I wake up with a pounding headache, like I'm hungover. My alarm clock reveals the time, and it's far too late into the morning. I drag myself out of bed, practically rolling onto the floor. From there, I force myself to get dressed. I hurry into clothes and stumble out of the bathroom.

There's a note from Spencer on the counter.

Hey Cole,
Just ran out for a few minutes. I'll probably be back before you read this. Just in case, I'll buzz in when I need to get in. See you soon!
Spencer

My fingers trace the paper. The same lined stuff he used to make a chess board last night. I smile find myself smiling. There is time to get ready.

In the bathroom, I brush my teeth. When I do my hair, pulling it up into a ponytail behind my head, I spend too much time trying to pull out the perfect amount of fly aways. The jeans and pale green cardigan were easy to pick, but I find myself picking at every aspect of myself until the apartment door buzzes.

I rush out into the front room, letting Reid in. I didn't leave much of a mess last night, so I resolve to put on music to keep my hands idle. I get to the jazz station, and it makes me laugh. There is a knock on the door, and I head over to it, pulling it open.

"I left it open," I smile.

Then, my heart stops.

On the other side of the door, I don't see Reid. It's not him, back from whatever errand he was running before ten in the morning. At first, my eye scans the man's face before me. It rests on his jaw, the collar of his shirt, and it takes me a second to realize who is at the door.

"Luc?" I manage.

"Can I come in?" he speaks French, and I don't know if the language or the tone surprises me more.

All I do is stare at him. Blinking. Luc Levesque, on my doorstep. Twelve years older than the last time I saw him. I finally answer him in English, "what are you doing here?"

Luc Levesque is my age, somehow. I had never thought of us as young, back then. Every part of me has always felt this old, even though I do have a birthday every year. Only facing him do I realize how old I've gotten. He is clean shaven, even still a shadow on his cheeks. His black hair is tight and curly. His teeth are straight now, when they were a little crooked when we were younger. We were younger then.

He digs into his pocket, pulling out something, and when he flashes it at me, I recognize it. He's got the RCMP badge. Stéphane mentioned the job. It hadn't occurred to me then that Stéphane's knowledge would ever be important. They weren't really friends back then. Same hockey team, of course, but never as close as Luc and I. Obviously.

I step back in the doorway, letting him step inside.

"You're RCMP now?" I ask, pretending I'm unaware of it, or that I haven't mentioned it to coworkers.

He nods, starting to shrug off his coat. I close the door behind him, making my way to the counter. My hand finds the note from Reid, shoving it into my back pocket. I look at him, waiting, and he doesn't speak.

"I joined a couple of years ago," his French accent is thick and heavy, much more noticeable than mine. "Did my first few months for the government in CSIS before switching to RCMP. I just have a few formalities."

"I figured," I cross my arms.

Reid is going to be back soon. Did the FBI contact the RCMP? Has there been an issue with my background check?

"You're Colette Morel?" he asks.

I shake my head, "Bouchard now."

Luc purses his lips, swallowing them before shoving his hands in his pockets, "Constable Luc Levesque, victim services."

He always was interested in computers. Even in high school, when there weren't many of them at all, Luc was fascinated by them. He speaks French too, and I guess probably Arabic now if he worked with CSIS. I guess over time he became more interested in victims. It doesn't surprise me. That is what so many of us are now.

Luc is so much taller than I remember him being. He's more of a man now. My mind races.

"Is this because I'm with the FBI, or because of him?" I ask.

Luc looks at me, "him."

Him. I dig my hand into my pocket and curl up my fist around the note.

I nod, "did you even know I was in the FBI?"

"Yes," he nods. "They contacted the RCMP for any files on you. I'm sure you know that your youth file was sealed. It was agreed by our office that Québecois law was of more concern than American security risks."

Once again, I nod. I try to focus on what Luc knows about me, and not what he knows that I don't. Whatever dreadful thing has brought him here.

"Early parole," it doesn't come out of my mouth as a question, but I can't imagine a reason they would come to tell me something different.

He nods, "I was sent to let you know in person."

"Have you told Stéphane yet?" I ask.

Luc shakes his head.

I move away from my counter, sitting down squarely in the middle of the sofa. This was bound to happen. His sentence, unlike mine, would not last forever. Really, I should have thought more about it. I don't like to think about those days. The weeks after I broke up with Luc, the time when Stéphane's best friend was sent to prison. If I can help it, I omit Québec entirely from my life. Luc as well, by proxy.

"He knows anyway," Luc points out. "Your brother, I mean. He was at the parole hearing yesterday."

Yesterday. They flew out Luc sometime last night to let me know. He's working a weekend, overtime. Stéphane's worried phone call makes more sense now. He must have known this was coming. I thought he suspected that I had feelings for Reid, not that He was granted early parole. That he would be out and about again, with clothes of his own choosing and roads in every direction.

Why would I even think about having feelings for Reid? It's ridiculous. Especially at a time like this.

"Is there a concern he'd come across the border?" I ask.

Luc shakes his head, "no. There's no security risk. They were going to just send you a letter in the mail, but I said I knew you. My partner is in the lobby, actually. He thought I'd be able to handle it on my own so he didn't come up. We figured you'd have more privacy this way."

"Can you?" I ask. "Handle it, I mean."

Luc shrugs.

