CLANDESTINE : Spencer Reid

31

It's crunch time. My little seminar-presentation-sermon thing is booked the day after my birthday. Hotch certainly did it intentionally, but at least I have a few more weeks to dig into it. All I do is work. I crunch through the data during all hours of the day, and a few at night between working on the research job that I only spend ten hours a week on, that pays worse than this, but is my only hand in the door if I really want to apply for a PhD program next fall. It's too late now to throw it all together. I'll be stuck in DC for another year. I suppose that makes packing easier. At least, I know this move is to another temporary place too.

I get to work before anyone else. I've realized a few of them have started a shift. I'm not sure who the ringleader is, but every morning someone brings in coffee. I'm never asked to take my turn, and I've never had to pay for it. My sneaking suspicion is that Morgan's the planner since he's the one who brings the coffees in most days. During lunch breaks, JJ and Prentiss will force me to go shooting, but otherwise I'm glued to my desk. Even Stéphane has been texting me regularly, although I'm sure Estelle is feeding him information.

That said, I haven't felt better in weeks. Drinking cold coffee, working all hours, running into Estelle's friends cramped in our apartment but only saying hello before I'm elbow deep in syntax errors. Stéphane is now a full-time park ranger so he's really too busy to bother me. The lookout tower he was supposed to work in burned down, and so he's popped in twice to say hello since our vacation together, but only once this month to give me an early happy birthday. It's the life I always dreamed about, in a weird way.

With only a week and a bit to go, I'm typing like mad. My personal phone buzzes. I look down at the lit screen. It's a text from Estelle, so it can wait. I'm almost done finalizing the research. Now, I'm going to be putting together PowerPoints while rehearsing my findings all hours of the day. While getting ready in the morning, in the bathroom at work during lunch, mouthing the words on the train heading through.

"Bouchard."

I recognize Reid's voice. I hold up a hand to quiet him.

"No," I tell him. "Not right now."

Something clacks against my desk. I glance over. He's put coffee in the FBI mug he bought me. The writing is fading, since it got put in the dishwasher one too many times by one of the administrative assistants.

"It's you, isn't it?" I ask, glancing over at him.

He stares at me blankly, "I don't know what you're talking about."

"I thought Morgan had done it," I say.

Reid doesn't answer. Instead, he stares at me, "your workday ended an hour ago."

I look around. There are a few people in the office bullpen still, but no profilers. A few guys sit at the other set of desks. They are the ones who teach new recruits about profiling and data entry regarding statistics related to violent crime. They've got final reports due soon as the year is ending, before all the UCR and NCVS data comes in. Those guys do nothing but talk to people. I don't.

"Overtime," I tell him, even if I don't think I've actually asked for any this year. And, I've just kicked over to salary so I don't think it really matters. The pay increase already feels crazy. I've got vacation time now, not that I'd be able to use it until the summer with how busy I am.

"You've used eye drops twice a day for the past week," Dr. Reid says. "Whenever anyone passes you a paper you push it away from your face so you can squint and read it. Prolonged exposure to blue light can cause serious-"