Work Text:
POV: Spencer
Spencer packed the notebook with a kind of reverence, each motion deliberate, almost ritualistic. He held it in his hands for a long moment before sliding it gently into his bag, as if it were something sacred. The journal wasn’t new—it was worn in that comforting way, with softened corners and a slightly faded clothbound cover, the kind of journal he'd once bought in bulk for sketching field equations, theorizing particle behaviors, or scribbling quantum oddities in the middle of the night.
But this one felt different.
It wasn’t for him anymore.
He’d discovered it while rearranging the bookshelves in the back of his home office—a forgotten artifact, wedged behind outdated textbooks and stacks of yellowing research notes. The pages were thick and creamy, unlined and slightly textured, perfect for scribbling sideways thoughts or unfiltered ideas. It called to him in a way no notebook had in a long time. Not as a scientist. Not even as a profiler. But as something else entirely.
Sitting at his desk, he uncapped a black permanent marker and paused. Then, in tall, bouncy letters across the cover, he wrote:
THE MAGIC NOTEBOOK
For Questions, Theories, and Ideas (Even the Weird Ones)
He smiled faintly, then added a message beneath it in smaller, crooked handwriting, just a little shaky from the emotion building in his chest:
If I’m not here, I still want to hear you.
—Dr. Magic Man
He stared at the name for a while. Dr. Magic Man. The kids at the park had started calling him that after the very first time he showed them the "science magic"—a simple vinegar-and-baking-soda volcano that somehow felt like wizardry in the moment. The name stuck. They still didn’t know his real one, and he never corrected them. It was wholesome, a little silly, undeniably cute. Every time they called out “Dr. Magic Man!” with wide eyes and open minds, something warm bloomed in his chest. For a second, he considered crossing it out, wondering if it was too childish. But his hand paused, then fell away.
No—it belonged there. It was exactly right. The name meant something now. It wasn’t just a character or a bit of weekend whimsy—it was a place.
He closed the notebook and pressed his palm gently over the cover. It felt ready now. Alive, almost. Not just a collection of paper and binding—but an invitation.
That Saturday, Spencer arrived at the park earlier than usual, just after sunrise. The air was still cool, the grass damp with dew, and the park sat in quiet anticipation. He made his way to the familiar green bench under the big oak tree—the one where the kids always gathered first—and got to work.
Carefully, he pulled out the notebook and slipped it into a transparent, waterproof sleeve he’d modified with duct tape and weatherproof Velcro. Then he gently taped it to the backrest of the bench, making sure it was secure and visible but protected from the elements. Beside it, he placed a wide-mouthed mason jar filled with a colorful assortment of writing tools—gel pens, mechanical pencils with spare lead, and stubby, well-loved colored pencils he’d sharpened the night before. He added a few extra erasers for good measure. It was all arranged with quiet care, like setting up a small, sacred shrine to curiosity.
By the time the kids arrived—running and laughing, their sneakers thudding on the path—the sun had climbed high enough to light the bench in a soft golden glow.
Maya spotted it first.
“What’s this?!” she gasped, already sprinting toward it, her braids bouncing behind her.
Aiden and Nico weren’t far behind, eyes wide as they clustered around the bench.
Spencer stood a few steps away, hands in his pockets, watching with a gentle smile. “Something for when I can’t be here.”
Aiden’s face fell slightly. “You’re leaving again?”
Spencer shook his head. “No, not right now. But the job I do—it sometimes pulls me away with no warning. Last week, I realized I can’t always promise I’ll show up every single Saturday.”
The kids exchanged uneasy glances. Maya clutched the edge of the notebook like it might vanish.
“But,” he added quickly, stepping closer, “I can promise this: I’ll always come back. And anything you write in that notebook—anything at all—I’ll read it. Every word, every drawing.”
Nico hesitated only a second before flipping the cover open, eyes lighting up as he ran a hand across the thick, blank pages. “We can really write in it?”
“Or draw,” Spencer said, kneeling beside them so he was eye level. “Or ask questions. Or tell me what you want to learn next. Think of it like… a science pen pal. One notebook, one mailbox, but all of you can use it.”
