"A relationship gains no velocity in the absence of reciprocity." - Bruce Adler

It had been weeks. No promising leads; no new murders. The BAU had worked tirelessly in that time, reviewing every shred of evidence, flagging murders across the country that even remotely resembled one they had solved. They all toiled day and night: normal working hours meant nothing to them. All other cases were suspended until further notice. Sleep was scarce and the coffee was in constant flow. And still, nothing substantial.

It was taxing work, even tedious at times. Their families and other obligations suffered for it. But they couldn't stop now, nor had any desire to. Not while he was still out there.

Returning from that harrowing scene in the warehouse had at first exhausted, and later fueled them. Reid remembered returning home that night, collapsing into a blackout sleep, and waking the next morning with a retribution-fueled fire of determination. Before running to meet with his team, he had explained to Maeve their dire situation:

"He's been taunting us—my team. A few nights ago, he sent JJ flowers and the card read 'zugzwang'."

Maeve furrowed her brow. "Why does that word sound familiar?"

"In chess, it's the point in the game when a player realizes they'll be checkmated," Spencer explained.

Maeve nodded before he finished. "Yeah, I've heard of it. What's the significance of it regarding this guy?"

"I think it's his way of saying that he thinks he has us cornered. That we can surrender now, or play through with his game to see him win."

"You said that he was taunting your team. Who else has he targeted?"

Reid hesitated. "Me."

Maeve's eyes grew wide with concern. "When?"

He took a breath while searching for the right words. "The day that you were abducted, I tried to call you. That's how I knew something was wrong. There was a computer-generated voice on the other end, and it said, 'zugzwang' before hanging up. At first, I thought it was your stalker because he identified himself as Adam Worth. It wasn't until he sent JJ the flowers that I realized that must have been the Replicator."

Maeve was surprisingly composed. "Why didn't you tell me that?"

"I didn't want to scare you. And I didn't think it was necessary until now."

"That means he was intercepting our letters. Why else would he use that name? That wasn't a coincidence."

Spencer had gotten the box in his room that held their letters and meticulously checked each one, but none were taken. Each was as he had left them. He thought that perhaps the Replicator's knowledge of their pseudonyms was just incidental of stalking him. They had been so careful that someone stalking Maeve wouldn't know about their correspondence, but they were less careful on Spencer's end—never thinking that two different stalkers could be tracking both of them.

Maeve was astoundingly collected about the whole thing. Perhaps, Reid had thought, that was a coping mechanism, but, on the whole, Maeve felt safer than she was used to: she was with someone she trusted, an FBI security detail was stationed outside their apartment, and her tormentor was in police custody.

Her work kept her days and her mind occupied. When Spencer worked late—and these days he often did—she did too, having plenty of work to catch up on after her extended sabbatical.

Reid was at work late again, conferring with his team about the Replicator case. While the display at the warehouse had granted them new insight into what the Replicator's aim was, they were still at a loss for how he was able to get so close to them and their work while remaining so long-undetected. There was no evidence of hacking into police databases. The film photography had left no digital footprint for them to trace; the best they could do was establish time and place based on the content of the photos, and that was difficult if no obvious points of reference were within the frame. Based on where bodies were found, they could trace where the Replicator had been, but they had no reliable way of knowing where he was, or predicting where he would be.

During their late-night speculations, Strauss came into the conference room.

"Erin, what are you doing in here so late?" Rossi asked.

"I had a meeting with the director."

"I thought we were going to brief him in the morning," Hotch said.

"You were," Strauss clarified. "He cancelled. You have no fresh leads. He wants the Replicator classified inactive."

"All due respect, ma'am," Morgan started, trying to not sound indignant, "but this guy's hardly inactive. He's planning his next move."

"And when he makes that move, you'll be there to stop him," Strauss replied bluntly, becoming almost accusing. "How many times have you told me that sometimes, the best thing to do is wait? Each crime teaches you something new? The Replicator is dormant. You're not learning anything new. All you're doing is working yourselves to death and ignoring the cases that need your attention."

"Erin, he's stalking this team; no one's going to give it up," Hotch reasoned.

"I know that. And neither will I. But the cases are piling up and they need to be cleared so the director no longer thinks that his best unit is dropping the ball." She paused, while the team absorbed her words. "So, go home. Start fresh tomorrow." She turned and left the room, seeming mildly displeased.

"I hate to admit it, but she's right," Rossi conceded. "I'm sure there's some other psychopath out there planning his next attack."

