Thankfully they are gone on a case for the next week. I can just bury myself at my desk. Over lunch I power through PhD applications. Suddenly it is May. Rachel and Estelle help me look them over on Friday evening.

"Georgetown will love it," Estelle says.

Rachel glances over at me. I'm helping Estelle in the kitchen, and she sits with my laptop balanced on a knee, reading over my application to UPenn. I'm glad I can't see the screen, because I'd be biting my nails with the amount of edits she's adding. Besides, this way Estelle can't see it either. Because despite my promises to Mary, I haven't told her about it.

"Yeah, one can hope," I manage. "I'm not worried about it."

"You're applying part-time," Estelle says. "You should worry. This is the next six years of your life. Unless you decide t-"

"I like my job," I tilt my head. My hands are covered in dough. Estelle leans over and tucks the hair behind my ear. "Thank you. That was itchy."

"It looks good," Rachel says.

She's fucking lying, because she's been at it for twenty minutes. I keep trying to hover and she shushes me away.

"Her hair always looks good," Estelle laughs.

Rachel snorts, "the application. It's tight."

"It's fucking disastrous," I shake my head and the hair falls again. I groan, "nobody wants to hear about digilantism right now. It's a hot button issue."

"But under researched," Estelle counters. "The perfect combo."

On the counter my phone rings. Again. I ignore it. This time, Estelle grabs it.

"I'm not letting you ignore him," she says. "Good friends don't allow their friends boyfriends to go to voicemail three times."

"No, Estelle!" despite my pleas she picks up the phone and shoves it in the crook of my neck. I can't even remove it so I sigh, "hey Spencer."

"Hey," he says. "We, well... we just got back. Are you free?"

"No, I'm swamped with my application," I say. Estelle glares at me and I roll my eyes. "And besides, I've got this thing with Rachel early tomorrow, shopping for her Mom's birthday and she's not exactly... I won't bore you with the details. We're all bigfoot hunting with Estelle on Sunday too. So I can see you Monday after work, maybe?"

It's already March, and I'll have therapy Monday at lunch, so at least it'll give me something to talk about other than my homework failure. That is, the impending doom of my relationship with Spencer.

"I can... yeah, I'll be free after work on Monday," I'm glad that while he speaks the oven starts beeping. The distraction makes me focus on his words rather than how he says them. "I... I've missed you."

"I miss you," I lower my voice. Estelle hits me with a dishcloth. "I... I really do wish I could. See you, I mean. Today."

"It was nice tha you checked in. During the case, well... I was happy to hear from you. I always am."

I did text. Not call, of course, that's too risky, but I did text him. It was nice to hear updates from him. JJ always sends me an email at the end of the case, and I'll be able to delete the one in my inbox Monday morning without reading a word of it. Even through text, I could always listen to it.

Just, not about him telling the team.

"I've got to go," I manage. "Ovens gone off."

"I heard it in the background of the call," he says. "I take it that it isn't you who's cooking, is it? You're helping Estelle."

"I'm supposed to be helping," I find myself scoffing.

It wasn't a lie. I have missed him. A carved and deep part of me. Just like my grin now, hearing his voice, knowing it couldn't possibly be me cooking of no accord.

"I won't keep you then," I can hear his smile.

We bid each other our good-byes and then he hangs up. I wash my hands so I can finally remove my phone.

The oven shuts, the metal clanging. The button clicks as Estelle turns it off.

"My Mom is born in July," Rachel snorts. "But I can't wait to hunt Bigfoot. It sounds like a blast."

"Me neither," Estelle's voice is flat. "Because I'm not lying for you, Cole. So we're hunting Bigfoot."

It is the longest weekend of my life. I don't even have to avoid Bastien so as to prevent any conversations about my sobbing last weekend. It was difficult during the work week, but I think he was avoiding me just as much. Originally, I had wanted to catch up on a project over the weekend. Though I'm exhausted, I drag myself into work early Monday morning. It's so early that I scarf down a burrito on the subway before the rush, when there is room for me to sit. I could even lie down, if I wanted. There's only one security guy there to check me over. It's the fastest I get through it.

Spencer is already upstairs. I suck in air.

"Hey," he says.

I sit down across him, pulling out my phone to begin two-factor authentication.

"What umm... what happened last night?" Reid asks.

"Bastien got in a screaming match with Estelle, and called Stéphane," I manage. "Nothing too serious."

Instead of unlocking the computer, I text Estelle the lie. I don't bother with Bastien yet, but I'll remember.

Spencer's face falls.

I glance up at him, "it was nothing serious. I promise."

He nods.

Besides, I actually need to get work done. I have therapy this afternoon, and I don't think I technically satisfied the requirements of my homework. I toy with my computer mouse, clicking through files, trying to get things done.

