The next two days are much of the same. I come in on time and I have to stay late. I figure out that they are investigating the killing of some sex workers in town. It's announced on television, but I hear them talking about it throughout the day. On Wednesday they let me go home because they caught the guy. Not the kid, apparently. My hours are so late though that I've only communicated to Estelle through post-it notes on the fridge. She is asleep by the time I get home. The jetlag is getting to her.

Dr. Reid doesn't come in to work on Thursday. Garcia seems upset too, and she goes home during lunch. No one fills me in, and I've got no idea if that's because none of them talk about the things they see, or if it's because they only talk about those sorts of things with each other. It doesn't matter to me.

Due to all of the overtime, they decide I get to work a halfday on Friday. Agent Hotchnet lets me know by calling me into his office. In turn, I let him know that I plan to be out of town over the weekend, without access to the internet. If they need me, I can be at the office within a few hours if they call.

"You're allowed to spend time away," he lets me know. "We all have each other's backs here. Next Friday, Morgan is going to visit his family in Chicago."

I nod, "thank you, sir."

When I leave, I shake my head. We don't have each other's backs here. They might, but they all have a different bond than I do. They all work cases together. I imagine Garcia even feels a bit strained because she doesn't go into the field. Regardless, I keep to myself.

At the flat, all I want is some peace and quiet. However, Estelle is awake and excited to see me. She is cooking dinner, swaying to the music on her radio.

"There you are!" she practically squeals, only barely glancing away from what she is stirring in her pot. "I've been so excited to see you. I wasn't expecting you, but I'm glad I had the forethought to make extra so you could have the leftovers later. We can just eat together. It's chicken mafé. Also, I got you a souvenir as your birthday gift. I hope you don't mind! I'll give it to you tomorrow."

"I'm going to visit Stéphane tomorrow, in Virginia," I say.

She drops her spoon on the counter and turns around to look at me. Her eyes wide, she steps in closer and closer, "what have they done to you, Colette? Mieux vaut prévenir que guérir, non?"

I must look as tired as I feel. Maybe my voice sounds off, although I've had so much caffeinated hot drinks this week that my voice should be like butter. She must see something though. Estelle loves to practice her English. She only switched over to speaking English full-time in college, and she had to take two years of classes to get to where she is now. The schools I went to were mostly in English, with few exceptions. It is rare that I struggle with the language, and Prentiss is the first person in many years to notice it's not my native tongue.

The only time Estelle speaks to me in French is when one of us is at our breaking point. It must look like I've hit mine.

The proverb she uses is one we always trade in these situations. Neither of us is French by birthright. My mother is from Québec, my father from Louisianna, and Estelle grew up in Côte d'Ivoire. Yet, we repeat that French phrase to each other all the same. Mieux vaut prévenir que guérir. It is better to prevent than to cure.

"I'm fine," I offer, sitting down at our kitchen island.

The flat is too small for a table. We've got the kitchen island and a small living room, and we've got our two bedrooms and a bathroom that we share. We live in an expensive area of D.C. too, so I am not complaining. Our last flat was miserably confined, and when I got the new job, we agreed to move. Both of our places of employment are closer now. If I were commuting as far as I would be if we hadn't packed up our things and brought them here, I can't imagine how terrible I would look.

"You need to eat," she says. "It's a good thing you are going to see Stéphane. He's worried about you."

"Tell him to text me instead of you next time," I'll play her game in French, just to please her.

"He would text you if you were more approachable," she points out. "How is the new job? Are your coworkers nice?"

"It's fine. They are fine," I tell her. "How was the conference?"

It seems I have distracted her sufficiently because then she dives into a spiel about all of the things she learned. The Hague is the best place she could have done a seminar on the media's influence on the Rwandan genocide. She was happy to stick it to all the UN diplomats who attended. One of them thought she was Rwandan, and she didn't correct the guy just because he looked so guilty.

"Sorry," she finishes. "I know genocide wasn't your area of interest. I was trying to distract you, but I think I actually just made you sad."

"If I didn't want to hear about genocide, I wouldn't live with you," I joke. "It's inevitable. Oh, also, do you know a Dr. Reid?"

"He guest lectures at Georgetown," Estelle begins to plate our food. "I've met him once, but I don't know if he would even remember me. That works out in my interest anyway. He lectures on criminal psychology, like that's a legitimate field."

"Well, he works with me," I say. "He's something, all right."

Estelle passes me my food and sits down next to me, "well, he was nice at least. Criminal psychology aside, anyway."

"You know I work in behavioural profiling," I point out. "You're insulting my profession."

"Please. We sat together in lectures so I know that you know most of it is junk science," she points out.

I don't argue with her because she is right. Lots of it is junk science. You cannot figure out much of anything about a person by looking at their socks. A profiler might look at my plain socks and think that I have some sort of need to look put together, or that I prefer routine and regular things. In reality, socks with patterns often have a different fabric on the inside, and I find those itchy and distracting.

