The next week, after gruelling work, we all agree to go to a bar together. So come Friday, we head out after work. Hotch's wife comes, and she seems lovely. Everyone else starts to chat ans socialize, but I haven't had the chance to climb down from the giant hill of work I've parked myself atop all week. I try to hunker down at the bar, texting Stéphane about the upcoming plan for Bastien's birthday now that we've sorted out Estelle's present. The activity at least feels more passive. Bastien is starting basic so we won't be meeting up, but we are trying to coordinate a gift with Caro.

Cletus still hasn't proposed, so we leave her out because she's a bit sour at the moment. I am counting my blessings that Stéphane has come up with some other plan that doesn't require her involvement. Texting him at least is better than attempting darts with JJ or listening to Dr. Reid impress a group of nerds with trivia at a nearby table.

Since I'm out with coworkers, I wasn't planning on drinking that much. At the bar though, I get a bit distracted, and the guy who has my card on tab keeps refilling my drink. Soon enough, I'm five drinks in.

Like magic, I get a call from Caro. In my intoxication, I pick up, slipping out to the front steps of the bar so I can hear her.

"Hello?" I ask, acutely aware that I'm slurring just a bit.

"Cole, he proposed! Cletus asked me to marry him!" she is shrieking into the phone so loud that I have to pull it away from my ear.

My reaction time is so slow. At least now I'm glad that I was drinking because I don't think I could bear this news sober. Cletus, my brother-in-law. Nothing could be more of a bummer tonight.

"Congrats!" I manage, my nose scrunching. I shrug off the sleeves of my cardigan, hoping that exposing my arms to the prickle of cold air will somehow counteract all the drinks. "Are you excited?"

"It's the best news ever!" she squeals. "I can't wait. Listen, I know you won't be able to fly out or drive up for the bridal shower, oe even the bachelorette party, but would you be one of my bridesmaids?"

I might puke, and not from the liquor, "of course, Caroline. Félicitations."

She squeals again, and I wince as I pull my phone away once more. She quickly decides to call Stéphane and then Bastien, and I agree. Weird that she called me first, but whatever. I doubt she's called Maman.

"We should be all set! I'll mark you down for a plus one, unless you'd rather I set you up with a friend?"

"I'm good," I shake my head in disbelief. "Talk to you later."

After one last squeal, she hangs up. I head back inside, expecting a text from Stéphane. They must talk for because he doesn't text me back. I decide to close my tab since I'm so intoxicated. I call a cab too, since I shouldn't be out with coworkers like this.

I'm saved anyway. A call for a case comes in. They all head back to the Hoover building together. I tell them I've already called a cab. This isn't going to be my case.

It isn't until I get home that I get a text from Stéphane. Then, I get another an hour later from Bastien. Seems like they were more interested than I am. Instead of worrying about it, I force myself asleep.

Most of the weekend is flat. I do chores. Estelle has a big part of her thesis she needs to complete, so I help her with translating some radio files into English. She'll credit me in her thesis, but I don't really care. We're speaking in French the whole weekend, because it's my turn to take care of her.

Come Monday, there is an email in my inbox from JJ explaining that they won't be back until further notice. I know it's bad when I check on Garcia near lunch, and I realize she isn't in her office. I don't remember her ever flying out, and I've nearly been working here for a little over three months now. God, it feels like so much longer. I try to keep my files and things together.

The next morning, I am greeted by Erin Strauss at my desk. I haven't seen the Section Chief all that much during my tenure here. She is just as stiff as she was when I was interviewed. Strauss leads me into her office where she breaks the news.

Sometime last night, Dr. Reid was kidnapped by the Unsub. I sit in the office, staring at her degree on the wall behind her as she explains. I memorize the pale page, yellowed from the little sunlight that peaks through the curtains in her office. My mind's eye traces each curve of the signatures from the men who awared her the degree. By the end of the conversation, I know her degree better than I know my own. There are very few other things I gleam from the conversation.

Reid's being held somewhere. He's alive, and the team are aware of his condition. If they recover him, he will need to be hospitalized locally.

If.

She asks if I'm fine. I tell her yes. Then, I wander back into the bullpen. It smells like cigarette smoke, waffing over from the men who sit at the other desks nearby. I cover my nose and close my eyes. I feel a headache coming on.

My body moves for me. I walk out of the office. Outside, when I'm walking toward my home, I realize I don't remember turning off my computer. Surely I did it. I don't think I emailed Strauss though that I was leaving, or even told one of the administrators.

Then, I start sobbing. I duck into an alleyway, hiding next to a dumpster and overpowered by the smell of the garbage. I can't even move. My fingers struggle to pull out my phone from my pocket. I call Stéphane, because I don't know who else to call. I can't stop sobbing, and I can hear him rushing on the other end. I can't even tell him that I'm in the middle of DC, I'm crying so hard. He just gets in the car. He might even be pulling a shift, I don't know, but he leaves. He stays on the phone with me, not even speaking but listening to me cry, until I'm able to tell him the business across the street.

He lives an hour away. I stop crying before he gets here, but I am not able to get up and move. If I do move, I know I'm going to sprint to my apartment and grab a passport, and end up at the airport trying to book a flight without so much as a packed bag.

