CLANDESTINE : Spencer Reid

26

It feels like college again for this first time in weeks. After my final ticket glass of wine, a woman who looks about my age, maybe a bit older, gestures for me to join her at the bar. She orders to vodka crans and the bartender passes one of them to me. She wears a long sleeve champagne dress with a slit on the side, climbing far higher than is appropriate for business.

"Rachel Kwak," she extends a hand toward me. "Coast Guard."

"Cole Bouchard," I respond. "FBI."

She laughs, says something about marines who were bothering her earlier. Rachel's job seems interesting. She works in counterintelligence investigating espionage.

"I'm not a spy," she clarifies. "I'm just trying to find them."

"Do you ever lie about it?" I ask.

She beams, "all the time."

As we chat, sharing details about annoying male coworkers and funny stories from the jobs, I try to keep my eye out for Reid. I'm not sure where he went to try and find the people he was interested in. In a sea of men in black suits it's hard to find him in the crowd.

"You want to dance?" Rachel asks.

I was looking at the dancefloor, but only because it looked like Reid was there. It's full of people doing awkward shuffles as they try to manage professional behaviour. Before I can answer, Rachel gestures for me to follow after her. I oblige. Once we are there, I can feel the pulse of the music in my neck. The beat thumps. Rachel has to talk loudly, on the verge of yelling. I keep my eye peeled for Reid.

Hotch will be happy, surely. I've socialized. I did the thing.

Soon enough, Rachel is getting us more drinks and it's quarter past ten and Reid is nowhere to be found. It would be rude to ditch Rachel. I can't imagine Reid's talking to a lot of the experts he was looking for now. There aren't man people who aren't on the dancefloor, and not anyone over forty. I make myself step deeper into the dancefloor, looking for him.

Finally, I spot him. Reid is there, holding a plastic cup. I squeeze my way over to him. Rachel will be able to find me. Especially if she can find spies so easily.

"Hey," I almost shout once I'm close enough.

Reid smiles a bit when he sees me. He says something but I can't hear him. I mime confusion. He shuffles closer, until we are so close he can lean down toward my ear. His breath pricles against the side of my neck.

"You're really red."

My hands go up to my cheeks. I get so pink when I drink. Stéphane suggested a few years ago that I'm allergic to alcohol. They feel warm, even compared to my fingers. I still have the pearly pink shawl, but I can feel it cling to my shoulder with sweat.

"The Coast Guard's been buying me drinks," I almost shout back. "I think they think I'm foreign intelligence."

Reid furrows his brow.

"I'm joking," I laugh. "Did you find the people you were looking for?"

He nods, beginning to talk about the two people he managed to catch before they slipped out for the night. I don't know them, but I feel like I do from the way he talks about them. He's so detail-oriented. Maybe he couldn't write novels – his language isn't very flowery – but he could write a thousand dissertations. For once, I get the three PhD thing. It never made sense to me. Not until I was listening to him over the beat of a song I don't know.