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“Agent Morgan, I know you’re there.”
Spencer’s voice was quiet, the only sound in the dark apartment as he lay back against the couch, feet dangling off the edge, ankles crossed. It was nearing 1am and he knew Derek Morgan would be on duty, screening through his call history, checking his internet searches… it had been the same, over and over, since he was 14. Since a prank had gone wrong and he’d landed on the FBI terrorist watch list.
“I know you’re there because I sent a little code into the system to trigger the warnings for another thorough check.” Spencer smiled a little and let his eyes travel to his computer, where the screen was sending line after line of code to servers all over the world. He’d have to remember to thank Garcia for her help; she was one of the few friends he had left in college. She also helped indulge in his strange fascination – she’d called it obsession, but it wasn’t strictly true – with the FBI agent on his case.
Spencer adjusted the phone against his ear and tilted his head to the ceiling.
“And when they do thorough checks, they just send you.” He licked his lips, “I know because… when I called the suicide helpline last year, you were the one that showed up at my door.”
It hadn’t been a cry for help, when he’d called the line. Spencer had no reason to end his life. He was finishing his second PhD, he had a rather active social life thanks to Garcia – if movie nights and quote wars were social – and he had enough money from tutoring and lecturing to live comfortably in the middle of the city.
For a nineteen-year-old he wasn’t doing badly at all. He’d called the line because he knew someone would be listening. He knew Derek Morgan would be listening. Because he knew, after having the man watch over him for five years, that he’d worry, that he’d check.
“You’ll probably recognize the code,” Spencer continued, “You seemed so impressed by it when I’d explained it to you five years ago.” Spencer’s smile grew a little and he bit his lip, “God, do you remember how scared I was? I was 14 and my stupid prank had landed me in front of the FBI…”
And he had been terrified. They had dragged him out of class, the boys who’d told him the prank was a normal initiation rite nearly falling out of their chairs they were laughing so hard, taken him in and interrogated him for hours. Asking about the code, about the phone… they had called him mother in, found his father – which had mortified the both of them – and never once listened when Spencer had tried to stutter his innocence.
It had been nearing 10pm when Derek Morgan had finally shown up, having just flown in from Quantico by special request. He’d set a mug of cocoa in front of a trembling, exhausted Spencer and introduced himself. He’d kept his voice quiet, didn’t threaten Spencer, didn’t coax him to incriminate himself. He’d simply asked one thing: ‘was it a terrorist threat?’ and when Spencer had shaken his head, eyes closing as he expected to be ignored and not believed yet again, he’d replied with ‘I believe you’.
“It was the Fibonacci sequence in reverse order, do you remember?” Spencer asked quietly, breathing into the phone as he grinned, “From the eighteenth number back. I was halfway through my degree at that point, I thought I was so clever.”
He bit his lip and stayed silent a moment, just listening to the silence on the other end. He’d called another disposable phone, another sure-fire way to get agent Morgan directly. The thing sat untouched on the table near his laptop, the screen dark as the timer ticked away the seconds he’d been calling no one in particular, hoping Derek was listening to him.
He used to hate being watched like this. It had unnerved him, angered him… he’d gone to lengths to try and block his number, asked Garcia to reroute his computer’s IP through proxies all over the world… all that got was more and more signs that he was under surveillance. He’d tried other tactics, tried deliberately holding conversations with himself late at night so that the agents listening to him had to work overtime to figure out if he was planning something or if it was insignificant. It was immature, sure, but he was angry. He’d been sixteen and fed up with the fact that one stupid hazing ritual had gotten him into so much hell.
He could still remember the looks on the boy’s faces as he’d been led away. The resident genius was evicted. All was right with the world. Oh how the mighty have fallen.
But he hadn’t fallen, he hadn’t let himself fall. He’d finished his PhD in mathematics at 17 and moved on to chemistry, staying on at Cal Tech first as a TA then as a lecturer. As he grew, his hatred of being watched lessened. He’d started to call himself to talk to the agents quietly, reading them his latest lectures and asking opinions of empty silent space in the middle of the night.
