SPENCER POV

I disregard the concept of a beginning and an end.

I've read quite a bit lately about the theory circulating of a multiverse which implies that time is not quantifiable because all that has and will happen, every possibility and every outcome, is happening right now.

I do not value astrology and I blatantly reject religion.

However, this is physics and physics I can almost believe.

Still, if I were to begin somewhere, it would be the day I was late to work.

Notice that I labeled it "the day" in the singular tense. This is the proper usage because I am never late to work.

Correction: I am seldom late to work.

(There was that one day).

I do not have a severe ethical grievance against tardiness. I simply did not see the point of being late, until that day.

I work as a Supervisory Special Agent for the Behavioral Analysis Unit of the Federal Bureau of Investigation which is admittedly a mouthful and typically condensed to a list of acronyms. (SSA, BAU, FBI….)

Basically, my job is to think like a serial killer so that I can psychologically profile one. I have some difficulty reconciling the fact that I get paid to empathise with murderers until I'm reminded that I am paid to catch them, and the empathy is only a tool accomplish a task.

What I do is not intertwined with who I am.

At least, that is what I try to tell myself.

But, I digress...

When I arrived to work late it was a Tuesday morning at 10:05 A.M. While in the elevator, I groaned inwardly at the ribbing I was going to receive when I entered the bullpen, five minutes behind schedule.

Incidentally, the bullpen is the area of cubicles where my team of fellow SSA's congregate. I've always assumed that naming it the "bullpen" is to maintain the "team" metaphor-

"Hey Genius"

I do not believe that intelligence is quantifiable, but I do have an eidetic memory and can read 20,000 words per minute.

"Morning Morgan."

I often wonder if my boss, Aaron Hotchner, was preoccupied with antitheses while assembling his team because it would be impossible to find two men more superficially opposed to each other than myself and Derek Morgan.

First of all, he is much bigger than I am, not taller, but bigger. If he wasn't such a decent guy, he could easily kick the shit out of me. (Although I realize that the ability to physically overpower someone who is often fondly referred to as a "string bean", does not exactly demonstrate immense strength).

Moreover, Morgan is far more gregarious than I dream to be in all social situations, especially those involving women.

"You're late Reid," he accused sardonically, "And you forgot your coffee."

At one time, I was hopeless when it came to "reading" people. Luckily, becoming a profiler has helped immensely in this venture. My powers of deduction saw the glint in Morgan's eye and knew immediately that my previous suspicions about a possible "ribbing" were correct.

"I'm cutting back," I quipped.

"Yeah right kid," Morgan guffawed, "You would inject the caffeine if it were possible."

I attempted to distract him with a superfluous statistic.

"Actually Morgan, Caffeine and sodium benzoate injections have been used in conjunction with supportive measures to treat respiratory depression associated with the overdosage of central nervous system depressant drugs."

"Yeah I'm sure that's true. However, that doesn't change the fact that you're acting mad shady Pretty Boy."

He wasn't buying it.

"Being late for work once makes me 'mad shady' ?"

"No," he chuckled, "But trying to distract me with stats and getting overly defensive does."

"I'm not getting overly defensive," I argued in deliberate monotone as I tried once more to change the subject, " I think Hotch wanted us in the conference room to present the case."

"Alright," Morgan replied, "Let's go."

I turned to walk to the conference room visibly relieved that I'd escaped from the interrogation.

"Just one question Pretty Boy?"

I sighed, and turned to face Morgan reluctantly.

"What?"

He smiled ruefully.

"Who's number is that written on your arm?"

With that comment, he set off for the conference room while I remained dumbstruck in in the bullpen, my cheeks red as a tomato. Damn profilers.

I peered down at my forearm which bore ten, slightly smudged digits that were the reason for my tardiness.

I had gone to Starbucks that morning to grab a coffee before work. I usually prefer smaller, unknown coffee shops but I was in a bit of a rush. Naturally, the place had been ridiculously crowded and I had dreaded the prospect of going inside. Crowds typically do not mix well with my general lack of coordination. I expected that I would probably trip over myself and the other customers a bit in the process of getting my caffeine fix.

However, what I did not expect, is that someone would run into me.

Initially, I merely felt the impact of someone running straight into me and then heard their body fall rather ungracefully to the floor as their cup evidently went flying from its tray and the hot coffee inside of it began to seep through the corduroy fabric covering my knees.

Shocked and perhaps even slightly annoyed, I remained standing, trying decipher the protocol of the situation. Apologizing seemed unnecessary because the collision was not my fault. I was considering just walking away in order to avoid the situation entirely but all of my previous deliberation proved futile when I glanced down at the person with whom I had collided.

Of all the distinct yet jumbled images that color my mind, the most prominent from this encounter is of wide, green eyes. Typically, my eidetic memory allows me to encode images with indiscriminate specificity but for some reason these eyes, olive green with golden flecks, are particularly prominent.

I recall the other pieces as well; slightly unruly, brunette hair that framed her face which still held the vestiges of childhood, although I suspected that she was somewhere in her twenties, and olive skin. A blush covered her cheeks, probably the manifestation of embarrassment, yet I still found it somehow alluring. I was strangely torn between the inclination to ease her discomfort and the desire to make her cheeks flush delightfully.

I could transcribe our conversation verbatim, but at that moment of recall while standing in the bullpen, certain aspects seemed to overpower others. For example, I was particularly preoccupied with the slightly hoarse tone of her voice that rose exponentially in pitch when she became nervous or embarrassed and her seemingly irreverent sense of humor that was disarming in its level of quirk.

It was obvious that she was intelligent. I managed to deduce that she was a lawyer from her attire and the legal papers peeking out from her briefcase. I realized that she was intelligent when she profiled me.

Still, what I found especially interesting was the dichotomy in her demeanor. She was at once outgoing and shy; confident and self deprecating. The profiler within me speculated that her jokes were a way of overcompensating. I was baffled.

To say that I do not have a ton of experience with women would be an understatement. When you are six years younger than your classmates it is relatively hard to break into the dating scene. It is pretty unethical for twenty year olds to fool around with a fourteen year old, even if both are college students.

Contrary to speculation that I'm somewhat asexual, let the record show that I like women. I'm attracted to women. I just never really learned how to deal with them and presently my job does not provide much opportunity to figure it out. Furthermore, my tendency to ramble off statistics is apparently somewhat of a turnoff.

A few women, here and there have shown an interest. However, they typically look at me like I'm a conquest. I find this somewhat emasculating and that feeling makes me less apt to talk to them.

This girl was different. Rather than adopting an air of superiority, her gaze was almost shy. I had seen girls look at other guys that way, but never at me. I immediately felt that I had to get to know her. Thus, I impulsively asked for her number and surprisingly, she acquiesced by writing hers on my arm in ballpoint pen.

Fiona Nicks

I'm so glad that she ran into me that day.