"How long will you be gone?" Rachel asks.

"Hopefully only a few days."

I'm thankful that she's driving me in. Spencer would offer, but I didn't ask. He'd say yes, of course he would. However, I don't want people to think I'd ask him.

Then, I furrow my brow and look at Rachel, "why?"

Rachel shrugs. If she weren't driving. I'd nudge her. Her eyes are too focused on the road.

"Rachel-"

"When was the last time you talked to Bastian?" she glances over at me, just briefly.

I hate the way she drives, one hand on the lowest part of the steering wheel. Her free arm props up her head, the elbow resting on the edge of the window. IF she's running late, Rachel will do her make-up in the car and drive with her knees. I haven't driven since Caro's wedding but I remember how tight my grip was on the wheel. I had a nightmare last night about driving. The breaks had failed.

"Cole?"

"You mean Bastien?" I try not to be aggressive as I correct her pronunciation, but I'm simultaneously trying to pretend I didn't zone out, and it's hard to do both effectively. "Not for the last week."

"He's... well it's not my business," Rachel says. "You can tell him I didn't tell you, just like he asked me. I just... why is he hiding shit from you? Like you're his mother?"

I grit my teeth. He's probably drinking. Or maybe he's sneaking out. I suppose it could be something else. I can't tell if I'm mind reading or fortune telling, and I can't even ask Mary about it later.

"Just ignore him. And I'm glad. I don't want you reporting on him."

"I wouldn't say anything If I didn't think he had a problem," she says. "Don't even think it's an alcohol problem, but it's a problem."

So, drinking.

Rachel pulls the car over. After I climb out with my go bag, it's easier to pretend that I'm not afraid of flying. I'm too busy pretending I'm not worried about Bastien. Well that, and I'm trying desperately not to glance at Spencer when I enter the jet.

The plane takes off and people say hello. Spencer no louder or more particularly than anyone else. Morgan seems happy to see me out on the arson case. I had to wait an hour for Rachel to get back from grocery shopping, so I missed part of the debrief. They aren't going to start for the first leg of the flight, so while everyone commits to idle chit chatter, I lie back.

I'm too busy to play niceties, even though that is decidedly why I am here. According to my performance review, I need to be kinder. My mind is racing though, preoccupied with pretending I'm not worried about Bastien. Well, that, and I'm trying desperately not to focus on Spencer. At least he is far enough away that I can't smell his shampoo.

He's Reid here. With my eyes closed, I try to picture him as Reid, the way he looked when we first met. Amber eyes that could barely meet mine. So warm, like his soft breath on my face. Cheeks flushed, lips ripe and red and swollen and-

"Cole?"

I look up. Prentiss has an eyebrow raised, and the rest of the team is staring at me.

Swallowing, I sit up, "sorry?"

"I'll grab a bag," Reid, Spencer maybe I'm not sure, gets up and slips from this room toward the other where we sleep on longer flights.

"I'm fine," I call after him, then turn back to stare at Prentiss. "I'm not going to be sick."

"Bouchard, you're bright red and three minutes ago you were even paler than usual," Morgan's voice is too quiet. It's unnerving. "Now be honest. Do you feel queasy?"

I pinch my leg to stop my face from contorting. Can everyone tell that planes make me sick? I'm not sure if I'm the least bit successful in containing myself, but we start to go through the profile. The process mostly involves Reid spewing facts about arson and the town that we're going to visit.

It's a small town.

"They're going to assume anyone we question is guilty."

I nod along.

It was clear from the beginning that He did it, no questions. The publication ban was on my name alone. His was public record, along with his list of charges. People stared. I stopped going to Catholic mass when the father led a prayer on my behalf, without asking. He begged God for clarity, for my salvation, for my repentance. His damnation if what he did was wrong. The underlying context was clear. It was my damnation otherwise.

Luc was even less lucky. I wonder how often he really goes back, and if he still feels the glare of wandering eyes on his neck.

"Bouchard," Hotch says. "You'll shadow. Talk to victims."

I think back to my feedback in my annual performance review. I can be pleasant. So I agree, "on it."

I'm lucky now too. Well, luckier. Helping with victim services and interviewing the surviving family keeps me removed from the investigation. Rumours still spin around me, even if they aren't about me. A mother says between tears that it must be so-and-so who did such-and-such. A father shakes his fist and screams the name of the girl he swears did ti, but the team thinks it's a man. It usually is a man.

It's a small town. Smaller than mine too, and that provides some relief though not enough.

I have to call Stéphane when this is over. It's too much. There isn't enough ice in this fiery town.

Then, the team figures it out. The arsonist is a man who was close to his sister. Too close, according to the rumours out here. Calling Stéphane after that revelation goes out the window. When Hotch asks, I tell him that I'm doing fine. I'm aware that he asks the question twice.

We rush in to apprehend the guy; my hand touches the cool metal fo the fun and things sharply focus.

"You sure you're okay?" Hotch asks before we burst in, door number three.

I nod, brow slick with sweat from sprinting.

We burst in the building, all of us surrounding the arsonist. Tommy. He gives up, his sister cries beside him, and I put the gun back. The world dissipates with the adrenaline leaving me, and things feel foggy once more. I hate that shooting gives me clarity. I love Bastien, but we have the worst things in common; our immaturity, our ability to shoot well, and our inability to say what the fuck is bothering us.

"Rossi and I will close out some paperwork," Hotch says. He carefully doesn't look at me. "The rest of you take an hour to go and pack."

I do as he says. Morgan pats my shoulder. Hotch probably gave more away that I didn't notice. I bet all of them know this is because of me.

"You're welcome," I manage to say when the five of us cramp in together into a car and drive back to the hotel.

JJ sits in the middle. I'm thankful I don't have to dodge Spencer's eyes.

"You grew up in a small town too?" she asks.

I shrug, "it was more the incest thing that got me. I've got a fraternal twin brother, and people can be weird about it."

Morgan steers the car more gently around corners after that. I pack quickly and rinse off in seconds in the shower. Water so cold I actually yelp when it hits my chest. When I step out I look pale, probably how I looked on the plane. I don't pack nice clothes with me, or anything comfortable. Just work clothes, even more blazers than I wear at the office. I do braid my hair though, letting my fingers work their way through my scalp.

I still can't call Stéphane, but I've got forty minutes and I'm going to go crazy.

The hotel door creaks when I enter the hallway. I release it slowly, letting it gently click shut behind me. Spencer's hotel room door is propped open, just slightly. My feet shuffle on the thin carpet, but I manage to step into his room without making much noise, and I close the door behind me.

Spencer sits at the foot of his bed. I step closer, one foot then the next. When I'm close enough, I plop down beside him. My head finds its home in the crook of his neck. Never close enough.

My voice doesn't rise above a whisper, "the reason we left – well other than my mother's neglect – was, well, people in small towns talk. Dad would've won a custody fight, but we agreed to go because I hated the stares. After my hospitalization, I mean, people wouldn't stop looking at me. Stéphane too, since he looked so haunted. Caro misses it so much. And Stéphane despite everything, but I doubt he'd ever want to actually live in Québec again. I mean, it was his friend who-"

I choke. Spencer folds me into him, one arm wrapped tightly around me. I release one solitary sob.

"So I really hate," I breathe in deeply. My face burns, tears streaming on my skin. "I hate small towns. And I hate that everyone can tell that I'm upset. That they are staring at me."

Spencer holds me tighter. From this angle, I can't tell if he's staring too.

~~~~~

Do people enjoy Cole on cases? I just think it's a rehash of the show, so I only include it if I think it's really relevant. This one though, this one is super relevant.