On Monday, everything is fine.

No one knows Reid came over. When Morgan makes a joke about the hotel, Reid shakes his head, sipping coffee. He doesn't tell them I invited him over, and honestly, I'm glad he didn't. They are all profilers. They'd figure out something was up. Maybe Garcia would actually try to look into me like she's joked about doing before. The people here seem to respect each other's privacy but they still all make me nervous.

Stéphane is at the apartment when I'm back Monday evening. He was waiting at the counter while Estelle cooked. He sees me and stands up. Stéphane hurries over to me, wrapping me up in a hug before I've even put down my work bag.

"I'm sorry," Stéphane whispers. "I didn't know how to tell you."

I struggle out of his grip, but he doesn't let me go. He's even bigger now, burlier. In the winter there aren't as many forest fires, but he's the bulkiest he's ever been. I try to pull again and he squeezes, and I laugh.

"Knock it off," I roll my eyes. "We aren't kids anymore. You can't bully me like this!"

"Say uncle!" he cries out.

I elbow him in the chest and he pulls away, wincing dramatically. I finally let go, crossing my arms over my chest.

"How are you?" I ask. "You seem... you seem okay."

Stéphane nods. I lead him back to my bedroom away from Estelle who stirs her cooking but is leaning away from the stovetop and toward us. We sit on my bed beside each other. When the door shuts, her music is inaudible. I wonder if she turned it down to try and catch a glimpse. If it weren't so undignified, I could imagine Estelle pressing her ear up against the door and cursing the air which clangs in the ducts, heating my bedroom.

"Luc messaged me on Facebook," Stéphane says. "He told me he was the one who told you. You seemed fine, he said?"

I don't have a Facebook account. It hadn't occurred to me that they could still be in contact.

"Not his business or place," I roll my eyes. "Isn't there some confidentiality law he's violating by doing that?"

"We were on the same hockey team," Stéphane points out. As if I don't remember or as if that means laws don't apply. "You seemed okay, he said?"

I nod. The rest of the weekend was fine. Reid and I cohabitated well, I suppose. He ended up grabbing a cheap chess game in the afternoon, and we played Saturday evening as well. On Sunday, we went for a walk even though it was freezing cold, and I helped him move his stuff back into his apartment. The floor is dry at least, and the carpet must be new even if it looks stained already.

"Yeah," I look over at him. "I didn't... you've been going to parole hearings all these years?"

Stéphane nods.

He was Stéphane's friend. His best friend actually. While Stéphane and Luc were friends tangentially, they weren't as close. I mean, I was much closer with Luc. In our rural Québec home, the options were slim for people to know, and being the same age as Stéphane, our circles ran close. There were very few people Stéphane could have become close with altogether, and I remember when things were easy and we fought about having the same friends. Unfortunately, Stéphane was close with him, when I was never.

"Don't tell Caro," Stéphane says. "She's already stressed out about the wedding, and..."

I nod. He doesn't need to ask me. It hadn't even crossed my mind.

"Does Seb know?" I ask.

Stéphane nods again.

I try not to think about Seb. He's the same person as Bastien, obviously, but the idea of Bastien feels more digestible. The adult brother I came back to meet again. Not the child who didn't understand what was happening, why we changed our names and moved countries. Why Stéphane had nightmares for months, dragging himself to the breakfast table with dried tears on his face, nights without screams just quiet sobs. Why I still have nightmares sometimes, though rarely.

"Why tell him?" I ask.

"Bastien's reliable," Stéphane answers.

I laugh, and he does too. Never in a million years would I have imagined anyone describing my little brother that way.

Like I said, everything is fine.

It continues to be fine the next week, and then the next. I'm around people at work constantly. I am never alone, and yet I'm always lonely. When I first started this job, that was all I thought I wanted: a job which was stimulating and prestigious, and a life full of people who don't know me. It's fine. It's supposed to be fine.

When February comes, I expect it to be May. Time feels so slow, the snow on the ground is thicker than every moment. My father never made me shovel growing up, so I'm not sure how to clear a path for myself out of this mess. I just need the snow to melt. It feels like it should be May, but it isn't.

Hotch was served with his divorce papers last week. I am acutely aware of what day it is on Tuesday even if no one else is. It is February fifth. A year ago today, Reid was kidnapped and drugged for the first time. That morning, I make his coffee when I make mine. I put it on his desk, and when I take a sip of mine I recoil. I accidentally put his sugar in my mug. It's far too sweet. When he takes a sip opposite me, absentmindedly, he grimaces too.

All I can do is cling to the one thing I really and truly have. A job that is stimulating and prestigious. I have to start taking breaks to stretch my fingers. My thumb cramps up, stiffens. It's stuck too. Everything is stuck.

On Thursday, I've had enough of the rut. Things aren't going to change unless I change them. I work through my lunch to work on applications for PhD programmes. Most of them are due at the end of February, so I'm cutting it close, and I probably am not going to have as solid of applications as I would like. I reach out to old lecturers to ask for references. I just can't be here anymore. I can't do it. I need to get out.