"I disagree," I tell her. "His personality is much more annoying than his research."

"You are stubborn though. Once you get a first impression, you never change your mind," Estelle begins to eat. "I got lucky that you don't hate me."

I don't argue with her once more. Instead, we eat, and she tells me more about the social life she had in The Hague. One of the colleagues she met might fly here in the new year to guest lecture at Georgetown if everything goes smoothly. It sucks because I cannot help but think that it could be me doing all of that. If I had applied to Georgetown for a PhD, I could be going around and talking about research.

I didn't want to even come back to America though. If I were stuck in a PhD program here for the next five years, I'd go mad.

Although, I'm already going crazy, so there is that.

After dinner, she gives me the gift she got for my birthday. It's a patch from The Hague. We went to the Netherlands one summer together, and I can add it next to that patch. Then, I surprise her with the gift I picked up for her. It's a baseball cap. On the front, there is white stitching of a cow getting picked up in a tractor beam. She squeals. It almost makes me laugh that she is obsessed with cryptids but hates criminal profiling because it's a junk science. I ignore the inconsistency. Humans are anything but uniform.

After exchanging gifts, we put on a movie, and I stitch my patch onto the bag. I was right. Silence is more silent when she is around. Soon enough though, the patch is attached to my bag and the movie is over. We head to bed.

Then, the routine repeats.

Friday morning, there is a coffee mug with a ribbon tied around it on top of my desk. I pull at the end of the thick pink thing, and it unwraps around the mug. Below it, I can see the FBI insignia has been printed on the front. There is a bag of coffee beans inside the mug, and six packs of sugar.

I begin to inspect it, holding it up in front of me. Does someone know it's my birthday?

"Garcia says you like to drink coffee on your breaks," Dr. Reid says from across me. "I thought you might like to have your own mug."

"I'll be able to tell it apart from the others, that's for sure," I shake my head looking at the front.

"I... I thought it would be nice," Dr. Reid stutters. "You know... since- since you don't really feel welcome here. Morgan said I should get you a mug that said Federal Booby Inspector instead, but I... Morgan likes to joke around."

It's the apology that JJ said Dr. Reid would give me. Fully a week after the incident too, and on my birthday of all things. And of course, accompanying the apology is another nasty comment about how I'm unlikeable.

My head spins over to Morgan's desk. He has the sneakiest of grins on his face even though he is pretending that he isn't listening in on our conversation.

"This mug is definitely preferable to one which objectifies women," I shake my head.

"I didn't know how many sugars you take," Dr. Reid continues on. "I hope six is enough."

"Have you ever made coffee before?" I ask, looking at him.

He looks like a dear caught in headlights. I'm not surprised someone who graduated from MIT before I graduated high school is so socially inept. Although, you'd think a profiler would be more socially capable than this. They're rotten, all of them.

"He takes seven sugars," Morgan chuckles to himself.

"Aren't you busy pretending not to be listening?" I shoo away Morgan.

Before Dr. Reid can continue to put his foot in his mouth by repeating that he thinks I have an inferiority complex or that he has noticed that I don't belong here, I head into the breakroom. The beans aren't ground, and there is no coffee grinder in any of the cupboards. There is, however, a blender. I grind the beans by using the pulse setting. The blender turns on for three seconds, and then off for three, and I do this for a bit too long. Once the coffee is made, it tastes awful. I add in half the sugars to counteract it, and it gets even worse. Due to my anger, I let the beans burn, and now I'm left to suffer the consequences.

If I told Dr. Reid that story, I bet he'd have something smart to say about it. Maybe the stupid metaphor of it all would get him to decide to get an English degree. I bet he'd fast-track it too. I'd give him six months to complete the entire degree.

"The coffee is supposed to be the thing that wakes you up you know, not the sound of the blender," Morgan says, stepping into the room.

I scrunch my nose. The part of me that is the most juvenile has to resist the urge to stick my tongue out at him.

"You know, you really should try to avoid being a stereotype," he says. "Everybody likes a feisty ginger, but it is unoriginal."

"You're one to talk," I roll my eyes. "How's your wannabe playboy game going?"

"It's going just fine," Morgan's voice is smooth. I want to hit my head against the wall. "It's Friday after all, and I've got plans."

"Yeah, so do I," I shake my head. Then, I head back to my desk. The day cannot move by more quickly. "Maybe I'll bother some other people with my feisty routine."

Soon enough, it is lunchtime. People begin to clear out of the bullpen. to go to the breakroom. It seems that I am the only one who has been given the afternoon off, which I assume I've been granted because this is my first official week. Without a word, I head out of the building. Agent Hotchner can let them know where I've gone if they have any questions. Dr. Reid disappeared on me, so I am returning the favour.

~~~~~

Okay, I'm way ahead, and sometimes I forget how mean she was lol. Colette Bouchard is baby though. Heart of gold, I promise haha. Next chapter I think will be fun and a great insight into her personality. The SIBLINGS! Urgh, my heart is just for them.