"All right go get some rest. Be back in here by eight," Hotch ordered his team. They gathered their case files and returned to their desks before heading home.

Garcia grumbled as she emerged from her lair with a stack of new case files in one hand, and a cup of coffee in the other. She trotted down the hall just as Reid was stepping off the elevator. "Mornin', Boy Wonder." She gestured to the stack of files in her arm. "Don't get comfy, we're off to the Twin Cities. Not a moment to waste getting off the Replicator case, I guess," she said, slightly peeved.

"I just hope we don't end up missing anything because our attention is now divided," he said, opening the door as they walked into the bullpen.

"Oh, don't you worry, I'm not giving up. I'll be digging on the DL for this skeezebag every chance I get."

Reid smiled at Garcia's determination and let the subject drop in an effort to redirect focus on the case at hand. He had only realized after he said it that his statement applied not only to his professional life, but his personal one as well.

After Garcia briefed the team about a new case involving victims with their tongues removed, Reid was back at his desk, preparing to fly to Minnesota. He had left this morning when Maeve was still asleep, so he picked up his phone to let her know they had a case. It went to voicemail, so he figured she was probably on her way to work.

He was starting to resent her voicemail greeting. He hung up without leaving a message, huffed in frustration, and hastily packed the rest of his things in his bag. He strode out of the bullpen and onto the elevator, Rossi entering behind him.

Reid was boarding the jet when his phone buzzed. He went to the back of the plane and picked it up. "Hey, Maeve."

"Hey. What is it?" she asked.

"We have another case."

"Wait, what do you mean? Does this involve the Replicator?"

"No. We didn't have anything new, the director was getting frustrated, so Strauss ordered that we focus on other cases. Another case came up, so we're heading to Minnesota now."

"So, where does the Replicator case now stand?"

"It's suspended. Until the Replicator becomes active again, there's officially nothing we can do."

"It's not fair."

"I know it's not. But it's above me, even above Strauss," he sighed. He knew he didn't have much time; the jet would be leaving soon. "Maeve, I need to go."

"Okay. I'll see you...when you get back."

Reid hung up and put his phone back. He caught a glimpse of Rossi looking back down at the case file in front of him. Reid took his seat, momentarily eyeing Rossi. He didn't have time to speculate; now the whole team had boarded, and the plane was getting ready to take off.

Reid hadn't thought of Rossi's curious glance on the plane since they landed in St. Paul. Hotch had split them up between the latest crime scene, the M.E.'s office, and the police station; the case was distraction enough where a small, innocuous tick from one of his teammates was deemed inconsequential.

Reid was in a conference room, speed-reading through printouts of the victims' emails, looking for any semantic or linguistic tells that they had all communicated with the unsub prior to their murders. Nothing seemed to suggest that they had, at least from what he could gather. The only thing that caught his attention was that one of the victims appeared to have an ongoing correspondence with a long-distance boyfriend that went back several months—but Reid couldn't connect it to the murders.

Rossi popped his head in to check up on Reid's progress. "How's it coming?" he asked, sitting across from Reid.

"None of the victims received any suspicious or threatening emails. Communications with people they know don't turn up any red flags. Garcia went through frequent contacts, and they all check out."

Rossi nodded contemplatively before changing his tone. "You okay?"

Reid was caught off guard by his question. He avoided eye contact before answering. "Yeah, I'm fine."

Rossi raised his eyebrows, unconvinced. "You sure? You're not frustrated? Or maybe a little disappointed?"

"Well, I'm kind of miffed that we're off the Replicator case, like we all—"

Rossi cut him off with a look. "I'm talking about outside of work. How's it going with you and Maeve? I know lately you've been with us a lot more than you've been with her."

Reid sighed. "Work keeps getting in the way. For both of us. And...that's not how I want it to be. But these cases are important."

Rossi nodded understandingly. "Take it from me, I've been there. What I know is you gotta make it right. Put in the effort to show Maeve that while your work is important to you, she is more important. One of my biggest regrets I had with my marriages—with Carolyn especially—was that I didn't do that. My work was too important. And now because of it, I've been successful in the FBI, created the BAU, written best-sellers based on cases I've worked; but, I have all this time, and all this money, and no one to share it with." He paused, perceiving how Reid took in the advice. "Learn from my mistakes: don't let work get in the way of making it work with Maeve. She could be the best thing to ever happen to you, and you'll regret it for the rest of your life if you throw that away because of this," he said, gesturing to the case files on the table. "We're gonna finish this case. And when we get back, you're gonna make things right with her."

