The end of February quickly becomes the first week of March but time feels still. Estelle did have a good time on her trip, and she thanks me by making extra food at meals for me more often than not. I'm thankful because after a week of paperwork post Mardi Gras, I am done. Reid only gets worse and worse.

Then, we somehow get to the middle of March and Reid and I still aren't communicating. No one has mentioned it to me yet, but surely they must have noticed. We aren't back to our usual pattern of constant bickering, but we are still not speaking. Other people are giving Reid the cold shoulder too. It isn't just me at the very least. He and Morgan are only just starting to talk again. Still, I get no comments on my code, no questions about my lunch while I'm at the coffee maker. Nothing.

Estelle is even busier with the semester wrapping up, and fire season starts in two months so Stéphane is busier than usual. Caro has called to ask me twice about bridesmaid dresses, which she is thinking blue or pink, and she's leaning toward pink which I know will look terrible on me and I get interviewed by the military twice for Bastien's job and it's looking like this is going to be an ongoing thing even though my FBI clearance should speak for itself. I'm going insane, and maybe that explains it.

At least, I'm hoping it explains why I follow Reid into the storage closet where they keep a few physical files, since he much prefers physical over digital. It probably doesn't explain why I stand in front of the doorway, knowing he is behind the door but not stepping inside. Not guilty by reason of insanity, your honour.

Finally, I open the door. Reid stands over a box on one of the shelves at the end of a corridor a bit down. He twists his head over to look at me, and just like how time feels still, so does this moment. I watch as his jaw twists shut, surely his teeth clenched tightly in his mouth, and his normally awfully hucnched posture seems to stiffen, lengthen.

"I don't want to play the avoiding game forever," I say as the door swings shut behind me.

It's not a lie. I was starting to like feeling only unsafe in the workplace when I was in the room with a suspect who has a weapon. Unlike the trenches we were in before, we've reached a Cold War, and I'm ready to move on from our mutually assured destruction.

"I'm not avoiding you," Reid says. Honestly, I don't think he's lying either. Sure, I don't think I have the best read on anyone, but he is always so painfully brutally honest that a lie would feel even more strange than all of his behaviour over the past month and a half.

"Well, you certainly aren't being a team player this week."

He furrows his brow, "I'm returning the favour."

He cocks his head to the side and I find myself matching the gesture. I read the FBI handbook twice during training, and since starting here, I peruse it every so often. No page could explain to me how to read him. It's a gift he has, another aspect of our existence as coworkers that is unbalanced. He is smarter, more knowledgeable, and more likable than me. He also is every bit more confusing.

"Okay, fine," I step in closer, just so I'm blocking the hallway for his exit, and I sit down. I cross my legs too, for good measure.

It's not as musty in here as I had thought it would be, but surely my pants are going to have white dust all over the rear when we leave. If we leave. Nobody wants physical files anyway. At least this shows I'm committed. I'm pulling an Estelle, and he can cope. They seem to like each other enough anyway that the gesture might work.

There is a bit of a smile on his face, "you're being uncharacteristically forward."

"Really? Because you are being uncharacteristically reserved and bitter," I shrug. "We can't have two assholes roaming the office. You're stealing my job. And my literal job, since you can understand code nearly as well as I can."

Reid pushes aside a cart. He sits on the ground across from me. He's still bundled up, even though it is getting warmer and warmer every day. Maybe my scale is off from travelling so much. He is from Las Vegas, after all.

"Profile me," Reid says.

He widens his eyes, lips pressed together in a tight line. He taps his fingers on his corduroy pants, not even resting them on his knees. No words leave his mouth. His eyes don't even leave mine.

I furrow my brow, "I'm not a profiler."

"We have a moratorium on intra-team profiling anyway, so don't worry," Reid's hands still. "Give it your best shot."

I look at him. He twists his head a bit, as if he finds his collar itchy.

"Fine," I decide that if he gets mad about my observations then we can finally call ourselves completely even. "You're avoiding all of us. Not just me. Morgan is still mad that you didn't show overnight, and I don't think you gave him a good enough reason to explain your absence in New Orleans. Morgan's pretty easy-going with you, so you've fucked up big time. You don't eat with us at lunch. Your behaviour at times is unpredictable, erratic. I didn't think you could be angry until Mardi Gras. Something is going on. I think Hotch knows since he's so hands on. It's probably the only reason you've been amicable this week, since Hotch loves to pull strings."

