𑣲August⋆

You nod, noting the few times you’ve spoken to him since you first met him in the interrogation room. One day he had come over to you and Anderson’s apartment (per the FBI’s demand) with Rossi, and they had both had such sad looks on their faces you didn’t even want to ask what had happened.

“Do you think they know what I did?” You ask, as the little light indicator above the elevator doors edged closer and closer to your exit floor. 

“I don’t even know what you did.” Anderson said. “They just told me they’d pay the rent and I’d have a roommate I was–” His voice deepens, a comical replication of Agent Hotchner's voice “To monitor at all times, and under no circumstances allow me to leave my sight.”

You frown and he notices, glancing at you. “I mean, whatever you did I promise you it can’t be as bad as the guys you’ll be catching.”

“And if it was?” You ask into the elevator, fiddling with the buckle of your belt.

“I don’t think you’re a psychopath, Fenlon, you’re about to vomit cause your socks don’t match.”

“Oh, fuck you.” You respond, laughing.

When the elevator doors finally open, the smile is wiped off your face, and you’re back to feeling very sick.

“Agent Hotchner." Anderson says, nodding his head and resolutely scrambling around the Supervisory agent and abandoning you in the elevator.

Aaron Hotchner stands six feet two inches in front of you, all tailored suit, and steely expression. He stretches an arm out to prevent the elevator door from closing and sweeps his other arm to gesture you out. 

You scuffle out, head dropping to watch your stupid purple and white socks shuffle out next to his nicely polished dress shoes. You should’ve changed.

“Agent Hotchner.” You parrot Anderson, bowing your head a bit.

“Hotch is fine.” He says, “Welcome to the team, Fenlon.”

“Fen, is fine.” You return. You run nervous hands down the fabric of your button up.

“Fen.” He says, “Come with me.”

“Oh, I–already?” But he’s already on the move, and you’re scrambling to catch up.

The bullpen is lively, various agents bustling around with varying airs of purpose. You would’ve nearly collided into a woman talking busily on her phone if Hotch hadn’t yanked you out of the way. 

You stop a little ways away from the commotion and Agent Rossi comes sauntering down from the balcony, his voice warm as he calls out to you.

“Agent Fenlon.” He shouts. “I hope your trip here went well, according to a few of our other agents Anderson is not the most scrupulous driver.”

Agent Hotchner steps to the side, beckoning over a few agents sitting at their desks to join the huddle the three of you are forming.

You try to focus all of your energy on Rossi.

“No, he isn’t.” You joke. “But I made it here in one piece.”

He nods at you, fixing you with a friendly look. Before turning to acknowledge the new agents.

“Agent Fenlon.” Rossi sweeps a hand between you and the two agents. “Supervisory special agents Prentiss and Morgan.”

Emily Prentiss, thanks to the few pieces of information Hotch and Rossi had provided, you knew she used to work for Interpol. She was pretty, you noted, she had sweet eyes and a kind face. The man beside her was Derek Morgan, Chicago born, and a former police officer. He was all good looks and sly smiles, even now the grin he fixed you with was almost hypnotic.

You smile at the both of them, “I’ve heard a lot about the both of you.”

What you meant was you knew enough about the both of them. And from what Anderson told you in the elevator you could only assume they knew nothing about you. 

“All good things I hope.” Morgan says.

“Of course.” You try, glancing between Rossi and Hotch.

“Well anything in particular? About me, I mean.” He tries, smile growing. Emily follows this statement with a chuckle and you find your eyebrows lowering from where they’ve shot to your hairline.

“Don’t encourage him please.” She says, and you smile at her.

“Agent Fenlon is on a probationary trial here at the BAU.” Hotchner says, “With Jennifer’s reassignment, Strauss thought it’d be best for us to have someone of her talents on the team.”

“What talents would that be?”

It’s a new voice, and the tone he takes sends a shot of irritation up your spine. You whip around to answer him, something sly building on your tongue, but your confidence all but dries up when you finally see him.

“Agent Fenlon, Dr. Reid.” Rossi says, and you can’t help but bite your tongue.

