CLANDESTINE : Spencer Reid

57

After the conversation with Estelle, where she comes to know everything there is to know about me, I am too tired to call Reid back. I debate calling him Monday morning, but he isn't there. He's got an appointment, or something I bet. No one else mentions his absence and I don't want to ask. Sharks, blood, water, and I'm already very fragile. I don't dislike water, but I don't know how to surf. I can skate fine, not as good as Stéphane obviously, but if I make the wrong move the ice will crack beneath me and I will shoot down into the icy depths of the water. If I'm lucky a shark will get me. If I'm not, well I might try to pound on the ice from below until I drown.

During lunch, I do give him a call. He doesn't answer, and I leave him a voicemail.

Yes, Tuesday is fine. Let me know if you are back in town by then.

It's nothing special. Despite the heat, I get work done. The shift starts and ends soon enough, and then I am back in the apartment Estelle and I share. The space between us is awkward. She makes a tourtière for dinner, and I know that if she's cooking a special comfort food for me, she's worried about me. We mostly talk in French. While I could never forget it, the language is hard to walk in a bit. Like ice skates.

Then, I walk into the bullpen Tuesday morning. Prentiss is with Reid, gone. She mentioned flying out last night so they could conduct interviews first thing this morning. I know he isn't going to walk in until after lunch. I suppose this should make me feel better.

When I sit down and take a sip of my coffee, Morgan stops typing beside me. No one else is in the bullpen. Slowly, I look over at him.

"Morning," I offer, an eyebrow raised.

"Morning," Morgan echoes. "You doing okay?"

"I would be if you let me do work," I point out, rolling the chair back.

"The last month you've been doing nothing but work," Morgan points out. "You haven't come out for lunch with any of us or gone shooting. Nothing."

"You have been out on cases at least once a week for the past month," I grimace, turning back to my computer to begin typing.

"You're pissed at Reid," he says. "But you're also being nice to him. Why?"

"I'm not pissed at him," I type again, not letting my fingers freeze over the keys even though my knuckles feel stiffer now.

"You're making him coffees. He's not drinking them. And you are hiding that you are making him coffees too. Why?" he asks.

I don't even acknowledge Morgan. Instead, I pull out my phone to complete the multifactor authentication process. I know he is hovering. The wheels of his chair scrape across the ground, and a shadow comes over my screen. I ignore him.

"Do you think he's using again?"

I stop moving.

My computer beeps. The multifactor authentication times out. I don't move anymore.

"So he is and you know it."

"I don't know anything," I say.

I guess, I don't. I have been looking at him. We are quiet, withdrawn, but I didn't think he was in the throws of addiction again. I try to picture the way he looked on Friday. Was his skin more yellow, or bluer, or anything but his usually colour? Did he appear hollower, not just in the flesh of his cheeks but his eyes? Has he been vacant?

"You know something."

I glare at Morgan. I toss my phone down on the table and cross my arms. He sits near me, staring too.

"Just typical Reid and I fighting," I roll my eyes. "This time I pissed him off. It's about my roommate, Estelle, and frankly it's none of your business."