At the end of the day, I'm still at the office typing when my coat is flung into the side of my head. I turn to look at the culprit. Fucking Morgan.

"Come on Bouchard," he says. "We're going out."

I roll my eyes, but save my work. The rest of the team is ready as always, but the elevator is packed so most of them get inside of it. Only one of them doesn't. It's Reid, because of course it's Reid.

When I'm finally ready, I get up to the elevator beside him. He only presses the down arrow once I'm standing there.

It is February fifth, and last year Reid was kidnapped and tortured. Anniversaries can be terrible. The May flowers that bloom around me always have thorns. Maybe I'm more allergic to pollen than love.

"You doing okay?" I whisper.

He looks over at me, furrowing his brow, "it was a good day, Bouchard."

"Found a new apartment yet?" I ask. He said he doesn't want to stay there anymore.

He shakes his head, "I haven't been looking right now. It's been quite the busy week at work and I try not to stare at computer screens any longer than is absolutely necessary."

The elevator door opens, and it's still packed. Both of us can fit though, and we all ride down in silence. Even with this many bodies pressed inside, I can hear the hum of the lights, the sound of the rubbing metal cords pulling us down.

We meet everyone in the lobby and make the walk over to the bar. I try to listen to JJ's story about something or other, but I keep looking ahead at Reid. It's today. He says that he is fine, but it's been a year. Once we get there, everyone takes turns at the bar. I go second last. Reid goes before me and he orders a drink. I'm so caught of guard that I don't realize the bartender is talking to me for a minute.

Different members of the team start to fade in and out of each other. I sit at a booth, performatively laughing with Prentiss when Garcia says something funny. My brain isn't working properly. I watch Reid order a second drink. I cradle mine the whole night, never finishing the glass. My mind needs to be clear, to keep an eye on him. At the gala, and at every other moment since his addiction started he stopped drinking. Now here he is, holding one in his hands. Most of the others are profilers, but none of them have noticed.

For the first time, I think I've noticed something about Reid that the others haven't.

When Reid moves up to the bar, I chug the rest of my drink down and get up, hoping to beat him to the bartender. He's going to order his third, and I don't feel exactly happy about that. Instead, I put my elbows down on the table and make an order. Reid leans slightly next to me. I can feel his eyes on me but I don't look up.

"Are you doing okay?" he asks, right when I'm passed the next drink. He pushes him empty cup toward the front of the bar and only asks the bartender for a glass of water.

I nod, "absolutely. Only on my second drink, so that's always a good sign."

The second of silence feels poignant.

"Please don't hyper analyze me," I whisper, smirking, making myself do all of it. Tilting my head forward slowly, aware of every individual strand that falls to cover my cheek, stopping when I think it's just the right amount. Resting on my elbows, no pressure on them, ready to move at a moments notice. Prentiss laughs behind me, and I am conscious that this time I can't join in. I heard Garcia's joke just now as well as I did the rest of him.

"Something's bothering you," he whispers back.

I roll my eyes. I take a sip of my drink, but it tastes more bitter in my mouth than I remembered. He doesn't move, leaning in next to me. He always feels so close to me.

"You have a perfect memory," I tell him, still not looking. "You know what day it is."

He keeps hovering. This feels like the closest he's ever been to me. I don't know how that's even possible. We aren't even touching and yet I can feel him next to me, buzzing skin. Actually, I think he'd feel just as close if I was back in my apartment instead of at the bar with him. I think he'd feel this close if I was in Australia again, deciding I didn't miss my siblings, unable to decide that I feel his body, his mind, his everything pressed up against me, static skin but no contact.

"If you are worried about my drinking habits, I've been attending NA, and I feel capable of having two drinks out with friends," he explains. "Alcohol was never an issue for me, but I'm far enough into my recovery that I feel okay trying it again. This isn't the first night I have had a drink in the last year. I'm doing better."

Only then do I peer at him. He does look much better than he did when he was in the throws of his addiction. His hair is still shaggy, but it doesn't look slick with sweat anymore. Obviously he looks healthier and happier. My early days at this job are so clouded by the anger I held toward him, but I think maybe he's happier now than he was when I started here.

I know I am. Against my better judgement.

"I'm doing well too," I admit.

Parole hearings and conversations with Stéphane and weddings and disasters abound, but I'm doing better than I ever have before.

The bartender passes Reid his drink, and I raise my cup.

"Cheers," I manage.

Reid knocks his plastic cup against mine. They do not clink, obviously. They kind of just smush together. I can't stop smiling.

This bar kind of reminds me of the pubs I used to go to during my masters degree. I know I've been here with him before, but it still kind of feels like a new adventure.

~~~~~

You'll have to pry my love for them out of my cold dead hands because it's not going anywhere anytime soon. But it's wedding season (just not for Bouchard and Reid). Any predictions on what will happen next? I wonder what the siblings are up to?