They’re always watching, always listening, he’d thought, perhaps if I sing into the phone sometimes it will cheer them up.
So he’d started to. He’d recite his favourite poems into the darkness of his apartment, Siken, Whitman, Frost… he’d hum tunes as he walked around in his boxers and mismatched socks and made coffee in the kitchen. He never got a reply, he always got silence. But he felt somewhat kinder having hung up after those calls.
It had become a habit. Every night he’d dial his own number, hit the answer machine and record messages until he ran out of space, erasing them and calling back. He’d called the suicide line after a particularly bad day, just to hear someone respond to his words on the phone for a change. He hadn’t been on the call for more than ten minutes before there was a loud knock on his door, desperate and quick.
He’d opened it to find the dark FBI agent from four years before, from the interrogation room with the cold water and warm cocoa, with his single question and gentle words.
“Are you alright?”
Spencer had hung up, nearly dropping the phone, and kissed him.
“I know you’re there, agent Morgan.” He repeated quietly, blinking his eyes slowly and sighing. He was tired. He had back to back lectures the next day and he was sure the late night had turned to early morning now, but he couldn’t hang up yet. He’d begged Derek to stay that night, to stay with him to keep him safe, keep him sane… the agent had swallowed, eyes closed, and shaken his head, not saying another word. Spencer wondered if he was only capable of one sentence per interaction with him. The thought made him smile, but it wasn’t for happiness.
“Derek, I know you’re there.” He tried again, voice weak and quiet and soft. He wanted to hear his voice, to know he was still listening, that Spencer wasn’t crazy, that he could see the man again and actually talk to him, hold him, thank him for inadvertently keeping him sane for nearly five years. Thank him for listening.
Spencer bit his lip and sighed again, rubbing his eyes, and drew his knees up.
“We were up to the last verse of Primer, weren’t we?” he murmured into the silent receiver. He’d returned to reading Richard Siken to the empty apartment again, but he’d worked only one verse into his conversations every night, hoping it would keep Derek listening, guarantee he’d be there the next night.
It had worked for Scheherazade.
“The stranger says there are no more couches and he will have to sleep in your bed.” Spencer recited softly, letting the words flow from his lips in a gentle, soothing rhythm, “You try to warn him, you tell him you will want to get inside him, and ruin him, but he doesn’t listen. You do this, you do. You take the things you love and tear them apart, or you pin them down with your body and pretend they’re yours.”
Spencer closed his eyes and thought back to the night Derek had come to make sure he was alright. He thought back to how he’d felt when Spencer had kissed him, almost childish and desperate, wanting the reassurance and the comfort. Thought back to how, for just a moment, Derek had kissed him back, just as desperate, just as needy and passionate and loving, and his voice broke.
“So, you kiss him, and he doesn’t move, he doesn’t pull away, and you keep on kissing him. And he hasn’t moved, he’s frozen, and you’ve kissed him, and he’ll never forgive you, and maybe now he’ll never leave you alone.”
The words hung in the air before dissipating with Spencer’s tired sigh. The phone was silent against his ear, his computer had gone to sleep. He was alone, speaking empty words into empty air and he was tired.
“I’ll need to think of a new one to read to you tomorrow,” Spencer mused quietly, eyes closed now, limbs heavy with the need to sleep. “Might read you You Are Jeff, it’s one of his most beautiful poems.”
He licked his lips and exhaled through his nose.
“Good night, Derek.” He said, hanging up the phone and tossing it away, curling into himself and turning into the couch so the light from the disposable cell wouldn’t disturb him.
-
The office was quiet. Derek slid the headphones off his ears and rubbed his eyes, swallowing hard before looking at the screen running a thorough grid search all over the country, trying to find what Spencer’s code corresponded to.
“Good night, kid,” he murmured, tapping the table with his fingers before getting up to make another cup of coffee.