Maya grinned, her earlier worry forgotten. “Can we make up our own experiments too?”
Spencer leaned in conspiratorially. “I’d be disappointed if you didn’t.”
That was all it took. They descended on the notebook with a flurry of energy, passing pencils around and scribbling furiously, talking over one another as ideas sparked and spread like wildfire.
Aiden took one of the mechanical pencils, chewing the eraser in thought before carefully writing.
He looked up, eyes searching Spencer’s face. “You’ll answer them?”
Spencer placed a hand over his heart and nodded solemnly. “I’ll write back. Or show you. Or both.”
The look on their faces—lit with trust, excitement, and the boundless energy of young minds that believe anything is possible—was all the answer he needed.
The next Saturday, Spencer didn’t make it.
It wasn’t anything dramatic this time—no emergency extractions, no missing kids, no frantic late-night phone calls. Just a last-minute summons to Quantico for a high-priority briefing, followed by an unrelenting weekend buried in reports, risk assessments, and secure video calls that dragged late into the night. By the time Monday morning rolled around, he was bone-tired, eyes red from staring at glowing screens—but one thought tugged at him with growing urgency.
The notebook.
He skipped breakfast, grabbed his coat, and headed straight for the park. The sun was still low, casting long, golden beams through the trees. The place was mostly empty, the swings swaying gently in the breeze. As he approached the green bench under the oak, a flutter of nerves rose in his chest.
Had they used it? Had they even come back?
But the notebook was still there. Taped securely in its waterproof sleeve, untouched by the weather or time. He unfastened it gently and flipped it open.
Six pages were filled.
He let out a quiet breath—part relief, part awe.
The entries burst with life and color. One page held a swirling drawing of a volcano mid-eruption, complete with arrows labeling "LAVA!!!" and “SUPER HOT GOO.” Another had a star chart, constellations outlined in silver pen, with a note that read, Are these real or did someone make them up? There were questions scribbled in every direction, some in pencil, others in neon markers.
What’s the difference between plasma and gas?
How many bugs live under one rock?
Can we make a time machine??
One message, written in green marker in wobbly, all-caps letters, jumped out at him:
“We missed you. Maya cried for like 2 minutes but then we made slime so she stopped.”
Spencer laughed softly, the sound surprised out of him. His chest tightened, not with guilt this time, but with something warmer—gratitude, maybe. Connection. He sat down on the bench, pulled out his own pencil case, and got to work.
He turned to a fresh page and began replying, his scribbly, uneven handwriting filling the pages with excitement and care. He sketched a quick diagram to explain the state changes between solids, liquids, gases, and plasma, labeling each part with arrows and drawings. Tiny stars marked spots where he offered answers and follow-up questions.
Each answer was thoughtful, deliberate. Not just to educate, but to show them he’d really been there, that he’d seen them—even if he couldn’t be there in person that day. He stayed until the sun was high, pages filled and fingers smudged with graphite and ink.
When he finished, he placed the notebook carefully back in its sleeve, fastened it shut, and stepped back.
The bench looked ordinary again. But Spencer knew better.
It was alive—with questions, with imagination, with the kind of magic you can only build when someone believes you’re worth listening to. Even when they’re not there.
It became a ritual—quietly at first, and then all at once.
Even when Spencer couldn’t be there, the kids still came. Every Saturday like clockwork, backpacks slung over their shoulders, notebooks tucked under their arms, sneakers skidding across the sidewalk as they raced each other to the bench beneath the red tree. They’d spread out like always, scattering mason jars, duct-taped soda bottles, and dollar-store measuring cups across the grass.
And the magic continued, even without him.
Some of the kids had started stepping into his role in small, hesitant ways. Aiden, who once barely spoke above a whisper, now demonstrated how to build a baking soda rocket. Maya brought extra vinegar—despite last week’s fiasco—and declared herself the “official slime supervisor.” Nico, with his wild theories and crooked glasses, kept everyone laughing and thinking, often at the same time.
When the experiments ended, the pencils came out. Each Saturday ended the same way: heads bent close together, arguments over spelling, and laughter echoing under the trees as they filled the notebook with their findings.
