CLANDESTINE : Spencer Reid

09

Estelle brought me back chocolate from Côte d'Ivoire. She made sure it was Fair Trade since she doesn't like buying things there all the time. It's a small but kind gift. We weren't planning on doing any gift exchange though, so at least I don't feel guilty that I hadn't purchased her anything. If this new job weren't paying so incredibly well, I would feel more weight crushing me. Groceries, rent, transportation, all of it in DC which isn't known for the ability to live frugal lives. Gits are expensive. I've mostly worked in academia up until now, and the jobs there aren't known to offer the best pay for people without tenure. Sure, it's better than some, but not others. I can't complain though, because I could be someone in Côte d'Ivoire who is harvesting cocoa beans.

I go back to work on Thursday. The days here feel very strange. All the universities where I've worked shut down for at least two weeks during the winter holidays. That is not the case for the FBI, and I suppose I'm lucky I even had a couple days off for Christmas itself. Here in the office, everything is almost in a liminal space. It's dark even in the middle of the day with the winter storm above our heads. The lights buzz above us, the windows shake from the wind, and it's too cold in the office. The profilers continue to sit on edge. It's been a month since their last field case. This is not the weather nor the time of year to catch a flight. No one will speak about the next time they'll have to fly out, at least without being near wood to knock on, but something big feels like it's brewing.

That isn't how life works, but I don't know that they care. Maybe they think they can predict human behaviour, but they certainly cannot predict the future.

On Friday, Agent Hotchner tells us that we aren't going to be expected to come in until Wednesday, barring any emergencies. Consequently, we will be off for New Year's Eve. Everyone seems so elated that I imagine they would go out for drinks this evening if they weren't planning on having fun together in a few days.

During lunch, most of us eat in the break room together. Dr. Reid leans against the counter. Rather than spoon sugar into his coffee, he pours it from the opening in the Tardis. I try not to swear. I imagine the sugar rush he gets is more effective than the coffee.

"So, who's crashing JJ's on Monday?" Morgan asks. He leans with his elbows on the table. "I hope you'll be in a pretty little number, Garcia."

"Anything for you," she winks back.

Over the past five weeks that I've been here, their flirting has become a background that I can tune out. It must be what the others do. No one else in the room reacts to them. I can be accommodating, so I won't either.

"What is the theme, anyway?" Morgan asks, looking around.

"JJ and her roommates rotate every year on the dress theme," Dr. Reid begins a spiel, turning to me for my benefit. "Last year the theme was 80s cocktail. I wore a green blazer and a shirt with a patterned orange shirt. This year it should just be a standrard dressy casual, a mix of business and casual clothing, but not to be confused with business casual."

"You can come wearing jeans and a nice shirt, or dress pants and a turtleneck, or a dress as long as it's not too business or too casual," JJ offers. "It was my turn to pick, so it's nothing too crazy."

"Amy is very particular about the dress code," Dr. Reid says to himself.

It takes a lot to constraint myself. I refrain from asking what social rule he violated that prompts him to make such an observation. After all, stooping to his level just to humiliate him would be rather cruel, I think. There is no way I am going to start playing his game along with him. Besides, it's just a mean guess. I don't actually know why he made the comment. I'm not a profiler.