CLANDESTINE : Spencer Reid

04

The next two days are much of the same. I come in on time and I have to stay late. I figure out that they are investigating the killing of some sex workers in town. It's announced on television, but I hear them talking about it throughout the day. On Wednesday they let me go home because they caught the guy. Not the kid, apparently. My hours are so late though that I've only communicated to Estelle through post-it notes on the fridge. She is asleep by the time I get home. The jetlag is getting to her.

Dr. Reid doesn't come in to work on Thursday. Garcia seems upset too, and she goes home during lunch. No one fills me in, and I've got no idea if that's because none of them talk about the things they see, or if it's because they only talk about those sorts of things with each other. It doesn't matter to me.

Due to all of the overtime, they decide I get to work a halfday on Friday. Agent Hotchnet lets me know by calling me into his office. In turn, I let him know that I plan to be out of town over the weekend, without access to the internet. If they need me, I can be at the office within a few hours if they call.

"You're allowed to spend time away," he lets me know. "We all have each other's backs here. Next Friday, Morgan is going to visit his family in Chicago."

I nod, "thank you, sir."

When I leave, I shake my head. We don't have each other's backs here. They might, but they all have a different bond than I do. They all work cases together. I imagine Garcia even feels a bit strained because she doesn't go into the field. Regardless, I keep to myself.

At the flat, all I want is some peace and quiet. However, Estelle is awake and excited to see me. She is cooking dinner, swaying to the music on her radio.

"There you are!" she practically squeals, only barely glancing away from what she is stirring in her pot. "I've been so excited to see you. I wasn't expecting you, but I'm glad I had the forethought to make extra so you could have the leftovers later. We can just eat together. It's chicken mafé. Also, I got you a souvenir as your birthday gift. I hope you don't mind! I'll give it to you tomorrow."

"I'm going to visit Stéphane tomorrow, in Virginia," I say.

She drops her spoon on the counter and turns around to look at me. Her eyes wide, she steps in closer and closer, "what have they done to you, Colette? Mieux vaut prévenir que guérir, non?"

I must look as tired as I feel. Maybe my voice sounds off, although I've had so much caffeinated hot drinks this week that my voice should be like butter. She must see something though. Estelle loves to practice her English. She only switched over to speaking English full-time in college, and she had to take two years of classes to get to where she is now. The schools I went to were mostly in English, with few exceptions. It is rare that I struggle with the language, and Prentiss is the first person in many years to notice it's not my native tongue.

The only time Estelle speaks to me in French is when one of us is at our breaking point. It must look like I've hit mine.

The proverb she uses is one we always trade in these situations. Neither of us is French by birthright. My mother is from Québec, my father from Louisianna, and Estelle grew up in Côte d'Ivoire. Yet, we repeat that French phrase to each other all the same. Mieux vaut prévenir que guérir. It is better to prevent than to cure.

"I'm fine," I offer, sitting down at our kitchen island.

The flat is too small for a table. We've got the kitchen island and a small living room, and we've got our two bedrooms and a bathroom that we share. We live in an expensive area of D.C. too, so I am not complaining. Our last flat was miserably confined, and when I got the new job, we agreed to move. Both of our places of employment are closer now. If I were commuting as far as I would be if we hadn't packed up our things and brought them here, I can't imagine how terrible I would look.