#strauss!reader

What you are on the outside, the version of yourself that you choose to present, is tangential. It exists outside of that notion of the “self” and functions as its own independent being. Two-dimensional, digestible, and whatever it needs to be in any given moment. 

Adaptability was instilled in you at a young age; the ability to contort your personality to fit any social situation, to sever parts of yourself and, in its place, sprout new branches that imitate those of the people around you. Who you were didn’t matter, it was what you could be that was most important. The key to success lies in a person’s ability to reshape themselves.

Reach for the stars was what your mother had told you, back when the world as you knew it had little depth beyond report cards and homework.

Reach beyond the stars, if you want to; you’re more than capable. But you must remain aware of how people perceive you, and you must use it to your advantage. Play the part, flash a smile, people like that. Make them see you in whatever light is most appealing to them, and then you can do anything.

Perception. Control how people see you, control what they think of you, and you’re golden. The world is your oyster when you win the favour of its people, when they see you as something of value.

And a last name? It’s an added bonus. It’s something to be used, but never relied on.

Strauss might get you an interview, but you get the job. To use your last name as a crutch would be to discredit the years of hard work you have put into becoming this version of yourself; the best version of yourself.

This job didn’t fall into your lap because of your lineage—your mother would never write a letter of recommendation even if you asked her to—you landed this job because you are good. Because you can identify what people want you to be, even if they themselves don’t know, and become it instantaneously.

You juggle flattened shades of a personality as naturally as your heart beats in your chest; each one slightly different, each crease ironed out. Each iteration of you is little more than a two-dimensional cardboard cutout, an imitation of realness, and yet nobody seems to notice. Nobody thinks to look past the façade you present them with, but why would they? Why would they want to scrutinise something that is so unquestionably perfect when taken at face-value?

Living, it seems, is a performance art that you have all but mastered. 

There are, however, instances where you will confess to feeling out of your depth, though they are few and far between. An example of this would be, say, if your mother were to call you late one night and ask you to abandon your current position and dedicate three months to monitoring the FBI’s Behavioural Analysis Unit.

I worry they may be struggling more than they let on, she had said, and your skillset makes you the perfect candidate to assist on cases whilst keeping track of their behaviour.

You want me to act as in-house HR?

Is that an issue?

No, it’s just…given the circumstances, I don’t think—

Circumstances?

You’re my mother. Last I heard, they weren’t exactly fond of you.

Then it’s a good thing you’re not me.

I doubt the BAU will see it that way.

Your transfer has already been approved. You start in two weeks.

Mom—

I expect reports every week detailing any concerns regarding the team’s behaviour, both on and off the field. Agent Hotchner is to be reinstated soon, and I need someone competent to tell me whether he is capable of leading this unit.

I feel like there are people more qualified for this than I am.

Yes, but I trust you.

…

Think of this as a vacation, if you must. And be sure to purchase some medication for your flight anxiety; wherever they go, you go.

⋆˙⟡

The FBI Academy building has not changed in the four years that have passed since you last set foot inside, when you had decided to slaughter your social life in favour of joining the Honours Internship Program in the summer before your senior year of college. Those ten weeks you had spent at Quantico had dragged, but you had left the program with everything you needed to join the Bureau the moment you graduated—and that's exactly what you did. You feel the same way about the Academy now as you had done then: the elevators are awful, and the floor plan is worse.

The clock above the entrance reads 8:55AM when you finally locate the Behavioural Analysis Unit, but what you are greeted with upon your arrival is an office that looks nothing short of a ghost town, population: zero. This should probably be your first sign that something is amiss, but you push on until you reach the office of Unit Chief Aaron Hotchner, only to find that he, too, has seemingly vanished without a trace.

It isn’t until thirty minutes later you learn that the BAU have already been deployed on a case in Baltimore, and that you have been doing nothing but wasting your time haunting the office of a man who was never going to appear, anticipating a meeting that was never going to happen. You loiter in that empty room, scanning the various accolades that decorate the walls, before embarking on your journey back to the parking lot.

