CLANDESTINE : Spencer Reid

16

Reid is back on Monday, and he is fine. For the next two weeks, people are quieter than they've ever been. The days are monotonous without Morgan's shenanigans or Reid's repeated attempts to help me. The experience is honestly a bit brutal. Now I see why they are all so casual around death. Gallows' humour is more real than I thought it was.

At least the quiet helps me get more work done. February is decent in that regard. The extra hours I spend outside of work helping out as a research assistant at Georgetown gets my contract renewed for the summer. The professor even tells me that there might be a flexible spot in the sociology doctoral program. Under a flexible schedule, it could take up to eight years. Because of my second master's degree, it would likely only be four if I attended full time.

My application wouldn't be ready for this fall, so I'd have to commit to staying here for the next seven years at least. The thought makes me nauseous. I'd have to move a lot to avoid a routine in that time, so that I could take a different route. The rooms won't change.

The week before the end of the month, after the team has flown out for the second time since Reid's return, I give Estelle her gift.

I hired a guy who lives near Shenandoah to give Estelle a Cryptid-themed tour of the local park. Stéphane has swung it so that she'll have a cabin as well. We only got her the night, but she squeals at the idea of the retreat.

"You're not coming along, are you?" she asks. "I love you and all, but I can make it a little spa retreat. Get some TLC and nature."

"I was planning on throwing a rave in the apartment that weekend, so can't make it anyway," I smile. "You'll have to tolerate my brother on the drive though. He's even offered to show you how to rock climb."

Estelle laughs, pretending to flex her thin arms. The most muscle she has in her body is in her shoulder from her tense hunching over her desk and her wrists from constant typing. She packs early, obviously excited to go. I get the feeling she doesn't want me going along because she expects that I'm going to poke fun at cryptids just like she ridicules criminal psychology. Regardless, I am excited to see her go on Saturday, even if it means I'll be alone for the weekend.

Friday afternoon, ten minutes before we are supposed to head back to our homes for the weekend, we are all called into a conference room. I'm worried about what it is, until I sit down. This is a briefing, where JJ, with the help of Garcia, will go through the case file.

I keep quiet while they talk about the case, afraid that if I speak they will notice I'm here. Besides, I don't feel as though I will have much of value to add. It's easy to blend in here. It's even easier to space out when the photos of the bodies are shown. The blood is quite gruesome. Being Estelle's roommate, you sort of get accustomed to doing that. Even she has to take periods away from the genocide work.

It's the kind of thing you shouldn't get used to seeing, she says. Actually, when it makes her sick, she feels better about herself. It's a human thing she feels separates her from other scholars. The empathy is so powerful her body she expels it, violently over the toilet sometimes. I think of her when I see the pictures of dead men displayed on the screen. My disgust means that I'm not quite as cold as the metal wiring in my computer before I've turned it on.

"Bouchard, your father was from Louisiana, correct?" Hotch asks.

I find myself sitting up straighter, "yes. We learned a different French in my house, but he spoke a Cajun variety. I've been to Louisiana a few times as well."

He nods and addresses the team, "I've decided to invite Bouchard along to act as an additional resource. It is unlikely that we will meet anyone who does not speak English, but since Emily's background in French is not North American, it might be wise to have a second set of ears listening on our team."