CLANDESTINE : Spencer Reid

25

When the taxi I booked pulls up about a block away from the venue, Reid is already waiting on the corner. He helps open the taxi door as I step out. He cleans up nicely, I suppose. His suit and bow tie are black, and his shirt is crisp and white as the dress code would suggest. The only splash of colour is his pocket square, a deep red, only just off from burgundy. The colour of pomegranate, perhaps.

"You..." he looks at me. "Well, I mean..."

"Hey lady, you going to pay?" the driver calls.

I head back toward the driver, bending over and digging through my wallet. I throw him twenty dollars, telling him to keep the change. He barely smiles at me and then drives off. The smoke clouds the air, and I brush it out of my face.

It's the first gala I've been to since my days at Oxford. In France, I was too focused on my studies to go to costume parties. This time, it took me as long to get ready as my first dinner at Oxford. I had to buy a new dress since the gold one from my Oxford days seemed too much for tonight. Teal should suit me fine, and at the very least help me blend in a bit. I'm glad I brought along my pearly pink shawl since my arms are freezing even though it is late August.

"Do you think it's not too late to sneak away?" I whisper to Reid.

He looks over at me, furrowing his brow, "I thought you had warmed up to going."

It's impossible to warm up as fall is approaching us rapidly. I shrug.

Truly, I didn't mind the process of getting ready, even if I haven't spent that long on my hair or make-up in years. Galas and nice events are usually places I thrive. Still, my stomach churns just as it did the day that I met all those profilers. I don't want to be found. And we are getting closer, and already I can hear the sounds of chatter and music.

"I'm just posing a hypothetical," I offer. "Do you think Hotch would find out?"

"Section Chief Erin Strauss will be there, so I imagine so," Reid offers.

We finally reach the entrance. I pull out my badge and the invitation from my purse. Reid offers his up and then we are let inside the entrance. There is less security here than I usually face every morning. I suppose the Intelligence officers are less likely to carry, but it's just speculation.

Cocktail hour is in full swing when we arrive. Reid gave me the program since he only needed to glance it over. All of us have one drink ticket and Reid gave me his. I get a glass of wine from the bar and then Reid and I hover toward the side of the dance floor.

We're approached within seconds. Three DEA guys come up to us. They clearly aren't as interested in Reid as they are in me.

"What's your agency?" Scott asks after he's finished introducing himself and his buddies, Vince and Will. It doesn't escape me that they haven't asked for either of our names.

"FBI," I answer.

"FBI?" Will asks, looking us over. "Let me guess, he's weapons of mass destruction and you're counterintelligence."

Reid looks at me, a soft smile on his lips. I ignore it and shrug, "what makes you that?"

"You've just got international spy written all over you," Vince decides. "Bet you could steal anything out of us."

"We're Behavioural Analysis, actually," I explain.

The men smile, and the chatter dissolves as no other questions are asked about Reid or myself. He seems content to sip on his water while I listen to them drone on about border patrol and huge busts and shootouts. They explain their job titles, and I get the sense that they don't actually go out in the field at all. Data collectors like me, although their need to talk up their fieldwork is a bit irritating. Soon enough, it's time to settle in our seats for dinner.