I wouldn't step outside barefoot in DC, but I especially wouldn't do it in the July heat. The tar of the road is bubbling under my feet. I've begun to drink iced coffee, which isn't something I typically do, but outside of the office I couldn't imagine it. I bought a fan for the apartment and I have the windows open all the time since the heatwave is impossible to beat. Now I'm happy I ran through so many of Estelle's meals, only with enough to bring in two days a week to the office. I couldn't imagine heating up food in my apartment. The next place we are going to move into must have air conditioning. It's non-negotiable.

Soon enough, it is August, and I take a week to go to Spain. Bastien is working and based in Madrid, so I spend a few days on my own in Barcelona and Segovia. I find a patch too, and I sew it into my bag that night. Bastien drags me out to the beach, which I wasn't planning to go to on my own. It's nice though. We get dinner and we go to a club and I have a hangover the next day from the sugary drinks. It's nice enough anyway, spending time with him.

I only feel a pang when I leave. That's never happened before. Seb's older now, but I imagine his face the same way it was when I flew back to Australia after our father passed away. His jaw is sharper, his cheeks don't have baby fat anymore, and his eyes are shining this time, but I would recognize my little brother anywhere.

When I return to work on Monday, I've got jetlag and a headache. Although now I have a few pictures to upload to the frame I got. So, despite myself, I roll into work with an iced coffee and a bottle of ibuprofen and I do it twenty minutes early so I can set up for the week and go through all the emails I've definitely missed.

After fifteen minutes of trying my best, I give up. My computer screen makes my head pound. I can't get the photos onto the electronic frame no matter what I try. I'll just have to wait for Garcia.

The elevator door dings, but I have my head on my desk. The wood is cooler than the room and it feels like an ice pack. The heat wave has subsided now that July is gone, but I'm not satisfied. I don't even look up at who comes in.

"Jesus Bouchard, did you go on a bender?" Morgan laughs, taking his seat next to me.

My head stays still, flat against the wood, and I raise my hand to hold up the USB, "is Garcia with you?"

"She's in the breakroom," Morgan says. I can hear him shuffling. Every sound is shredding my ear drums. "You sleep well after the flight?"

I make myself shuffle, checking my watch. Morgan's not looking at me, which is nice. My head drags behind me as I lift myself up.

"I got in six hours ago," I tell him. "The flight was cheaper."

"For fuck's sake Bouchard," Morgan wags a finger at me. "Your body's not going to like that stuff as you age. What did you sleep for, twenty minutes?"

"Three hours," I correct.

Before he offers anything else smart, I head into the break room. Garcia will be there, and I need to splash water in my face. I'm trading off the privacy of the bathroom for the lack of mirror in the breakroom. I'm sure my skin is red and splotchy, my hair a mess, and I must have dark circles that carve contours into my under eyes. I don't have to see it to imagine it.

In the staff room, I brew myself a cup of tea. Garcia is putting her lunch in the fridge. I flash my USB at her, and she looks from me to her.

"I'm stupid and can't figure out how to import the photos," I tell her. "I plugged it into the back of my electronic photo frame, but nothing."

Garcia grins, her fingers plucking the USB out of my hand, "allow me."

She leaves. After washing my face and patting down what I imagine are the hairs that have strayed out of my braid, I leave. The braid is fraying, but I can't imagine holding my arms up to put in a messy bun. Hopefully, Hotch sees me and sends me home, so this counts as a sick day and not a vacation day. Maybe, it won't even count as a sick day, since I didn't call in.

Back at my desk, Garcia is sitting in my chair. She pulls back and lifts the picture frame.

"There's dust in the USB port," she tells me. "I can get out some tools and clean it later, but I uploaded them onto the frame through your computer."

"Tell her to go home," Morgan says. "She looks like she's been through a tornado."

"Not all of us can look as good as you," Garcia rolls her eyes. She looks at me with soft eyes, and maybe that's just as bad as Morgan's demands. "Although, I do have concealer if you want it. You're fairer than I am, but it couldn't do all that much damage."

"I'm fine," I insist.

"Reid?" Morgan asks, looking at him.

He doesn't look up from his paperwork, "if she says she's fine, she's fine. I'm not a medical doctor."

Morgan blows him off. Garcia gets up and then I sit down at my desk.

They leave me alone, and Hotch doesn't send me home, to my dismay. He tells me to make sure I have a bag packed here with a few outfits, just in case they decide they need me.