Some pages read like lab reports, others like journal entries or love letters to science:
“We tried to make a tornado in a bottle. It kind of just shook a lot.”
“Nico says ants are aliens. Can you confirm or deny.”
“Maya brought vinegar again. It leaked. Smells like feet now.”
When Spencer finally returned the following week—tired but buzzing with anticipation—he made his way straight to the bench. The sleeve was there, sealed tight. The notebook was heavier now, thick with the layers of their joy, frustration, and endless curiosity.
He sat down, flipped it open—and within seconds, laughter burst out of him so fast and loud he had to cover his mouth to keep from drawing attention.
The line about the vinegar nearly did him in.
“Smells like feet now.”
He laughed until his shoulders shook, until his eyes watered and his chest ached. Not because it was particularly clever—but because it was them. Their world, in their words. Unfiltered. Alive.
And somehow, even in his absence, Dr. Magic Man had never really left.
POV: Aiden
The notebook changed things.
Before, Aiden always figured grown-ups didn’t really mean it when they said I’ll be back. They’d say it with a smile, maybe even a pinky promise, but then something came up—a phone call, a job, a tired excuse—and they didn’t return. Not when it mattered.
But Dr. Magic Man was different.
Even when he wasn’t there in person, he found a way to show up. His wobbly handwriting would appear on the pages like a message in a bottle—sometimes with arrows pointing to earlier questions, other times with sticky notes, diagrams, doodles, and his favorite: Magic Challenges. These were always labeled boldly and numbered like mini-missions, complete with optional “bonus points” that didn’t count for anything except pride and bragging rights.
Aiden lived for them.
One week, right at the top of a fresh page, Spencer had written:
Magic Challenge #4
Build a Rube Goldberg machine that ends in a balloon popping.
Bonus points if it uses gravity, magnets, and a marble.
The challenge lit a fire under the group like nothing else. All week, Aiden couldn’t stop thinking about it. He sketched plans during math class. He raided his dad’s junk drawer for spare magnets. He practiced dropping marbles down books propped at angles, trying to get the timing just right.
By the time Saturday rolled around, the park didn’t look like their usual chaotic meet-up.
It looked like a science fair had exploded.
Three different Rube Goldberg machines had been cobbled together across the grass. Maya’s contraption involved a long row of dominoes that knocked over a plastic spoon, which flung a marble into a cup that tipped a board and—eventually—popped the balloon with a thumbtack taped to a toy car. Aiden’s machine included two ramps, a precarious stack of metal washers, and a magnet that almost worked the way he hoped. Nico’s machine failed three times but finally managed to knock over a candle that almost lit the string that almost burned through the balloon string—until he just stomped on the balloon and yelled, “SCIENCE!”
They laughed until their sides hurt.
When the science wizard showed up, he stopped mid-step, eyes wide at the sight. Cereal boxes, Hot Wheels tracks, strings and duct tape everywhere. One balloon mid-pop. Confetti from Maya’s failed bonus feature. And in the middle of it all: a circle of exhausted, triumphant kids with ink on their hands and glue in their hair.
The older man broke into a grin, clapping loudly. “Are you kidding me?” he said, eyes gleaming. “This is better than my grad school project.”
Aiden beamed.
The notebook hadn’t just made Saturdays fun.
It had made him believe that when someone says they’ll come back—and means it—everything changes.
At the bottom of the latest notebook entry—right after answering three tangled questions about wormholes, gravity waves, and whether ants could theoretically drive cars—Spencer paused. The kids' drawings and ideas filled the page like wildflowers sprouting in all directions. Some answers he knew, others he didn’t yet—but he loved that they kept asking anyway.
He smiled to himself, then uncapped his pen and wrote:
Science is magic you don’t have to grow out of.
Keep asking. Keep failing. Keep trying.
That’s how real magic works.I’ll keep reading. Always.
—Your Dr. Magic Man
He dotted the “i” in Magic with a tiny star, then closed the notebook slowly, pressing his hand to the cover as if sealing the promise inside.
Somewhere, he knew, they were already dreaming up what to write next.
