Onetwothree onetwothree onetwothree and the feeling persists.

"So, let's circle back to Spencer," Harvey says. That's the name of the guy running my psych evaluation.

It's been so long since those rounds of panel interviews before I got the job. In preparation for this, I've been rehearsing the questions during my runs. Because of Rachel, my last interrogation caught me off guard. I'm prepared this time with everything, especially her.

Questions about my family are easy. They are interviewed annually by the FBI anyway to maintain my clearance. Questions about moving around, about university, about damn high school. I should have taken up dodgeball instead of running; I know how to avoid getting hit. The bruises are starting to fade.

I'm still not prepared to answer questions about Spencer.

"How did he feel when he found you in the woods?"

Then, I swallow, "you'd have to ask him. I can't know how he felt."

"That's not something you talk about?" the man clicks the back of his pen.

At first that made me nervous, but over the past three hours I've gotten to know Harvey. I know he leans back when the answer I've given doesn't satisfy him, but I can't tell if that means he thinks I'm lying, or dodging, or if he's going to fail me. I know that Harvey has two cats, and a grandchild on the way, like Estelle. Harvey went to Harvard, per the degree on his wall, and I wonder if he ever got teased about it. The only thing that really matters to me right now, is that Harvey seems to click his pen at random.

"Of course, Spencer and I talk about it," I exhale. "He said he felt scared. I understand that. Whenever any of our coworkers are injured, we feel scared."

"And how do you act when you feel scared?"

I shrug, "well, exactly the same as I always do."

Harvey clicks his pen again, "Cole, I find that hard to believe."

"It's true," I tell him. "I keep a very level head."

Harvey sighs, "so, you believe that when you feel scared you behave no differently than you would otherwise? That fear doesn't impact your judgement?"

"I didn't say that," I try not to look at the clock, but instead to look at his eyes. They are blown up big behind his thick glasses. "Of course fear impacts my judgement. Fear brings adrenaline, which can impact decision-making. It's foolish to think that no matter how scared you get, you think the exact same way. What's important is that you act no differently."

"So, you might feel frightened, but you act as though you aren't?" Harvey says. "As if your fear is invisible. Is that what you are saying?"

The terse grin hits my lips before I can think to block it, "I guess invisibility is a question for you. Do I seem terrified to you?"

It certainly wasn't the right thing to say, but we opened with how the evaluation made me feel. I was honest, scared. I tell him part of the truth, that I'm afraid of being psycho-analyzed because I'm a private person. My stomach is sinking in on itself, and Harvey is asking me questions about being terrified, fear, how might I use fear in the future, how I feel about potentially being in a situation where a suspect has a weapon, what it was liked to be battered, and my lips are moving but the room is buzzing around me and my head starts to hurt. Then we're shaking hands and he's shoving me through the door.

I get to the freezer and pull out an ice cube. Standing over the sink, I watch it melt in my hands. Puddling, water dripping through my fingers. It hits the metal of the sink. One drop. Two drop. Three drop.

"How did it go?"

Spencer walks up next to me, pressing the coffee maker. I glance at the clock in my wall. He's taking a late lunch today. Quite the late lunch, actually.

"Good," I turn my hand. The ice clatters into the sink, shattering into tiny pieces. "Well, Hotch will have the results tomorrow, I suppose."

Spencer turns his head around, peering at the door. He leans over and kisses me, briefly. He rests one hand on my hip, holding me next to him.

"You don't seem..." Spencer trails off. "Well, I'm not profiling, but you don't usually engage in anxiety coping mechanisms when things are good. I'd guess at best that things are fine. If things were bad, you would be beyond coping mechanisms."

"You're really good at not profiling," I roll my eyes. "Have you considered a career change? You might have a future in not profiling."

Spencer squeezes me once, gently. The pressure feels good. My neck is warm. I twist my head to the side, letting hair fall off it, hoping the air conditioning will provide some relief.

"Are you sure you're okay?" he asks. "You're bright red."

I pull myself away from him and dig into the fridge. Mostly to block him from seeing my bright red cheeks, but I also should probably eat lunch. I'm trying to get better at that. If I don't eat at regular intervals, the headaches get worse. Also, if I don't drink water. Also, if I don't wear glasses. They are starting to become a permanent feature of my face, big and square and definitely not as helpful as I'd like.

