COVERT : Spencer Reid (II)

36

It's later in the evening when we land, and everyone is going to have a ton of paperwork to handle tomorrow. JJ offers me a ride home, which I don't accept. The subway clears my head, I say, but really I'm just walking a few blocks and then Reid will pick me up.

After today, I can't have a conversation with Bastien about Rachel's concerns. Or mine. If my life were a tapestry, I'd get rid of it. Too many loose threads. My braids are more put together, but I suppose that is to be expected. I sent him a text when we landed, letting him know to clear out of my bedroom tomorrow morning. He is banished back to the couch in the living room.

It's not just Rachel's concerns now. My bank account is draining quicker each month as I pitch in for Bastien's share of groceries. My share of the bills have doubled, and while it's eating away at any hopes of savings I had, I need him to do something besides sit around all day. For his benefit. Even getting a gym membership would be a step above the current circumstances.

Spencer's car rolls up beside me, treads scraping on the concrete. The car door clicks as it unlocks. I pull myself into the passenger's seat. It's warm inside, and smells like him despite the car freshener attached to the vent on the passenger's side.

"You know, no one would ever know if you killed me," I chuckle.

Spencer visibly bristles, "you don't usually make jokes like that."

"Sorry," I say.

He's right. It doesn't feel right to apologize, but it feels just as wrong not to acknowledge what I've said. It was a joke. It was a joke, a kind that doesn't usually pass my lips. He's still idling the car though, waiting, and I realize it's for me to buckle my seatbelt. I oblige him, clicking it into place and he begins to drive.

"Tell-" he hesitates on the word. I look at him, brow furrowed. His elbows are bent so he can properly hold the steering wheel, but they somehow still look locked. Like almost petrified in place. "Do you want to talk about Karine?"

I shake my head, "well, what's there to say?"

He stops at a light. I can feel him, his eyes on me. I take in a breath, somehow certain it is my last. We aren't driving. We aren't going anywhere. My legs ache beneath me.

I need to run.

The light changes as my hand finds the doorhandle. He keeps driving. If he noticed my movement he doesn't say anything about it, which I suppose is unusual for him. I miss Oxford. In England, the light turns amber before they turn green, not just before a red light. You always get a warning before it's time to move. Conductors raise their batons to get the attention of the orchestra.

Spencer keeps driving in silence.

I sigh, "Spen, I don't think it'll be helpful."

"Humour mean," he asks, because it is an ask. That much I can tell without being a profiler.

I had best friends, back home. I wasn't one of those girls who only hung out with boys. With Stéphane in the same year as me, it wasn't even really a choice anyway. All the boys loved him. Too be fair, everyone did. My friends mostly fawned over him too. He played instruments, was on the hockey team, and as Morgan has pointed out before, the Bouchards aren't bad looking. All of my siblings blonde, light eyed, and with infectious smiles. Very few of his friends didn't have crushes on me, and vice versa. I only really got closest to the few girls who resisted Stéphane.

Like Valerie.

"She was edgy," I manage. Valerie, anyway. "We both liked Winona Ryder and her movies, but she was obsessed. She's the one who talked me into that awful pixie cut. Just, overall she was cooler than me. I mean... is that enough?"