Morgan gives me props for going in, but Reid doesn't speak to me. Actually, on the entire way back to the hotel to grab our things, he doesn't say anything. Everyone else who didn't attend the scene is already there. It wouldn't be so awkward if Reid and I weren't in the back together, and if Morgan didn't congratulate me for pulling out my gun for the first time and not choking. Hotch even said something in the cat. Reid's silence feels almost pointed. Maybe he's still pissed from our last conversation yesterday. I didn't think he'd be so insulted by an observation. After all, he's proficient in the art of accidentally insulting people by observing them.

When we get back to the hotel, we even mostly ride the elevator in silence. I walk into my room. During my stay, I made sure to keep my bag as packed as I possibly could. Still, I take my time, since being stuck on an airplane seems quite awful. Brushing my teeth, changing my clothes, washing my face and my armpits so at least I won't reek like the sprint I did just an hour ago. We aren't going to get back until the early hours of the morning. We won't have to contend with jetlag. The paperwork that awaits us back in DC seems terrible, and I'm going to have to help since I was there, and I was the first on the scene. Truly, fieldwork isn't something I am keen to try again. Let's hope there are no cases that come up where my French skills might actually be of use.

Knowing that delaying the ride won't actually get me to bed sooner, I finally leave my hotel. Reid stands in the hallway, his back to me while he leans against the hall waiting for the elevator. It dings while I'm still approaching, and it starts to close. I barely stick my foot in to catch it before it leaves without me. Then, I shuffle in beside him and we are trapped together.

It's my own doing, but I'd rather be trapped in the elevator with him now than on the long flight that awaits us.

He doesn't speak. We are on the twelfth floor. Eleventh. Tenth. Ninth.

"I think I preferred when you insulted me," I say. "I'm not a psychic or a profiler, you know."

"I don't think you actually want me to say what's on my mind."

My body flinches before I do. The sound of what I thought was a gun just a few hours ago didn't scare me half as much. Reid is always smiling, or at least perplexed. Something is deeply wrong. I'm not even sure if it's something I've done.

Sixth. Fifth. Fourth.

"I regularly get cursed out in multiple languages," I roll my eyes, recovering. "I know nearly twice as many ways to be insulted as you do. You aren't going to surprise me."

The elevator doors ding open. We head outside. We only got one rental car for our time here, and it seems they have left because Reid pulls out his phone and calls a cab. What a fun Mardi Gras vacation it's been. On a night like tonight and at a time like this, I don't fancy our odds of getting a cab soon. I put my bag down on the bench in front of our hotel and sit down. Reid finally gets off the phone. He shoves his phone in his pocket, still facing the road.

As much as he annoys me when he speaks, his quiet demeanour right now is somehow worse.

"Look, I didn't intend to upset you when I said you looked sick yesterday."

He turns to look at me, staring.

I look at him, blinking back. He isn't going to speak, "would you please just-"

"You don't even know?" he asks. "You were a Rhodes scholar. Two masters degrees, a good enough training score at Quantico to get you into one of the most exclusive divisions of the Bureau, and you think... No, you didn't think not to bust down a door by yourself!"

His bag still hung tightly around him, Reid stands at the edge of the sidewalk. Close to the road, but I don't think he cares. We are closer to the main street party now than we were at the scene, and so there are people actually walking on the road. I don't think he even cares they can hear him. They are all drunk, but even a few still jump when he shouts.

"I did think actually," I respond. "I went over it with Hotch, whom I report to, mind you. Since you're acting ridiculous about it, I did consider what would happen if I opened the door."

Reid steps closer. I stand up, to try to reach his eye level even if I can't quite get there. He's tall. On New Year's Eve, he bent over to get to my height. Arms resting on the cold metal balcony, he didn't shiver. Even drunk he looked better than he does now. Certainly, he looked happier, and that was ages ago, before we really could have an amicable conversation at all. Tonight, he hovers above me once more.

"Maybe thinking is the problem," he says.

"You're doing that thing again," I point out. "The thing where you act like you're so much better than me. Just because I don't have three PhDs doesn't make me an idiot."

"That's the problem!" Reid shouts. He throws his arms up in the air, gesturing wildly as he speaks. "You are smart, and you know it too! Because you're smart, you're prone to thinking your decisions are the best ones. Even the best decision can lead to a bad outcome! Even the very smartest people can get hurt on their own."

I step closer to him. You don't need to be a profiler to see this. Clearly, obviously, this. It's not me. It's so much fucking bigger than me. He's throwing it in my face so much I'm beginning to think he might even want me to ask about it.

"I know!" I tell him. "I know smart people can make bad decisions. I do it all the time."

"So then why would you bust that door down?" he demands. "She had a knife. What would you have done if she leapt at you? Would you have shot her in time?"

"Reid," I shake my head. I bite back the bitterness. "This isn't about me."

"How do you know? We've only known each other a few months!" he argues. Something is in him that is so not like Reid. "How hard have you tried to make amends with me? Aren't you trying to make everything about you? We all know your French skills aren't of use, but you've made it all about you, and convinced yourself that you are such an outsider that you had to come here to be part of the team. Then, you throw yourself into danger and made it all about you again."

I turn away from him. My ears feel so damn hot. So, I sit down. I grab my bag and throw it on my lap, digging through its contents rather than looking at him. Maybe he'll get distracted. I can't believe he is raising his voice on a public street. Really, none of this feels him at all. When we get back, I have half the mind to tell Hotch to send him back for a new psych eval. Something about him isn't right. It hasn't been since he was kidnapped.

Making it all about me. Fuck him. Fuck Caro too, but right now, fuck him.

"I don't have a psychology degree," I tell him. "I'm not your fucking counsellor. Maybe the people on our team who like you are willing to put up with you like this, but I'm not. Get help, Reid."

He doesn't reply. Instead, he digs into his bag too. I wonder if we are going to play this pretend game for a long time. He throws something on the ground and walks away. My eyes look down, peering at it.

A patch. A patch for New Orleans, for my bag, to add to the silly patches I get from places I've been. My hands wrap around the patch. It is themed like Mardi Gras too, which I would have wanted. Something for my getaway bag to remind me of the first time I went out in the field. After today, I am planning on retiring the getaway bag into my travel bag once more, but this patch still would've been a nice addition.

I pick it up off the ground.

He bought it for me too. Not even as an apology gift. If he were in the right headspace, he might have saved it and tried to say he bought it while storming off after our fight, while we waited for our cab. Really, he bought it for me for no good reason other than that I wanted it and didn't think I'd have time to get one.

Reid's gone now. I wish I knew if he was the kind of person who wanted space or not. Right now, I'd like to go after him if that's what he wanted. I'm not pushy like Estelle though. Really, I don't have half the heart that she does or half the brain. If I did, I might try to help more like she would. Instead, I wait for twenty minutes before he returns, and we stand in silence for another three before the cab rolls up.

We sit in the back in the quiet. This cab driver is friendly too, but I only have it in me to give half-hearted nods and answers. Redi doesn't try, just like he didn't when we took a cab together on our first morning here. A different jazz song comes on the radio, one that I don't remember. God, I can't wait to get home. Mardi Gras isn't supposed to be this quiet.

~~~~~

I don't even know. I'm obsessed with them. Urgh! Any thoughts now?