully, clearly, forever, always, and always, and always, and always.
You read to him. ‛I really love you.
You are the ‛I love you‛, to my ‛I love you, too‛.
I really love you.‛
And you really do. And when you hand Reid the letter the next day, when he comes back and he looks at you and you look at him, he reads it, and he reads it so slowly that your heart fills again, and again, and again, and again, and again and again and again and again.
"I love you, too," he says.
"I love you," you say.
"I love you."
"I love you, too."
You really love him, too.
You really love him.