CLANDESTINE : Spencer Reid

24

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."