He was a witness in the trial. My brother was too, and so was I. I didn't sit in on either of their testimonies. Witnesses cannot see other people testify. Even if I wasn't called to the stand, I wouldn't have been able to go. The proceedings were closed. No members of the public were allowed to sit in while minors were testifying, That is the only reason the FBI doesn't know about what happened. The only name that was allowed to appear in the papers was the perpetrator's. It was a slow May, and the news spread around our province like wildfires ripping through maple trees. Red upon red upon red. That is why I never went back. I thought Stéphane only went back to see our mother. In actuality, he's been going to His parole meetings too.

"You're doing well?" Luc asks.

I can tell how much effort he puts into speaking in English. His accent is minor. Mine is non-existent, because even if while living in the US I went to French private school, I had to speak English to my neighbours, at restaurants, constantly. My Dad didn't want us to have an accent like him, so he spoke to us exclusively in English, even when we were babies. Luc grew up in rural Québec, so I can't imagine this is an easy conversation for him in a language he has to chew in his mouth.

"I mean, as well as you are, I imagine," I swallow.

Luc steps closer to me. He reaches his hand forward, taking mine. His hands are cold from the outside air.

"So, terribly," Luc switches back to French. "All of this is terrible."

"It was going to happen eventually," I shrug.

I'm not sure how to ask him to let go. In the first few weeks after everything, I would lie on the floor of his basement with him, our hands holding each other. I remember at one point he stopped breathing. I didn't know what to do. I thought Luc had died, right there, clutching my hand on the floor like somehow our fists together could become a loud enough prayer for God to answer. And he did answer, by striking Luc down where he lay. I couldn't even breathe either, the idea of him dead beside me. I just held his hand, and after the most agonizing minute, he took in a sharp breath.

I feel like I've been waiting to breathe since then. I don't think I've breathed yet.

The front door opens. I turn my head, watching Reid hurry into the room. In one hand, he holds a cardboard cupholder tray, with two coffees in it. Snow has gathered in his hair and on his scarf as well. In another hand, he holds a brown paper bag.

I slip my hand out of Luc's, who turns to hover behind me.

"This your mec?" Luc leans in close, whispering the words in French. Not the Reid would understand them.

I ignore him, moving over to offer Reid a hand with all of the trays he's holding.

"Sorry," Reid whispers as I take the coffee from his hands. "I didn't know... sorry, who's that?"

I turn back to look at Luc, and then back at Reid.

"This is Luc," I tell Reid. I move into the room, putting the coffee's down. "We went to school together. Luc, this is Spencer. He... well we work together at the FBI."

Luc raises an eyebrow but doesn't say anything. Neither does Spencer at first. I expect him to speak, since he always has something to say. Luc swallows, and I count the seconds until I see his chest rise.

"Apologies," Luc offers. "Thank you for your time."

Luc walks past me out of the door. I don't watch him leave or close the door behind him.

He's out. It's almost been thirteen years, and they let him out of jail. Stéphane knew. He's been going to parole hearings in Québec for years. He never even told me.

Reid steps in the room behind me. I can feel tears in my eyes. I blink them back, before looking at the ground. Just behind me, Reid drops the paper bag on the counter.

"I got you a muffin," Reid's voice is quiet. "Sorry... I didn't mean to interrupt."

I quickly wipe away a tear before turning around, "you weren't. He's my brother's friend anyway, not mine."

"The twin, I assume," Reid shrugs off his coat, placing it on the back of an island chair.

I nod. I'm not going to let myself cry in front of him, so I breathe in, "Stéphane. Not Seb."

Reid moves through the kitchen, pulling together plates for the two of us. Instead of setting our cramped kitchen table, he puts the plates down on the island. He sits down on one of the barstools. I grab the stool closest to me. The movement is very passive, something that feels like it's done to me and not something I do.

My hand wraps around the coffee cup as I drink it. It's exactly the way I like it.

"You've never told me your brother's names before," Reid points out.

I nod my head. It's stupid. All of this is so stupid.

"Stéphane's my twin," I explain. "Bastien is little. No one calls him Seb anymore unless they want to get punched in the face. Bastien was really young when Stéphane and I met Luc."

I start to pick at my muffin.

Reid picks at his too. Now, the apartment feels quiet. It hadn't felt this way since he stepped inside it. Weekends without Estelle, which are becoming more common than not, can be that way. With him here, I remember how empty these walls were. I never buy artwork because it's no fun to move. I don't own anything. Due to all my years of moving, I'm never around anyone long enough to feel like I've built memories. It's happening here too.

"I write a letter to my mother every day," Reid says. "I don't visit her as much as I should. She has schizophrenia."

A piece of the muffin in my hand, I look over at him. He sips his coffee. They are colder now from the walk. His, undoubtedly, more sugar than coffee, but he doesn't smile.

"My sister Caro will never forgive me for moving away," I agree. "I stopped spending Christmases with her in 1998. She was sixteen. I'll never make up for the eight years of her life that I missed."

Reid looks at me. I think some part of me understands what it might be like to profile. Well, I'm not sure that I could ever do it, but whatever he's thinking I don't need him to speak it. I only speak French with my siblings when I don't want people to understand me. Even if I spoke exclusively in French to him, and he spoke some other language, I think I would know what he's thinking right now.

~~~~~

Don't even talk to me. This is so so so angsty. And also a banger. We've got back to back to back bangers coming. Urgh. Dying.

Any predictions or inferences? Pulling out those English class skills on this one.