My mother used to call into her job and tell her boss she couldn't come in because one of our children was sick. It drove my father mad. He insisted pulling us into her lies would enrage God, and we would fall ill as a consequence. Maybe that explains why we are the way we are.

Of course, I am my mother's daughter even though I despise it. My lie, that I have plans with Spencer, becomes real not ten minutes later, when I am changing out of my work clothes into the only pair of sweatpants I own and he asks if he could see me.

"It's almost nine," I tell him.

"You don't have to," he says through the phone. "We don't have work tomorrow. You could come around to my place, if you'd like. Not that I don't like Rachel and Estelle, but I'm really tired."

My head hurts at their names. Maybe I'm done with their fight, but if I know Estelle she is going to pound on my door in thirty minutes and demand to know why I didn't say anything to Rachel earlier.

"Okay," I agree. "But I'm not taking the bus."

"I'm about ten minutes from yours," he says. "I went to grab some groceries after we landed."

There isn't a lot of time. Instead of putting on nicer clothes, I strip into a sweater I've been wearing while we do renovations. Paint licks the sleeves. I shift out of my jewelry and braid back my hair. In trainers, I wait in the parking lot. The shred of dignity I maintain is a needle in my back, forcing my body upright to prevent me from curling into a ball in the snow. I exhale stress, thick and white. Or it's just cold outside.

When Reid gets here, I waste no time getting into his car. He leans over and kisses my cheek, hand tight on the stick shift, "you okay?"

"I'm just exhausted," I explain. "I'm going into work tomorrow."

Reid starts to pull back onto the road. I let myself relax into the seat. It's daring, but I lean across the console and touch his arm, just gently. He smiles so softly.

"It'll be Saturday," he swallows the words.

I groan, leaning back in my chair, "I know. Hotch will be in anyway. Prentiss mentioned she's going in too."

"While I appreciate Hotch as our leader, I don't think I would recommend learning from his work-life balance," Reid points out. "Hotch wants you out in the field more this year. Did he at all mention needing you to increase your productivity?"

I groan, "must you always be right?"

"I'm not always right but I am usually knowledgeable."

My face can't pin down my smile. It takes over my face.

We wind up back at his place and keep things quiet. I play chess against him, and we both know I'm rotten. He's been teaching me new defenses, but obviously I'm no match for him. Spencer says he's already had dinner, but he offers me a glass of wine.

While he gets it from the kitchen, I sit on the floor of his living room. He owns this condo too, not outright like me, but he has no roommates. The space is entirely his. The bookshelves on the walls are filled with different books. Some fraying older collectors' volumes, others looked untouched. When you can read a book in ten minutes, it takes effort to make them look worn in. None of the trinkets he has look as new. There are some collectors' memorabilia from the show he and Garcia like, and an old microscope and some other scientific things. There isn't a single photo up. It's a cold older place, with dark green walls and brown flooring. It really feels like his home.

Valentine's Day is coming up, and now I've got to get him an entirely new gift. It's second nature to me, but Spencer has more money than I do, and my friends and family as well. Anything I could buy for him, he could buy himself. He's not a penny pincher. The leather sofa behind me isn't cracked or worn. We usually sit on the rug on the floor, crossed legs, hovering over books or a chess board. What could I possibly give him?

What does he even see in me?

I hear his footsteps and snap my gaze to the doorway. Spencer carries in a tray with wineglasses. He sets it down. In the middle of the tray, on a wooden board, he has a spread of cheese, meat, and crackers. Nothing ridiculously fancy, but I know how he eats. This wasn't just here.

"Grocery shopping?" I cock an eyebrow.

He smiles, "you like fancy things."

I gesture down to my outfit, "you think?"

"Yes," he smiles. "You always talk about your first master's degree as your time in Oxford. You never talk about Australia the same way."

"How do I talk?"

Spencer raises an eyebrow, "do you want me to profile you? Because I can, if that's-"

I lean forward, cutting him off with a kiss. He curls in closer to me, hands finding my chin and pulling me in.

He talks about the case while we snack, and soon the clock is itching closer and closer to the middle of the night. I should get going soon. I start to yawn, covering my mouth every time I do to try and hide it.

"Colette," my name is his.

I blink up at him, "what?"

"You can stay," he offers. "I don't... well, I don't mind."

"I don't have a toothbrush," I manage.

