CLANDESTINE : Spencer Reid

29

I'm as useless as I always am on trips. This time, at least, I didn't puke at the sight of a body. I could look at it and listen to the conversation even if I didn't have anything of value to add.

On the first night we are there, I stand on the balcony of our hotel. The river isn't far away. From up here the waters look like a tar pit. The lights of the buildings don't illuminate its depths. It's uncomfortably still. It looks more like putty than water.

It reminds me of late nights in Oxford, which felt even later when the sun set at 4:30 PM. In the depths of night, the puddles on the ground were imperceptibly deep.

The glass of scotch in my hand feels ridiculous. The team didn't eat together tonight even though Hotch and Prentiss showed up today. After lunch with Strauss, no one has been keen to speak to each other. I ordered a drink at the bar, and then this one, which I carried up to my room. I suppose it is better to drink alone in private than publicly.

I pull out my phone from my pocket. Two missed calls from Stéphane. Three texts from Bastien today. Caro hasn't spoken to me since her aggressive text before the plane took off. It shouldn't surprise me since I didn't reply to her. Perhaps that is cruel of me.

It's at times like these I wish I was a practicing francophone. Cigarettes are only appealing when I'm alone, usually when I feel like I'm staring at nothing.

There is a knock at the hotel door.

I cross off the balcony, heading through the room. The balcony makes our accommodations seem nicer than it is. I have been begrudgingly using the towels here. I sleep on top of the sheets in case there are bugs in them. A habit from hostel life that I should drop by now. I peer through the doorknob.

Reid is on the other side.

My fingers trace the latch. I blink, but he doesn't move. Reid's looking down the hallway, but I don't hear any noise. The walls are unbelievably thin too, so I'm mostly surprised by this.

I flick open the latch and open the door. He stares at me, blankly.

"No one has heard from Gideon still," Reid says.

I take a step back and let him in.

"I didn't know you and Gideon were close," is all I can think to say, shutting the door behind me.

Gideon has collectively said fewer words to me than I've said to my mother since I went back to Australia after my father's death. I always got the feeling Gideon's distaste for me was something he also felt toward Reid. Maybe no one has heard from him in days, but I feel like I'll never stop listening to the sound of his sigh whenever Reid and I bicker.

"We were supposed to meet to play chess," Reid tells him.

I smile. I know. He's mentioned it twice since the plane took off. In any other moment, I'd remind him that just because his memory is perfect, doesn't mean mine is terrible. His forehead is creased though, his eyes wide, and he's wearing only a t-shirt even though the air in here is freezing.

"If Gideon were in trouble, he'd actually call you, right?"

It's a guess. Something just to reassure him.

Reid makes a bit of a face, and I realize I've used the word actually wrong. Fucking faux amis.

"If he could," Reid points out.

My hands need something to do. I cup the glass with one of my hands. The liquid is sloshing. I'm freezing and the balcony doors are still open. One summer in Québec and I think I'm more immune to the cold than I am. It's all pretentious fodder from laughing at people in London and Melbourne when they insisted it was cold outside. It never was. Certainly, it is now.