Reid blinks back at me. I know it's not really a profile. I'm not analyzing his body language or his motivations really. Leaning forward, I try to see what he sees. The heavy layers of clothing, the sweat on his forehead despite his shivering, the tinge to his skin that looks like he is healing from a terrible beating. There's a pattern to it too. He got worse and worse over the trip. Day one wasn't so bad, but every day since he got more bitter and snappy.

I stand up, peering down at him.

"You shouldn't have told me that."

He glances at me, "I didn't tell you anything."

"You shouldn't have."

"I didn't," he insists.

"You did."

"I didn't. You're not even a profiler."

"If anyone..." I breathe in deep, looking at the walls.

Even standing, high above him, the shelves tower over me. The hallway we are in is narrow. Originally that had seemed like a good idea, to trap him in the hallway with just me. Usually, close walls are comfortable. It's a strange thought, but sometimes leaning against a wall can feel like a blanket. Not here. Not with him.

"If anyone knows that I know, it's my badge too," I tell him.

He doesn't look at me. A lack of eye contact indicates he's uncomfortable. Doing the profiler thing doesn't bring me joy. Even a surface-level observation like that feels invasive. If he can't say something with his words, he shouldn't try to get me to figure it out. I don't like nosey people, and I'm not usually the kind of person to pry.

Insanity is the only explanation. All this talk of weddings, military, job training, and ethics board reviews has me so fuddled up. Never before have I been the person people talk to when they have a major life event going on, and all of this going on has overwhelmed my sense so much I stopped thinking.

Reid's right. Being smart might make you more prone to bad decisions since you assume the decisions you make are probably right and you become less likely to look for flaws.

What am I doing here? I should be doing a PhD in Sweden right now. I don't mind the cold. It's hot in here. With all this old paperwork, we're sitting in a tinder box. I should be in Sweden and instead I'm in a room, doing a valuable job that I'm only passably good at, sitting in a room with a coworker who is a complete risk. The first thing I say isn't 'let's get you help', or 'these are some big feelings and I think we should rope in someone who is skilled to manage those feelings', or even 'I'm telling my boss because knowing you are on drugs could get me fired'.

I don't say anything. I just look at him, where he sits on the ground. His knee is jittering beneath his fingers. Was I wrong? Was it his fingers moving the entire time?

"What do you know about the Tobias Hankel case?" he asks.

I shake my head. I don't even know who it was. The offender, I'm assuming, and not the victim. Nobody refers to cases by the names of their victims. Who were Lizzie Borden's parents? I should know. I still don't know Tobias Hankel.

Reid looks at me, narrowing his eyes, "my abduction?"

Nothing. I didn't go looking for details. It wasn't even something that crossed my mind. Really, during his abduction, nothing did but the need to lie down. I suppose the man who did it was Tobias Hankel, but that's the only thing I can suppose. Even having my wits about me wouldn't have prompted me to find out any details.

"He drugged me with Dilaudid," Reid explains. "I've been weaning myself off since our second day in New Orleans. The side effects are worse than typical."

Dilaudid isn't a drug I'm familiar with. Now doesn't feel like the time to ask.

"You shouldn't be telling me this," I whisper since I'm ashamed to say it.

If I say it quiet enough, we can both pretend we've never heard my protests.

"I thought you of anyone would know what to say," he points out. "You spent a summer in Amsterdam."

I snort out an ugly laugh. I mean, it's a fair assumption, and he's right anyway. Marijuana you can get away with not having done it within the past year, so I'm clear on that one. Mushrooms, however, is a lifetime ban from the FBI. If Dilaudid is legal, Reid would only be temporarily banned. I'd be gone forever.

"Okay, okay," I manage. I pinch the bridge of my nose. Breathing in deeply helps. I just need to think. "Do you have a handle on this?"

"I finished my detox yesterday. I anticipate Friday will be the hardest. If I can push through to Monday, I'm done," he says it with such certainty that I worry he is falling into the trappings of his own genius.

At the end of the day though, he's Reid. In this room, having this conversation, he seems more like Reid than he has since he did a talk and went out for drinks with Estelle, Oop, and me.

"So, normal routine on Monday?" I ask, brushing off the dust on my pants.

He stands but doesn't clean off his pants. The germaphobe in him remains. He remains, I guess. Really, I'm surprised at all. It's not even April and he's already nearly overcome his abduction and torture in February. At least, he seems that way. It is almost certainly buried deep inside him. I'll make sure to keep an eye on him next February. By then, maybe I'll let myself be nosy.

~~~~~

Don't even talk to me. I just. I can't. (Actually, maybe I can. Let me know what you think in the comments). What would you do in Cole's shoes?