CLANDESTINE : Spencer Reid

28

Now I understand why Garcia was typing so furiously. I've been too, over the chaos of the last two weeks. Hotch has been suspended. He is supposed to be back today, and I've been in the office since seven trying to properly clear out my inbox. The ViCAP researchers locked me out of their system for three days, and now periodically it logs me out again. It's because of the change in phones. Garcia has been arguing with their IT guy. I just want everything to be sorted for Hotch when he walks in any second.

It's bustling this early in the morning. I hear Reid's voice as he leaves the conference room.

Looks like they are all flying out again.

I shake it off, trying to focus. Hotch will be going with them so the pressure is a bit looser. The UCR program is conducting a survey of those who use their data. The deadline to fill it out is noon today, and so I focus on that, clicking button after button. Page after page. It's easier to navigate than their documents that have errors. Still, it takes me twenty minutes to push through it.

I'd rather complain to the people who run NCVS. Their data is always a pain when comparing it to UCR data.

I close the tab and exhale. I sip from the coffee mug Reid bought me. It's cold now.

"Special Agent Bouchard."

I look up and see the section chief next to my desk. I put down the coffee cup as quickly as I can without spilling on my laptop and stand to face her. Then, I offer her a hand. She shakes it. Her grip is firm. My knuckles ache as they rub together.

"Good morning," I say, nodding my head.

"I understand you are prepared for fieldwork?"

I nod my eyes at her, focusing on her face. She's hard to read. I wonder if she is more FBI than her anymore.

"We will brief you on the jet," she offers, patting my shoulder before walking out the door.

I grab my bag from inside my desk drawer, pulling it out. It's only got two items of clothing in it, and I'm wearing shoes that make my feet ache if I have to stand on the subway ride home.

I peer around the room, ignoring all the other people who are walking past. Then, I shut down for the day even though it's barely nine in the morning. Coat on, phones and laptop in the bag, cold coffee in a mug, bag on my back. I head over to the elevator. I think I can make it to the airstrip by myself. I've been once before, and my phones got GPS now.

Someone bumps into the closing elevator doors. Reid steps inside, taking a spot beside me. The doors close. Once the hustle of the office is shut out, he turns to look at me.

"They have you coming?"

I shrug.

"I guess my fieldwork was impressive," I shrug.

Reid furrows his brow and I laugh, my eyes glancing down at my footwear.

"Obviously not," I say. "I guess Hotch isn't coming. Strauss invited me."

Reid's head quirks to the side as well. In return, I offer a shrug. My brain doesn't work like all of their heads do. I'm not good under pressure the way that the others are. My fingers cramp around deadlines, and Estelle and I used to massage each other's hands over breakfast when our dissertations were deadlines closed in. I need to find a bank of all possible answers before applying one, use six different databases to find every point of data I can. The rest of them can just act.