He stood and started walking toward the door. He paused and turned toward Reid. "Let me know how it goes."

He thought about Rossi's advice. He contemplated it on the flight home. When he packed up his things at his desk that night, Rossi gave him a knowing look and a reminder to 'make things right', before heading home himself.

Reid arrived home and took out The Narrative of John Smith from its place on the shelf near his chess set. He opened the cover and traced over Maeve's handwritten quote:

"Love is our true destiny. We do not find the meaning of life by ourselves alone—we find it with another." - Thomas Merton

He heard her keys in the door and quickly put the book in his bag.

"Hey!" Maeve called upon walking through the door. He hastened across the room to meet her. "How was—" His lips smashed desperately into hers as he pulled her close.

She kissed him back, automatically at first, but then she matched his intensity. After a timeless moment, they parted. Spencer caught his breath before speaking. "I missed you," he breathed.

Maeve smiled. "I missed you, too."

"Not just now. I miss you. I feel like we've both been working a lot, and that's fine, but..."

"We're not spending as much time together as I would like," Maeve finished.

"Exactly." At least they were on the same page. After one second of thought, Spencer blurted out, "Let's go out."

"What? Like right now?"

"Yeah," Spencer tried to sound like he had already convinced himself as much as he was trying to convince her. He usually wasn't one for spontaneity. "We can still catch a ten o'clock movie. We can leave now."

Her eyebrows furrowed questioningly, but she had a smile on her face. "Okay," she said after a few seconds. "Sure. Let's go."

"You're fluent in Korean?" Maeve asked when they bought the tickets. Spencer had once expressed an interest in learning it.

"Eh, conversationally," he replied. "This'll be good practice."

The opening credits had just started as they slid into the last row of seats. A ten o'clock movie, during the week, in Korean resulted in a nearly empty theater. The screen showed what looked like a title card; Spencer leaned over and whispered, "The movie's called Nunchi, which means being able to listen and gauge the moods of others. It essentially translates into 'emotional intelligence'."

The movie began and he whisper-translated the dialogue in Maeve's ear. The familiar intonation of his voice was reminiscent of those late-night phone conversations that used to keep her company, only now much more palpable. His breath was on her neck, his enticing whisper kneading and persistent, like a cat rubbing against one's leg.

Maeve turned her head to him, mere centimeters away, and he stopped talking. Her lips were on his then, and the movie was lost in the background. She leaned over the armrest that divided their seats, her hand resting on his thigh for balance. She felt his arm reaching around her, pulling her closer. They started out quiet, unnoticed in the last row, but then their seats creaked with their synchronous movements and the soft clicks of lips and tongues pervaded. Common courtesy was forgotten, as more primal drives took over.

Maeve hastily led Spencer out of the theater by the hand, not bothering to check if the film had ended.

They darted back to the car and as soon as the doors closed, their lips were back on each other. Maeve crept over the center console and into the driver's seat already occupied by Spencer. She hitched her leg around and straddled him. His hands roamed up her thighs and rested on her hips. Maeve indulged for a few more minutes, but then pulled back abruptly, bumping into the steering wheel; they both jumped as the car horn sounded before erupting in giggles. She fell back into Spencer's chest, his shirt muffling her laugh. She retreated to the passenger's seat before the feeling in her gut grew too overpowering. She ordered Spencer to drive home, hoping she could hold out till then; he complied, equally as eager.

They raced back to their apartment, failing to stay detached from one another. Bounding up the stairs, they finally reached the apartment door, and, after some fumbling with the key to get it unlocked, made it over the threshold.

Coats and shoes were hastily thrown off, bags and keys haphazardly tossed aside. Spencer's already half-undone shirt was loosened from its last buttons. As Maeve freed his arm from his sleeve, her fingers lingered over the scar on his left arm, where the bullet had grazed him the night that they met. Maeve started unbuttoning her own shirt and she felt a thrill down her spine as he kissed down her neck the way she liked it.

The clothing strewn on the floor left a trail as they made their way to bed.

"Happiness is not a matter of intensity but of balance, order, rhythm, and harmony." - Thomas Merton

A/N: Infinite thank yous for reading, reviewing, favoriting, and following this story. Any feedback means more to me than I can say; it makes up for the hours of staring at a blank computer screen trying to write. Again, thanks, and hope you continue to enjoy this story!