It is a two-hour drive from Quantico to Baltimore, so you best get going.

⋆˙⟡

By the time you make it to the city police department, it’s already nearing midday. You try not to dwell on the amount of time you’ve lost as you climb out of your car, and you instead begin mentally drafting the strongly worded email you're going to send, addressed to whatever idiot was supposed to keep you informed on the whereabouts of the BAU, come the end of the day.

Traffic, like everything else, had not been on your side this morning, but the highway blockages and infuriating queues had given you ample time to engage in some distracted driving and familiarise yourself with the case, and you walk into the building calm, composed, and ready to face your new coworkers—or you would be, if you knew where they were.

Fortunately, all it takes is your best smile—and a quick flash of your credentials—for the dull, lifeless officer at the front desk to point you in the direction of Agent Hotchner and his team and, after thanking him, you promptly take off down the corridor.

The soles of your flats are silent against the floor as you run through every word of the conversation you are about to find yourself in; the questions, the concerns, the controversy that your presence is bound to cause, you have a response prepared for all of it.

But before you can even make it to their room, you collide head-first into something—someone—with such force it almost knocks the both of you to the ground.

Sweater vest.

His outfit is the first thing you notice, the only thing you notice, as he begins frantically waving his hands in apology: a purple sweater vest tucked into a pair of brown trousers, secured with a belt so worn-out it looks as though it may disintegrate under the slightest touch.

Cane.

The second thing you notice. Shit.

You quickly purse your lips, shifting the blame you were ready to throw at him back onto yourself as you raise your head, meeting the panicked gaze of the man who just barged into you— no, the man that you have just barged into. He’s still apologising, flipping between I’m sorrys and are you okays like he’s being graded on how many times he can repeat each phrase without stopping to take a damn breath.

“It’s okay,” you say. Your words are measured, purposeful, and spoken in that practiced, agreeable tone you always default to in situations like this—the unforeseen situations, the inconvenient ones. “I should have been paying more attention, I’m sorry.”

His head jerks as though he’s about to agree with you and say yes, you should have been paying more attention, you dumb bitch before he realises that, actually, that would be incredibly rude. Instead, he shakes his head hurriedly. Fast enough that his features blur and his shoulder-length hair whips around his face, and you’re sure you see a strand poke him in the eye.

“I was distracted,” he says, countering your apology with another one of his own. He speaks like his words are running away from him, fast and breathless and at a level louder than your ears are comfortable with. The fluorescent lighting does nothing to hide the blush creeping into his cheeks as he says, in a firmer tone, “it’s my fault, I’m sorry.”

Doe-eyes.

The third thing you notice, and you really wish you hadn’t. Big and dark. Soulful in a way that is disconcerting. 

“We’re both sorry, then,” you say. Your voice comes out strange; gentler than how you had intended to sound, softer than would ever be warranted in a situation like this.

The way he’s looking at you is making your skin crawl. You feel your throat tighten in response to his gaze, like you’re allergic to him. And it isn’t as though he’s doing anything wrong, either, he’s just…looking at you.

And then he isn’t.

He breaks eye contact so fast you’d think he was allergic to you, too. He apologises again—quieter, this time—and mumbles something about needing to go as colour continues to pool in his already beet-red cheeks.

Before you can say another word, he’s hurrying past you.

Seconds tick by as you linger at the join between those two corridors. Your hands move on their own, smoothing out the front of your blouse, searching for the familiar feeling of crisp fabric under fingertips as you take a moment to re-orient yourself after that bizarre encounter. Shaking your head, you push the thought of those distracting doe-eyes to one side and continue on your path to the BAU.

It takes two more turns before, at last, you locate them hiding away in a dimly lit meeting room as though they’re some secret underground society. You stand there for a while, hovering where you can see them but they can’t see you, and watch as they discuss the case. 