Finally, I huff. There's still probably thirty minutes before anyone comes in. Now, or never I guess.

"I should tell you something," I say.

Spencer looks at me. He gets up from his desk and moves around. Next to me, he takes a spot in Morgan's desk. Not even Hotch is in yet, but there are some administrative assistants running around and with so much quiet around us my voice would be clear. It would be easier to say something in a crowded room, to find the words deep within me and shout them with his ear pressed up against my face, but here there are no bodies to muffle the sound of a confession and no passive ignorers, only witnesses.

"What?" he asks.

"I've..." I can't do it. I can't do it. "I lied, when I said I never called Luc. I did. And we used to date."

Spencer doesn't say anything. I lean forward and rest my hand on his. He doesn't recoil either, but he doesn't speak. I can hear the elevator buzzing, even from here all the way in the bullpen. I take off my glasses with my free hand so I can see him without obstruction.

"We were only together when I was fifteen," I say. "I just... I wanted to talk to somebody. About Karine's death. He also knew the guy who killed her, like Stéphane."

It counts for something, part of a confession. Spencer takes my hand and squeezes it.

"Is that why... well, other than you brother..."

"We haven't spoken in a few weeks," I explain.

Spencer nods.

It isn't enough. And honesty matters to me. Mary, unfortunately, made me realize that. I hate it. I really do, but I feel like my skin is too tight, like everything is dry and I need to just let off some steam, cool myself down, hydrate myself. I need water. I need ice.

"I'm in therapy too," I tell him. "I have an appointment this afternoon. Just to talk. About May."

Spencer leans in closer. He shifts to put his hand on my knee. I stand up, a bit quickly. I try not to shift my head to look around, to see if anyone noticed the gesture. Then, I gesture for him to follow me.

We go to the records room, dusty and full of boxes, where we sat on the floor over a year ago and he confessed his addiction. Last time I was here, I had just gotten a letter and I was sobbing on the floor. Now though, I'm with him. Physically, lose and in the privacy of the room I lean up onto the tips of my toes and kiss him.

He returns the gesture, cupping my face and holding it tightly. Our noses bump, our faces twist. I can feel breath hitching, His fingers reach back, tracing the nape of my neck. I try not to shiver, try not to push myself in closer to him. My hands roam his back, feeling his spine through the sweater vest and button up, through every layer of clothing.

We are close, but not close enough. Never close enough.

I break first, but he follows. I rest my forehead against his.

"We should," I huff out one breath. What exactly should we do in here? This room, which feels more private than my condo. "We should get back to our desks."

He nods. He stands up properly so his head is above mine. He kisses my forehead. Then, we leave the room. Him first, me after.

I try my best to work, but it's more distracting with him opposite me now. I wait to watch, to see if I catch him looking at me like I'm lost. The therapy thing, the confession, I expect him to react. Of course, he doesn't. Mary will be pleased to hear about it. Well, maybe not. She'll be pleased to ask me about it, and to bring it up in six weeks when I've forgotten that I told her. Although, I can't be sure that I'll forget.

Stéphane did hockey, not basketball, but at least I know what pivoting is. And this is it.

Half an hour before my shift, I hear my name shouted through the bullpen by my brother.

"Cole!"

Though their voices are similar, it is not the one who barged in here most recently.

Bastien storms through the bullpen. I stand up, hurrying to grab my coat. I don't even try to shove a sleeve in, and instead bend over to try and log out of my computer. He grabs my shoulder and spins me around.

"What's this?" he demands, the language I know best as coming out of my angry mother's mouth. I see what's in his pocket before he even finishes pulling it out. A flash of red.

"Keep your voice down," I huff. I grab my things.

"Hey, woah," Morgan stands up. He puts his hand on Bastien's shoulder and then sees his face. A grin spreads across his cheeks. "Stéphane part two. You look just like your brother."

"This is family business," Bastien shrugs out of his grip. He stumbles just a bit.

I breathe in. He smells like beer.

"Come on," I grab him. I look around at the team. Prentiss and Morgan and Reid all staring at me. I tilt my head slightly. "I'm going to take an early lunch. Tell Hotch that I'm with my dumbass brother, if he asks."

I grab my purse and coat with one hand, and the collar of Bastien's jacket and drag him out of the bullpen.

"French is not the secret language you think it is," I hiss. "The woman speaks it, idiot."

"What's this?" he asks again, pulling it from his pocket.

It's new. All the other ones are shredded.

I press the button to the elevator, "are you reading my mail? That's a federal crime. I'm a federal officer, you absolute-"

"It's not your mail," he says.

I shush him. Bastien flips over the envelope. I see who it is addressed to, and my stomach flips.

Colette Marie Claude Morel

~~~~~

Very dramatic, very uh oh spaghettio.