Chapter Text
I sighed deeply before leaving the building through the glass doors. It had been a truly hectic day of meetings, case presentations, patient care, and session planning. I no longer had the energy to think, much less dwell on irrational perfectionist ideas, so I tried to silence the little voice that was peeping from somewhere in my brain and calm the heart that told me I would never be satisfied with what I do. All I wanted right now was to watch The Simpsons with a good plate of Chinese food.
The avenue is busier than usual; a soccer game was happening right then, and even at the clinic, they were talking about it. The neon lights washed over my face as I tried to cross the street. I think I'd better get some fast food, remembering that it's finally Friday and I can sleep in a little later tomorrow. I change my plans and head to McDonald's. I order a good amount of food; maybe by now Spencer will be back at his apartment and will want to join my crazy plan of watching cartoons and eating junk food on a Friday night. While I wait, I send him a quick text: "Hey, want to have a crazy Friday night?" I joke and smile at the screen. The line has gotten even longer now that the team has scored two goals and is in the lead. I manage to leave with my order and give up on the idea of hailing a taxi. Resigned, I start walking to my apartment, hoping for a good night laughing with Bart Simpson.
I have two more blocks to go when I turn one of the corners in the West Village and see several SUVs with tinted windows blocking the avenue. A police car has its lights on, and a group of people has already gathered around, wondering what's happening. My heart stops, my palms start sweating, and I practically try to run toward the cars. It's... it's the entrance to my apartment.
Please, let it not be Spencer, please... God... I knew his job at the FBI was dangerous and strange. We talked about it sometimes, with bitter jokes about identity changes and guns.
I manage to yell to the police officer that I live in that building, and he reluctantly looks at me and lifts the tape to let me in. A ringing in my right ear has started, and my heart is pounding in my chest. Every step I take is an incredible effort; suddenly, I feel incredibly heavy, weighed down by fear. I climb the stairs to the third floor and see Spencer in the hallway with his back to me.
"Spencer," I manage to say, my throat dry from the cold air. He turns around, his face beaming with relief. He strides over to where I am and hugs me, crushing me under the things I'm still holding.
"I've been trying to reach you... you're not answering any calls," his voice still sounds worried, and he quickly pulls away. The fact that he hugged me already paints a very bad picture.
"I texted you, but with all this stuff..." I say as he helps me with my purse and backpack. I'm left holding the empty water bottle. "What happened?" A tall, frowning agent approaches. "Miss…" He observes me, his eyes slightly wider, having trailed off mid-sentence. In a second, his frown returns, this time more intensely, as he glances sideways at Spencer.
"Andi," I finish his sentence. I realize he's wearing the blue FBI vest, just like the rest of the agents in the hallway, who are looking at me with curious and surprised expressions, glancing at each other and communicating with their eyes.
"I'm Agent Aaron Hotchner. This is my team. A few minutes ago we…" But I see a dark-haired agent leave my own apartment. I leave the agent talking to himself and head for the door. A silence falls, suddenly as if the world has stopped, and the beeping grows louder.
Inside, it's pitch black. The flickering light of the police siren bathes the place in red and blue—chaos. I take a few short steps inside the apartment, as if I'm not forcing myself into the place where I've lived for the last seven years, because it doesn't feel like it. Everything is wrecked…
"A few minutes ago, Spencer was located by an unknown person. After a brief exchange, our technology has triangulated his location to your apartment," the officer says in a deep voice, but I hear him almost as a whisper.
I've never considered myself a particularly tidy person, but this is pure hatred. To say it's upside down is an understatement. Everything is wrecked, unusable, broken. Books are scattered on the floor, pages torn out, furniture and chairs ripped, the glass table completely shattered, as if an eight-magnitude earthquake had struck right here. It's hard to keep looking because tears threaten to spill when I see the destroyed photos and decorations. I built my world through hard work, and now someone has ripped it away. I try to swallow my emotions when I see broken dishes and smashed appliances on the floor. I refuse to look at the television and the stereo.
