CLANDESTINE : Spencer Reid

13

I manage to work on the seasonal data for the rest of the week. Still, I see very few patterns. There is no statistical significance to any trends in the numbers that cross my screen. Every night, I make an effort to stretch out my neck and shoulders and all of those things. The headaches are getting worse. Over the weekend, I don't look at anything with a screen, including my personal laptop, my phone, and my television. Estelle's orders. I need a way to take a break from staring at my monitor day in and day out.

The next week, Estelle's colleague comes up to visit. Since he's here of his own accord, his university isn't putting him up in a hotel. Consequently, we agree to let him use an air mattress in the living room.

"Be nice to Oop," Estelle warns me, her eyes stern and straight but the beginning of a smile on the corner of her lip.

Oop's getting a taxi here from the airport, so we are putting our last touches on the living room for his stay. Estelle has gracefully not mentioned that we don't have a guest room. I know she wants somewhere with more space since I can afford it. She can't though, and she'd admit it if I brought it up. I don't. All I do is fluff the pillows.

"Pardon?" I ask. "You need to remind me to be nice?"

"Don't get a bad first impression," she explains. "Oop is great."

"His name is Oob?" I ask.

"No, Oob, not Oob," she repeats, nearly giggling. "Oob Drukker. Wouldn't Oob be a silly name?"

I get no extra clarity. Estelle finds her accent embarrassing often enough that I don't have questions. Certainly, it is more embarrassing than the little pocket money she has in her possession.

Once he arrives, he properly introduces himself. He says his name, and it sounds like Oop to me. Only once I google him do I realize it's not Oob or even Oop. He goes by Huub, but his full name is Hubert Drukker, and Huub is pronounced just like the beginning of that word.

I switch things up on Monday, going back to my old habit of avoiding habits. My headache still isn't gone. Agent Hotchner pulls me into his office. He tells me that some of the old files need to be digitized. He sends me with a cart to get them. I entirely blame Dr. Reid for the limited computer work. It's too early in the week to complain that he isn't my keeper, nor my doctor, nor a medical doctor. Morgan complains about the cart taking up space in the bullpen, but I ignore him.

No one complains on Tuesday at least. Actually, no one else arrives. I find out from Garcia, who does a working lunch, that everyone but her and I left for a case last night. The events were so urgent that Agent Hotchner didn't even send me an email before they all got on their plane. Perhaps he has forgotten that he intended to bring me along on a case in the new year, or maybe this case would not be a good fit. The team is also gone all day Wednesday. Thursday, I am not expecting anyone to return. The silence will let me finally finish with digitization. Unfortunately, everyone is inside.

No one complains about the cart, however.

People are pretty quiet. The days after returning from a case are usually muted, but the profilers are even careful to type as quietly as possible. The only sound is the shuffling of papers from Dr. Reid, and he uses a pen with a cap instead of the ones that click frequently which are almost always in his hands. He likes to fiddle with them. I don't know if he's even aware, even if he pretends to know everything.

When I'm in the break room after lunch, trying desperately to pull through the tense day, JJ pulls me aside. She looks just as put together as usual. Even if she is not a profiler, she is used to being around them. JJ knows that the smallest differences in appearance will go noticed by others. They are like sharks out for blood. The smell is so attracting; it would be harder to avoid the trail than to let it take over.