He smiles just a bit. Reid grabs my hands and help me up. I feel dizzy on my feet. His shoulder brushes mine, then leans in. He's tired too. Not just in the way he tilts and falls into me, bumbling a bit, but in the ways his eyes sit. They are waxing then fading, like the candlelight.

I let him guide me down the hall. We stop just outside his bathroom. He reaches into a storage closet, and pulls out a teal caddy. Inside, there is a toothbrush. Among other items, including a comb, hair ties, travel shampoo, soap, and conditioner. I look through, even pausing on the pads.

"Just thought... well, it would be easier than having to carry things around," Spencer says. "I wanted it to be... you are particular about soap and shampoo and all that stuff. I remember you saying you don't like to use the items in hotels even if they are free. Maybe it's also the luxury thing, but I figured this was better than nothing. I thought you'd think it was weird if I had bought you the soap you use. Maybe it's weird that I'm admitting that I know, but I've showered at your place, so it's not that weird. And this stuff smells similar, I checked."

I kiss him again, even though it's hard to do it. Mostly, I just want to hear him talk and talk until I fall asleep, and then wake up to the sound of his voice again.

He gets ready for bed first. I throw on one of his t-shirts. My hips don't fit easily into his pajamas, and I hold a few pairs for a second before I settle on some sweatpants, so large I struggle to imagine how he manages to hold them up, or why he even owns them. I've slept in his bed before. I guess, technically, when it's gotten so late that I fall asleep during a movie and he carries me in here.

After both of us have our teeth brushed, I join him in the bed. My body feels so stiff. I excuse myself for just a second, slipping out of the room and into the kitchen. I take a piece of ice from his freezer and hold it in my hands.

I can do this. Sleep next to him, at his place, with the things he's bought for me. We're dating. Officially. Titled and everything and it should be fine. I should be fine. He makes me so happy. Just, why can't I do this? If I'm over it, which I am, what exactly is blocking me from slotting comfortably in his bed?

I go back and lie down next to him. Neither of us move to touch each other. In the night, our limbs might, crawling through the cold room and reaching for each other. I can't control myself when I'm asleep. He bought things for me. He intends for me to stay, here, with him. I bought a condo. My research supervisor at Georgetown would take me on for a PhD if I wanted to do it. I could stay. I could. I could.

Soon, I hear his breath slowing beside me.

"Thank you," he murmurs, half-asleep.

"Don't," I whisper. "It's the bare minimum."

I turn my head to face him. His eyes are crescents, half-lidded. Any second now, sleep will carry him away. I'm surprised he even lasted this long. I can't believe he is even capable of looking at me.

How did he manage to do it?

"The inferiority complex doesn't suit you," he whispers. "You are better when you are bragging."

"Keep telling me what to do and we will see my inferiority complex start to disappear," I whisper. "You can't help yourself, can you?"

Reid smiles, "I don't tell you what to do that much."

I join in his joy. My fingers reach forward, tucking a lose strand of brown hair out of his eyes, "now you're telling me how I should remember us? I know you have a great memory, but I don't have holes in mine."

"Can..." he trails off. One hand reaches up, touching mine and holding it in place to his face. "Can I ask one more thing of you?"

I shift to move upward. He lets go of my hand, grabbing my shoulder. His fingers press into me.

"Stay," he whispers, eyes wide. "Please."

The room feels colder. The only warm thing in here is his touch.

I nod my head. He relaxes back into the sheets. He falls asleep like this, one arm on my shoulder. Slowly and slowly fading away.

For hours I last, unable to sleep, wanting desperately to be carried away into the land of dreams. It feels too much like leaving, like betraying him. Nearing the witching hour, I crawl out of bed, resting his hand on me against the pillow. I try the ice trick again, watching it melt into the sink, seeping through the cracks between my fingers. I am fine.

The house is so quiet I don't even dare whisper to myself.

Then, my phone rings. I hurry down the hall. Reid is sitting up in bed, reaching for my phone on the nightstand next to where I should be in bed. He grabs it before I do. He glances up at me and I take it.

Rachel is calling. I hang up and put it down.

"Sorry," I tell him. "I had to pee."

"Who was that?"

"No one im-"

The phone rings again.

I pick it up and bring the receiver to my ear.

"What?" I snap.

"Do you have any family in town?" her voice is shaking. "Like, a brother, or cousin or something?"

My heart drops.

~~~~~

Duh duh. New Bastien lore just about to drop. Or maybe it's not Bastien. It could be Stéphane. Or someone else entirely. Any predictions?