"And, I have no idea what happened," Spencer says. I don't know when he came in, but he's beside me. His voice sounds hurt, full of guilt and fear, and suddenly I feel so tired of talking. I stay silent and lean on his arm while I force myself to see more. I make out an intact Eiffel Tower, but I see water, and I know that the collection of snow globes from every city I visited... is gone. "Spencer," I whisper. We're alone in the apartment. I bend down to look at a torn photo, a Polaroid taken on my birthday. In the picture, Spencer and I are wearing funny hats, blowing out candles on a huge birthday cake. "Can I go to my room?" I ask, because by then I suspect they've searched my entire apartment.
He hesitates. "I haven't been able to go in yet," he says. We both head down the hallway. My house now belongs to a stranger. It feels so vast, with a constant echo, and the ringing in my ears gets louder. When I open the door, I gasp. Spencer glances in quickly and leaves, calling for Agent Hotchner. My room is tidy, too tidy. This place isn't mine; it feels eerie compared to the chaos outside. I hear footsteps, and both agents peek into the room. "I came in here myself. Everything seems to be in its place. Maybe he didn't have time to keep destroying everything," Hotchner says. “Was your room like this before you left home?” Spencer asks. I shake my head. “No, it wasn’t exactly like this. This order is strange.” I start looking more closely, pacing around and playing a game of spot the differences. The perfect order seems inhuman.
“What do you mean?” Hotchner interjects, frowning even more, if that’s possible.
“This isn’t my order… I never stand my books upright,” I say, pointing to the table next to my bed. “I never put my pens in the mug. There’s no way I made my bed today, and… the photos have never been like this. I don’t…” Both agents look at me, raising their eyebrows. I’ve been talking without realizing I’ve started raising my voice and getting exasperated. “Sorry,” I add, noticing how I’ve blushed completely, right down to my ears.
Hotchner and Spencer start talking while my thoughts continue to play at reviewing what’s different. I stare at the corkboard where I've put photos. It's a tradition I have of filling it up as the year goes by, but… there were photos from when I was a child, with my school friends, my graduation trip, undergraduate photos—this is wrong.
"Spence," I call. I notice a certain urgency in my voice; my heart is pounding faster and faster. Spencer has reached the doorway of my room, but I push past him, almost bumping into the other agent, and head to the living room. I start opening the shelves. "My album isn't here," I say. I can hear panic in my own voice, and Spencer grimaces, kneels down, and starts searching through the chaos. Hotchner looks around, but it's not there. He's taken it.
A ray of luck has illuminated us; a few minutes have passed, and now Aaron Hotchner is holding my cell phone to show the other agents that he has moved the photographs. They take more pictures of the room, but I have remained seated at the kitchen table. The blonde agent has given me a glass of water with a warm smile, but the glass remains there untouched. I have been eating the cuticles around my nails—what was that word again? Tricho…trichotillomania… or trichotillomania…
The agents have moved into the living room, where they're talking amongst themselves, and for the first time tonight I deign to look at them. One of the agents is dark-haired, tall, his dark eyes sparkle, and he has a sexy air about him. It must be Morgan; Spencer always mentions him. The other agent is blonde, with a lovely smile, completely engrossed in what Aaron is saying. It's JJ. If I had a coin every time Spencer talks about her, I'd be a millionaire. The last agent has black hair in a ponytail with enviable bangs. Emily, I conclude, the most recent addition, although she must have been on the team for a little over a year already.
"…It seems the unknown person came in here by mistake," Morgan mentions. "The books are in the doorway. Maybe he thought this was Spencer's apartment, and that's why he came in."
"And he didn't force his way in," JJ emphasizes. "It doesn't make sense." "Okay, so he goes in," Emily moves to the front door. "I realize it's not the apartment he wanted to go into, so... does he get frustrated and have a meltdown, destroying the place?" she concludes, confused. "If so... it's like a mega tantrum." Spencer nods, as does JJ. "Yes, but in any case, how did she realize this wasn't my apartment?" Spencer asks. "Something must have happened for her to realize, but what was it?"