Stéphane pulls up. Through the phone, I'm able to hear his engine turn off.

"I'm down the alley."

"Come here," he whispers into the line. "I'm parked in front of a fire hydrant."

I hear the sound of his car door shutting.

"I can't," I whisper.

He doesn't speak for just a second. I close my eyes and exhale. Then, I inhale.

"What happened?"

I can't answer. In fact, I can't even think about it. Stéphane does not offer me trades, ever. His heavy breath comes in through the line, and I close my eyes, thankful. Then, he is in front of me, staring down.

"You holding up?" he looks at me, crouched beside a dumpster, and he still asks me that question.

I can't nod without sobbing. He offers me a hand up. I pull myself off the ground on my own. With one arm around me, he hurries us back to his car, checking the dashboard to make sure there isn't a ticket. Then, he drives me home. We sit together on the couch in the small excuse for a living room. He asked what's happened once more, and when I don't answer he moves on. We listen to music, throwbacks to our childhood in the eighties, and he makes me lunch. Only after lunch do I tell him.

Stéphane doesn't speak. I close my eyes, curled up on a blanket under the couch. My head is pounding from crying, but I'm not able to sleep. I can hear Stéphane crying in the bathroom. Still, I can't move. Someone should hold my passport from me. Part of me wants to ask Stéphane when he comes out and begins washing dishes in the sink. I'm too tired and my head hurts too much. So, instead, I sleep.

When I wake up, my eyes are closed and my body wrestling with my brain, I hear Stéphane talking in the kitchen.

"She'll be fine when she wakes," he's speaking in French. I wonder which sibling he is filling in on the phone. Hopefully, it isn't Maman. "She recovers well."

"No, she doesn't," Estelle replies. It's later than I thought it was if she's home. "I live with her, so I know she doesn't. She isn't okay."

I hear the huff of Stéphane's sigh, "her coworker's been kidnapped."

"Which one?" Estelle asks.

Stéphane's reply doesn't come. Honestly, most of what I said to him is a blur. He might not know who it was. I don't exactly remember much of it, but I do know that I haven't felt like that in a long time.

"It's like... I'm sure you've noticed it," Estelle says. "How she gets in the spring."

Since I don't want to hear more or my paranoia will spike, I roll over, and begin to pretend to wake up. Once I'm sitting, I blink at both of them.

"Hey," I say to Estelle. "You're home?"

"Just got in," she's blushing, probably hoping I haven't heard her talking to him.

Addressing it would only cause more heartache. Instead, I join them at our island. I can smell what's cooking in the oven. Leaning forward, I peer inside. He's cooking a tourtière in the oven. Comfort food is at least nice. I pat his hand on the counter, looking between the two of them.

"Is it getting late?" I ask.

"He's staying the night," Estelle shakes her head at me. "No questions about it. I'll sleep on the couch if I must."

"I promise I'm fine," I manage. "He shouldn't lose another day of work."

"My boss understands," Stéphane offers.

He moves around to check on the tourtière. I bet he started hours ago if it's already this far along. He's slow when it comes to cooking. Estelle looks from my brother to me, as if she is waiting for an explanation.

"I don't want to talk about it," I explain, shaking my head. "They'll call me if they have an update."

Estelle leans in, her voice quieter, "is it Dr. Reid?"

I put my head down in my arms, nodding my head despite myself. I can feel her hug me. She's always been more physical than I am. Sometimes I like weighted blankets, but now I feel like I'll be compressed if I don't move. With the slightest of shifts, she lets go. Soon enough, we are all eating dinner at the island, chatting about something or other but I'm barely paying attention. We end up around the television, watching something newer that Estelle has on DVD.

Slightly after midnight, I get the call. I put it on speaker since I doubt I will hear it anyway. My blood is pounding. Stéphane talks for me when I don't answer. In the end, he comes back over and nods.

Reid is all right. I find out he's being kept in a hospital in Georgia, and they'll transfer him back to DC when they decide that he's healthy enough to be moved.

So, on Wednesday morning, I am deemed fit enough to go into work, and so I do. I see off Stéphane, and he drops me off directly at work, which is nice. No one else comes in until after noon, and then it's only Hotch anyway.

"Reid's been cleared for transfer," Hotch tells me, not even opening up with softer introductions. "He'll be taking the rest of the week off work, but he'll be back on Monday. I advise you to avoid mentioning the event to him. Reid would rather we all move past it."

"He's all right though?" I ask, looking up.

Hotch nods, "physically, yes. No injuries that will last longer than the week. He'll be evaluated by a psychologist twice before he is allowed back in the bullpen, and then again before he is cleared to work in the field."

As if that is satisfactory, Hotch leaves. I try my best to work, but the quiet isn't loud enough. I can hear the draft in the airshafts through the ceiling. Every footstep is terrible. I wonder why they aren't going to make me get a psychological evaluation, or anyone else. I wonder about a lot of things I shouldn't think about. There is only one good thought my mind keeps drifting toward. I hope that Reid is okay.

~~~~~

A bit of a little thing. A little fun little thing. Who knows. Thoughts, as always?