At the end of my annual presentation updating the team, we only have twenty minutes left in the day. I pour myself a coffee while the others go back to their computers. It's snowing out, beyond the windows, the first fall in the year. I'm sure no one else is actually working. They are probably sleuthing out whoever is their Secret Santa, or coordinating drinks and carpooling for JJ's New Year's Eve party.

Garcia steps in the room beside me. She's cheery once more, or at least appears that way. I'm not a profiler, but I think she's not actually completely coped and grappled with what happened to her. Someone attempted to murder her, but she goes on about her day sometimes like it didn't happen. Reid hasn't said it, but I notice how he was lost today while I talked about adult male kidnapping victims and the typology of the people who take them. It's typically for ransom, although sexual violence is another prevalent cause, if anyone was wondering. I don't think Reid was.

"That was really good," she smiles at me.

I take a sip from my coffee, leaning against the counter to look at her, "I should hope so. I've spent the better parts of two months throwing myself into it."

"You know, I'm not just saying that," she says, but of course I don't know it. It could go very poorly and Garcia would still have something positive to say about it. At the very least, she'd tell me that my royal blue work pants are flattering. "I think the team was impressed."

I shrug. I can't see the bullpen from here, and I've never been good at picturing things easily.

"Maybe," I shake my head. Then, I twist my head, "who do you think has you for Secret Santa?"

Garcia's lips curl up slightly, "now that you ask, you."

I laugh and she joins in.

Actually, I do have her. I was trying to play coy. Maybe I've passed it off well enough. I pride myself on giving good gifts. For Garcia, I made a cookbook filled with all of Estelle's recipes for soups, even if there aren't all that many. I've also made a bunch of sock monkeys for her that she can keep in her office, one to represent each person on the team. I think she'll get a kick out of that. It's been eating through commute, but I know Garcia, and I know she'll like the time I put in more than if I bought her something expensive.

I head back to my desk with my coffee and sit down. Everyone else clearly isn't working either. As the day ends, I begin to write my written reflection about the presentation. We are supposed to have our annual review in a few weeks. I didn't do one last year since I'd only been here a few weeks. It's mostly done, but now I add in the section about my first bi-annual report, and I'm actually feeling good.

"Bouchard," Morgan's voice says.

I look up just in time to feel a scarf thrown into my face. I pull it down, and Morgan is smiling. It's not his scarf though, it's Reid's. The clock reveals its five past the time our workday ends. Everyone has gathered in the bullpen and is staring at me.

"Come on, we're getting you drinks," Morgan says. I go to open my mouth and he cuts me off. "No protesting. I'll fireman carry you out of here if you try to refuse me."

"One of these days, you're going to be the reason I have to sit through a terribly long seminar on workplace harassment," I roll my eyes.

Prentiss laughs. Morgan chuckles too, shaking his head. Regardless, I do put on my coat and shut down my computer for the day. It looks like everyone is coming. Even Hotch and Rossi. The eight of us all squeeze into the elevator and we head out for the evening.

Inside the elevator, when I'm tucked in next to Reid, I pass him back the scarf. We're near the back, and Rossi is saying something so everyone is paying attention to him. No one will notice the interaction. Hiding the exchange feels imperative, as if no one else saw Morgan chuck the scarf at me. Like I'm worried people will think there is some other reason Reid and I are talking.

Reid raises a hand, shaking his head, "you don't have a hat, do you?"

"DC's cold front has nothing on Québec," I whisper to him.

Reid looks down at the scarf and then back up at me. He opens his mouth to say something, but I cut him off. I don't know what he's going to say and I don't want to hear it.

"Fine," I tell him. "I'll give it back at the pub.

And on the walk to the pub, I'm glad I listened. It's terribly windy and horrid. My coat doesn't have a hood and so I wrap the scarf around the majority of my face, only my eyes peaking out. I'm glad I don't listen to Estelle's advice and see an optometrist, because I'm sure if I had glasses they'd be peaking out above the computer. We hurry through the snow, which is already piling up. If it weren't Friday, I'd be worried the office might be closed tomorrow from the brutal weather.

We get inside the pub and start to order drinks. I watch Reid, who orders a soda. The feeling is more revealing than the cold whiskey sour I get. My bones haven't even warmed yet, I haven't even taken off my coat.

Hotch pays for our first round, which I find unfair. It should be me, since they've all come out for me.