He’s, for lack of better word (which really was a first for you), pretty. Unbelievably, irrevocably, and maybe a bit annoyingly pretty. He’s in a sweater vest and his gun’s sitting almost sensually low on his hips. His eyes, you note,  may actually be the prettiest brown you’ve ever seen in your entire life. 

Hotch answers before you can, cutting what was close to becoming a very awkward silence.

“It means you’re no longer the only Doctor on the team, Reid.”

“Oh wow.” Morgan laughs, “Pretty Boy’s got some competition.”

You can tell Reid’s gearing up to blast you with more questions, but once again Hotchner cuts him off.

“Fen will be accompanying us to New Mexico, we think the research she’s done in the past can offer a unique understanding.”

“What research?” It’s asked in unison, a curious Morgan toppling over Reid’s underlying irritation at his previous ‘competition’ comment.

You finally speak up, fiddling with the arm of your glasses. “I uh–I wrote my dissertation on the psychological effects of being raised by serial killers, you’d be surprised what kids notice about their parents. Even if they don’t know what they’re doing until a while later.”

“What exactly did you get your PHD in?” Reid jumps in before anyone else can, glancing between Hotch and Rossi.

“I’m confused, Dr. Reid, do you doubt my credentials?”

The group is silent, and you realize you may have put your foot in your mouth already.

“I mean, well–I’m sorry–.”

Morgan whistles, something low and teasing. “Dr. Fenlon’s got claws Reid, better watch out.”

“I wasn’t trying to discredit you.” Reid starts, frowning.

Hotch jumps in then, something final in his tone. “We have a plane waiting. Fenlon, with me.”

You blink at him, gesturing to yourself in confusion before you realize he’s already exiting the bullpen.

You wave a quick goodbye to the agents, before scrambling to catch up with Hotch.

“Anderson already put your to go bag in the Jet?” He asks, and you nod sliding next to him in the elevator.

“Fenlon.” He adds, after a moment of silence.

“Yes, sir?” You’re sure you’re going to vomit, you’ve never been on a jet in your life.

“Try not to butt heads with Reid too much please.” He says, “The agent you’re replacing was very close to him. And after that comment Morgan made I’m afraid he may not be taking a liking to you.”

You chew on the inside of your cheek, watching the numbers tick down on the elevator.

“Are any of them?” You ask, rolling back on the heels of your feet.

He doesn’t answer, and that’s really answer enough.

You look crazy, you note, after glaring at the glass. Glasses sliding down your nose, dark circles around your eyes, gnawing on the inside of your cheek like some sort of rabid animal. A bad habit, but you suppose it could be worse. You could be a nail biter. Nail biters get pinworms. Yuck.

Your hair is a mess, and you reach up to smooth it down out of  instinct and hiss when your cuffs catch where you're practically chained to the table. Rabid animal.

This was the dumbest thing you’d ever done, you’re surprised you’d even gotten away with it as long as you did. I mean you did the math. How long it takes for someone to call the cops, for them to check security footage, for them to look you up and see sealed juvenile records from forever ago that don’ t compare to what you had done now. 

They had found you a day later, walking out of the venue you and a few close friends had booked for your graduation party. You were tipsy then, had sobered up when the officer shoved your head into the car and told you to kiss your friends goodbye. You’d come to terms with never seeing them again before you’d done it, ruined your life, but something was so very tangible about the loss then. About their shocked faces as you were driven away. 

It all feels so surreal. The past 72 hours felt like your whole life had faded to black, that feeling where you stare as hard as you can into the tv screen to make sure you didn’t miss something in the credits. Disappointment when you find out there’s no after credit scene. Then that specific you get when you don’t know whether you want a sequel or the nostalgia of that one of a kind perfect thing.

“Ms. Fenlon?”

You jump, cuffs jingling. You hadn’t heard them come in. You recognize your arresting officer, standing behind two men in suits, Officer Romano has this indignant look on his face. You can’t particularly place the man’s face as anyone who has spoken to you so far, or as any of the many faces you passed when they had brought you in.

You realize you haven’t responded, you were just sitting there with your mouth slightly open like a dead fish.