"Colette?"

"Sorry," I grab my lunch and shut the fridge. "I am fine. Actually. Just, don't like being interrogated. Wait, sorry, that sounded like I was complaining about you. It's not you. The psychiatric evaluation sucked."

Spencer nods. He steps close again and squeezes me hand, before walking back into the bullpen with his coffee. I sit at the table and close my eyes while I eat my lunch. Just a quick reprieve from the bright lights before I'm back to work.

Unfortunately, I'm cut off once again at exactly five. Morgan kicks my chair while I'm mid-typing. I truly got nothing done today. Absolutely nothing at all. I turn and he gestures to Prentiss, who is packing up her desk.

"Sparring tomorrow," Morgan commands. "You're still good for it?"

I nod. He gives me a thumbs up before heading out. Spencer still sits at his desk, fiddling with a pen.

"The evaluation has me behind," I don't glance up from the computer. "Don't wait for me. I'll give you a call when I'm headed out."

I don't dare look at Spencer, wait for an expression to cross his face. Rather, I keep typing. Then I type. It's awful, the backlog, and then my SPSS starts spitting out errors, and I wish I had asked Spencer to say, because it takes an hour of going through the automatically inputted files again to find which police department in the middle of nowhere submitted their numbers spelled out with letters, and I send them a strongly worded email. This shit keeps happening. Nothing ever changes. Not crime, not my siblings getting into trouble, and certainly not me.

My phone rings and I quickly save. Shit, shit shit. It's past nine already.

"Hey!" I snag it before it goes to voicemail. "I'm so sorry, Spencer. I'm heading out now."

"It's okay, are you feeling more on your feet now?"

I wince. Lie. It would be so damn easy, "not really. I've got to put it down though."

He doesn't say anything for a second, and the computer is powered off and I'm heading to the elevators before he speaks again.

"Well, now you'll have less to do tomorrow," and I think he must know he's lying too, because of course I don't.

I get back home and by the time I've eaten and gotten ready for bed, it's well past eleven and Spencer is reading in bed. I pass out beside him and my alarm wakes me up at five in the morning, and I go for an hour run before work. Then, I'm rushing through the morning to get through the office, and I have to eat through lunch again. I have a blazing headache by the time the day is over, but I promised I'd go sparing so that is what I do.

We are changed and in a training room in the basement, just the three of us. I know how to fight. They taught us in the academy, but it's been so long since I've had to use those skills.

"Okay," Morgan instructs. "Practice a palm-heel strike on Prentiss, okay? She'll block it with her arm, but just to get a feel."

Standing, I make sure one foot is slightly in front of the other and my knees aren't locked. My shoulders feel stiff from hunching all day, and my legs are sore from the run. I shove the heel of my palm towards Emily's arm. She grabs me and swings me past her. I slam into the floor mat and roll onto my back.

"Sorry, was that to hard?" Prentiss asks.

I pull myself up, shaking my head. I blink twice, "no, I'm good."

"Then, again," Morgan says.

And I do and she slams me back down into the mattress. A third time, and a forth, and then we switch for kicks and she grabs my leg and throws me down onto my back, and then she's looming above me. I swing out my feet and Prentiss hits the mat but one leg propped up, not completely sprawled out. She could climb on top of me.

I feel a chill run through my spine. The gun.

"Bouchard?" Morgan's voice snaps me back to him.

I sit up, "so, is this throw me around day, or are you going to teach me?"

Morgan smiles.

"What matters most to you?" Prentiss asks. "That's where we will start."

Fuck. I exhale, "how do I get a gun off me?"

"Don't get into a situation where you need to," Morgan says. "There's no surefire way to wrestle a gun off someone without getting shot. But, we can start there."

And that's what we do, and by the end my arms are just as sore as my legs.

When we finally leave and they ask if I want food, I tell them Spencer's waiting for me. Which he is, of course. But then I'm back at the desk again, clacking away at my keyboard and I check my email for the first time since lunch.

My psychiatric evaluation wasn't approved. They'll bring me back in on Monday.

~~~~~

My backlog is really small right now, so I might switch to once a week updates, not sure. I just would rather slow down than take a hiatus! Anyway, is this progress? Hard to tell for sure haha.