"Tonight, we're toasting Bouchard," Hotch says. "A high bar to clear for the many semi-annual presentations I hope come next."

We cling our glasses together and drink. Prentiss pats me on the back. Morgan throws a hand over my shoulders and whispers that we're going drink for drink tonight. The only compliment that actually convinces me I did any good comes from Rossi.

"After that presentation," he begins, "I'm surprised you aren't an academic. Not only are your research skills impressive, but you compile and condense them well. Your cadence made it easy to follow you as well."

I think I might faint from the excitement.

People begin to spread out, and I pair with Rossi, talking at a booth. I'm surprised he wants to get to know me, so I tell him what a lot of the team knows. Born and raised in New Hampshire, first degree from the University of Melbourne, next from Oxford, then Bordeaux in France. Rossi actually listens, and I hate it because all I want to do is hear about his life. I already know about mine. Unfortunately, I get pulled away by Morgan, and he gets me to do a shot with him. It tastes terribly bitter in my mouth and I suck on a lime at the bar.

"There's more where that came from, Bouchard."

I shake my head, "if this is your way of congratulating me, don't even bother. You're going to get me drunk before the hour is up."

"Nah, you're young," he rolls his eyes.

Regardless, I order nachos so there is at least something for my stomach to digest. I share them with Prentiss and JJ, and I try to talk about anything besides the presentation. Garcia comes by and asks for some in French, and Prentiss answers back and they look at me, but I'm not drunk or angry enough to talk in French.

"Juste stacose on sait francais, il ne faut pas qu'on le parle," I say.

Garcia gets stuck on the second word, which isn't standard French vocabulary. My Québcois accent is aggressively thick, so even if I didn't use slang, I don't think she'd understand me. Prentiss is quick enough to understand me and laughs politely. I wasn't joking. Just because we speak French, it doesn't mean we have to speak it. Especially not in front of JJ, since I know she doesn't speak it.

Before I'm even finished the basket of nachos, I'm swung away by Morgan again for another shot. I'm starting to lose count. I finish my glass and order my fifth drink, but I don't drink it. Instead, I dance, and I know I'm not a good dancer but I don't even care. Garcia and I go into the bathroom and try to freshen up.

Eating more food at least helps, but I'm not nineteen anymore. My body can't take it like it used to. So, I end up stepping outside for fresh air. It's freezing, but the snow is lighter now. It's barely eight o'clock, but it's pitch black outside. At times like these, I wish I was more French. I need a cigarette to justify standing out here on a cold dark December day.

The door opens, and Reid pops out of the pub.

"I think everyone will call it a night soon," Reid says. "Morgan's pretty drunk, and even Hotch has had a few."

He steps closer to me, his eyes wide, "you're beat red."

I lift a hand to my cheek. The damn obvious buzz, "yeah, he got me drunk too."

"You're not slurring yet."

I hold up my glass toward him, "I finish this and I will be, no question about it."

Reid stands next to me. I lean against the brick wall of the pub. I can hear people shouting somewhere down the street, but it's the kind of hollering which is obviously laughter. Some rowdy boys. We're pretty far from where college students would go.

"It was a good presentation, Bouchard," Reid says.

I sigh, "so I've heard."

"You don't believe it though."

I turn to him. A year ago, a comment like that would've had me lunging at him. Instead, I can't help the quirk of a smile on my lips.

"I thought there was a moratorium on profiling?"

"Not during Secret Santa," he points out.

I roll my eyes. The chill starts to hit me since I'm not wearing his scarf or even my coat. I gesture to head back inside, and he follows me. We stand at the bar, him with his club soda and me with my drink. I shouldn't continue it. Truly.

"Do you know who has you?" Reid asks.

I peer around the room. It's a bit more crowded now, so I don't have a clear line of sight on most of my coworkers. So, I shrug.

"Not a profiler," I point out. "Don't need your help this year though. Well, I didn't need your help last year either anyway. You're support, as always, is unsolicited."

I take a sip of my drink. He is still smiling at me. I find myself laughing, even if it realistically isn't actually a funny moment.

Pretty soon after, everyone starts to head home. When my cab pulls up, I'm surprised. Like I hadn't expected it to come. And I'm more surprised that I feel disappointed when I climb in it.

~~~~~

Uh huh, uh huh, uh huh. Banger. Can you tell I like a slowburn? Also, as always, I'm looking for your feedback. What parts of Cole do you relate to the most? What parts of her are the worst? I really would appreciate your feedback!