I want to quit for the first time in months.

The jetlag lasts into Tuesday, and now JJ and Prentiss are joining in on the gang. The vacation was supposed to be relaxing, but the most stressful part of my job is now getting caught up. They went out on an assignment while I was gone, and so the paperwork I usually help them with is piling up more and more. ViCAP also just got data in for a longitudinal survey on the children of serial killers. I have to read up on threat assessment again to properly understand the conclusions and input the data into our system. I'm barely getting through it with all the hounding.

On Wednesday I'm grouchier from the interruptions than the sleep deprivation. I am sort of sorted with all the exhaustion, but I might growl or bite the next person who bothers me about my lack of sleep. I feel better. Certainly, I feel much better than I did in May. I can't even call Stéphane to complain since he will tell me to go home too. Worst of all, Estelle is still gone.

Around noon, I get an email scheduling me into a meeting in the conference room, and I swear to God I will lose my mind if someone even speaks to me. If I had free time, I'd track down Hotch and barge into a meeting to tell him my team bonding is fine. What I need is the peace and quiet to work on my own. Honestly, sending them all out on assignment would be a blessing.

I work through lunch rather than argue the point, and at one we all pile into the room, Garcia included. Hotch is waiting for us, and he's got a hat on the table.

"Is it time for the Gala already?" Gideon asks.

I look around. No one else seems surprised, not even Prentiss who only started a week before me, "sorry, what Gala?"

"The Department of Justice and the Department of Defence hold a joint appreciation Gala every four years for the National Intelligence Community," Hotch answers. "Military, the NSA, the FBI, the CIA and several other organizations are present."

"We're not part of the Intelligence Branch, but they usually give us a couple of tickets," Morgan answers. "How many are we drawing this time?"

"Two," Hotch answers. He looks back at me.

"It's a networking event," JJ adds. "Morgan and I went last time."

From the way her lips press together, I can tell the draw is not for two lucky winners. It's a lottery whose prize you don't want to win. I can only imagine the thrill of conversation with the Counterterrorism unit.

"Which means our names aren't in it," Morgan leans forward with a fist bump. JJ raises a hand and bumps him back. "It's not fair to everyone else if I was blessed with going every year."

Hotch's eyes narrow in at Morgan who shrugs. Hotch leans forward and pulls a name out of the hat.

"Bouchard," he says and turns the slip of paper out to us.

"When is this?" I ask.

"Two weeks from now," Hotch answers.

I can hear Morgan chuckling behind me.

Hotch pulls out the second name and it's Reid. I shrug, and thankfully Hotch dismisses us back to our desks. I manage to sneak out first and get to my computer. Hotch and I have a scheduled meeting on Friday to check in on my progress on the longitudinal survey, and I can ask him for more details about the event later.

When we sit down, I can hear Morgan snickering next to me.

"You couldn't have worse luck, huh?" he asks. "The Gala with Reid? You'll need to fly to Spain for a vacation all over again."

I ignore him, mostly so I'm not interrupted while doing my two-factor authentication. The numbers feel like they are blurring together. Maybe I need glasses. I should get my eyes checked.

"It's not too bad," Reid uncaps a fountain pen and hovers over the page below him. His fingers trace each word. I catch myself and try to focus on his voice. "The dress code is black tie. There's a reception, dinner, and a dance afterward."

"You've been?" I ask.

He shakes his head, pointing the end of his pen toward JJ.

"It'll be all right, Bouchard," JJ tells me. "The men there mostly want to boast about themselves. Just, don't give them your social security number no matter how much they ask. They like to prove how much they can find out about you."

"So, like worse profilers," I muse. "Got it."

"You can crack jokes all you want," Morgan says. "It's a long night of speeches and you only get one drink ticket. Plus, you'll be stuck with Reid."

I look up at Reid who shrugs. Our stalemate in the office feels like it's translating to the outside world. We chatted at the barbecue for longer than I thought we could handle each other. One night together might blow it all up out of proportion again. I'm never quite sure where I stand with him.

"I can be professional," my eyes dart from Reid to Morgan. "You might learn a thing or two from me."

Morgan laughs, even though Gideon shushes him.

~~~~~

Ooh, the gala. I'm screaming and crying and throwing up about it. It's good. Really, truly, a major turning point. Maybe. No spoilers. What do you think will happen?