“Ms. Fenlon?” The man repeats, voice like hot coffee, deep and brooding.

You close your mouth and nod shakily, clearing your throat, “Yes, hello, that’s me.”

His mouth pulls into a straight line, like he thinks he should smile but doesn’t particularly know if he should smile at you specifically. Given your circumstances you understand.

He takes a seat in the chair across from you, the other man, who you also don’t recognize beckons for Officer Romano (who still looks very irate) to exit the room. After he leaves he stands with his back to the door, brown eyes fixed on you with intimidating curiosity.

“Good afternoon,” He says, and you glance to the window to your left and see the sun dipping low in the sky. “I am Special Supervisory Agent Aaron Hotchner, I’m the Unit Chief of the Behavioral Analysis Unit of the FBI, the man to my right is SSA David Rossi, he is also a member of my unit.”

You blanch. Mouth opening and closing around syllables that are lost on you.

“I didn’t–I’m not a serial killer.” You say, and there suddenly isn’t enough air in the room. “I’m sorry, I’m a little confused…?”

“I know that.” He responds, “Your case came into the hands of the Bureau about two hours ago. I was given express instructions to bring one of my senior agents and arrive here in Pennsylvania as quickly as possible, no questions asked. Do you know why that is?”

You blink at him, swallowing thickly. You’re at a loss for words, which is a first for you, truly. You turn your attention on his partner who has moved closer to the table at some point peering down Aaron’s shoulder at you like you were an alien with three big purple heads .

“What you did…has confused a lot of important people.” He says, “What you pulled off, was possibly the most idiotic and well organized thing any of us have ever seen.”

“I’m sorry what–” 

“When investigators questioned you, did you at any point lie about the events that occurred on May 1st, 2011?” Hotchner asks, cutting you off. 

“No.” You answer firmly. “I know what I’ve done, and I know why I’ve done it, I explained that in detail to the men who question me.”

“Ms. Fenlon, are you a good liar?” Rossi asks, “In your personal opinion.”

“I don’t know? When I need to be, I suppose?” You’re quick to speak again before they can cut you off. “What is this about, aren’t I supposed to be on my way to jail right now?”

“Supposed to be.” Rossi says, stepping back from the table as Hotchner stands.

“Ms. Fenlon, tomorrow morning  you will be delivered to  Quantico, West Virginia, there you will begin special preliminary training to become an FBI agent, after your training you will be given an apartment in the city where you will be monitored at all times by another agent who will serve as what is basically your probation officer.”

“I’m sorry, what the fuck is happening right now?” You ask, hands shaking where they’re sitting on the table. It’s not cold anymore, far from it, in all honesty you think you’re so hot right now you’re getting a bit lightheaded.

“Welcome to the BAU.” He says moving towards the door, “I hope you can prove to us all that what you did was a mistake and that you don’t deserve to rot in a federal prison.”

“What?” You shout, chair clanging on the floor behind you when you rise from your seat.

“Have a good night.” He says, beckoning Rossi out of the room in front of him. “And Ms. Fenlon, congratulations on your recent graduation.”

The door shutting behind them is loud, and for a while the only sound in the room is your panicked breathing and your heart pounding in your ears. When Officer Romano comes in to uncuff you, you can’t help but laugh, much to his chagrin.

“The hell’s so funny?” He asks, leading you back to your holding cell.

“I hate sequels.” You're bouncing on the heels of your feet, anxious and a bit nauseous.

When out of the blue, Aaron Hotchner is introducing reader, Agent Fenlon, as the newest profiler at the BAU, the team is shocked that they weren't given a heads up in advance. When Hotch goes on to explain it was direct orders from the higher ups, ones he isn't allowed to disclose with the group, they are all the more apprehensive.

However, agent Fenlon proves to be a great addition to the team, even though there are whispers that she isn't all she seems.

Spencer Reid, for one, definitely isn't ready to admit he's been out child prodigy-ied by a new recruit almost ten years his junior.

Still, despite her strange circumstances, this is one of Fen's biggest dreams and largest of second chances. She will not let it go to waste.