"Besides that, why didn't she trash her room?" Agent Hotchner throws the question into the air, referring to my room. I ponder what they're saying for a moment. "Because she found something better than what she came for," I say without thinking, but all five pairs of eyes have turned to look at me, even in the kitchen. "If her behavior is like a tantrum, how do you usually stop a tantrum?" When you give him something he wants, or when you give him something better than his initial demand, that's why, upon seeing it was my room, he found something much more important than his initial objective. Given that he acts like a child—in the case of adults, it would be frustration—and for some reason, he found something much better than just staying angry, however…—I add—this here shows a lot of frustration and chaos, violence, anger, but my room is calm and orderly. He's touched my things, tidied my things, somehow he's given me a message of…
—how you should do it, something paternalistic or maternalistic—Hotchner concludes.
—that—I say, snapping my fingers, when I meet everyone's gaze. Morgan's mouth is open in surprise—I'm sorry, I didn't mean to interfere…
—Andi has taken criminal profiling courses and was a student of mine and Gideon's—Spencer mentions, smiling at me—I think there's a lot of sense in what you've said—he adds, supporting me. I smile back. Some of the officers look surprised and stare at Spencer, except for Hotchner.
It's almost midnight, and my apartment is a crime scene, though the only things stolen were a photo album and some vandalism. Out in the hallway, Spencer approaches me and smiles shyly, greeting me listlessly.
"And," he finally breaks the silence, handing me the key to his apartment, "I want you to stay here as long as you need."
"What? No, Spence, seriously," I say, trying to give him back the keys. "I can spend a few days with Priyanka," I add. "Accept it, I know it's not my fault, but I still feel like I'm involved in all of this," he says, sighing and running a hand through his hair. He looks more tired than usual. "And it's all on my account." I frown so hard it feels like a vein is about to burst in my head. "Spencer, don't do this. We'll talk about it later, okay?" I say, shaking my head. But I've gotten dizzy, and I lean against the wall to stop feeling the vertigo.
"What's wrong?" he asks, taking my arm.
"Nothing, nothing, just a quick dizziness," I say dismissively. Hotchner appears behind Spencer and looks me over.
"Are you okay?" he asks.
"Yeah, just a quick dizziness. It must be because I haven't eaten," I explain. He looks at me with a worried expression that quickly fades. “We’ll put you under protection, and you’ll have an agent assigned to you 24/7,” he says quickly as he starts typing angrily on his cell phone.
“So we can’t stay here,” Spencer says, and Hotchner nods in agreement.
“The unknown person might come back to finish what he wanted to do, and given his level of aggression, it’s very likely,” he explains without taking his eyes off his phone. “They’re assigning you rooms at a hotel near the facility.”
JJ calls Spencer, who hesitates to leave me alone. I gesture for him to come and lean against the wall, closing my eyes for a moment; the dizziness hasn’t completely gone away.
“I know this must be a difficult situation,” he says. When I open my eyes, he’s observing me, taking his time. I squint.
“It’s the first time this has happened to me,” I tell him. “I’ve never even been robbed.” A sarcastic joke slips out, as Spencer would say.
But his face doesn't even flinch; there seems to be a ghost of a smile, but it certainly isn't—"This isn't your fault… or Spencer's," he says, almost whispering.
"I know, Agent," I try to tell him, "it's just that I'm really tired." I hadn't realized how tired I am now; even breathing feels like a chore. It's another attack—no, it isn't. I lean against the wall, afraid my legs will give out at any moment.
"You'd better go rest. First, try to have a light dinner; don't force yourself to eat," he tells me, his voice softening by almost 0.001%.
"Yes, thank you, Agent," I reply. His figure is undoubtedly intimidating. He's no taller than Spencer, but he has a military aura about him. His voice is deep, the kind that makes your skin crawl, just as Spencer described it.
"Thank you for this, Aaron, really," I reply. "We'll find whoever did this," he tells me, nodding his head. Emily calls him and goes back to work. I'm left in the passageway with the empty feeling in my stomach of being completely alone.