Agents Hotchner and Rossi stand at the head of the table, anchoring the team. They’re the only familiar figures in the room, but they aren’t exactly comforting. You know them well enough to understand how they work: Hotchner is the protector, the leader, and Rossi is the right-hand man—the yang to his yin. Prentiss, Morgan, and Jareau on the other hand are agents you have not met. They’re wildcards, essentially: all you know about their personalities is what you have been able to infer from reading their files.

It doesn’t take a genius to know that someone is missing, an idiot could figure that out based on the composition of the team alone: there’s an empty seat to Morgan’s right, presumably where Doctor Reid once sat. But where is he now?

Something clicks into place as your gaze flits between their faces and you realise, now minutes after the fact, that the man you had just walked into was Doctor Reid. 

Doctor Reid the prodigy, the genius and, somehow, the man you had utterly failed to recognise in the moment.

The sweater vest. The kind he’s been wearing in almost every photograph you’ve seen of him.

The cane. Evidence of the injury sustained in his run-in with Patrick Meyers.

The doe-eyes. The ones you had barely noticed until they were right in front of you.

God, this isn’t like you. When did you get so stupid? What’s the point in you even being here if you can’t recognise the best agent on this damn team?

You must shift slightly, because when you look back towards the BAU, you find that David Rossi is staring right back at you. Mouth slightly agape. Eyes wide as though he’s come face-to-face with a ghost. Or a demon—that might be more appropriate.

“Oh shit.”

His words quite rightfully catch the team off-guard and, confused, each of them follows his gaze until they find youstanding in the doorway. Steadying yourself, you relax your shoulders and don your most composed face as you turn your attention, finally, to the elusive unit chief himself.

“Agent Hotchner.”

“Doctor Strauss.”

As you had expected, the agents that don’t already know you react as though Hotch has just sworn at them, but he ignores their slack jaws and bewildered looks as he keeps his gaze fixed on you, and you alone. His sharp eyes bore into yours, wordlessly dissecting your demeanour, your body language, your motives. Your presence, it seems, is already enough to concern him—and all you’ve done is say his name. 

“What are you doing here?” he asks.

And you realise nobody told him you were coming.

Your placement was approved weeks ago. The Bureau have had ample time to warn him of your arrival, yet nobody bothered to.

Just like that, the mental draft of that bitter email just got a hell of a lot longer.

“Well,” you begin, keeping your tone calm and controlled as you step into the room, “I went to your office to speak with you but, clearly, you were not there, and so I came here. I take it you haven’t been told why?”

“No,” he says, crossing his arms defensively, “I have not.”

“…I see, there must have been some…miscommunication,” you say. And then, thank God, you can start reciting your trusty script. “I have been placed temporarily in the BAU for the purposes of providing assistance and feedback in any way I can, and—”

“May we speak in private?”

You keep your frustration buried, hidden away under the smallest, politest smile you can muster as you mimic his stance. “Of course.”

Without another word, Agent Hotchner makes for the door. Your gaze strays briefly to Rossi, who has one hand covering his mouth in what appears to be a display of deep thought, but you know damn well he’s trying his hardest not to laugh.

But before either of you can make it out of the room, that cane-wielding, sweater vest wearing “stranger” comes barrelling into the room. This time, you have the sense to recognise him for who he is: Doctor Spencer Reid. The avidly discussed, seldom seen agent with three PhDs, two BAs, and a whole wealth of knowledge in his infamous supercomputer of a brain. 

“I got it!” he announced, smiling like an excited little kid as he raises his arm, holding up a children’s rabbit plushie like it’s some kind of trophy. His expression begins to falter when he sees the look on the faces of his coworkers, and by the time his gaze finds you, that smile has vanished completely.

“Reid,” Rossi says, grinning, “this is Doctor Strauss.”

Spencer blinks at you, as if Rossi has just spoken nonsense. You can almost hear the cogs spinning in his mind before the pieces fall into place. His eyes go impossibly wide, and he immediately launches into another bout of fast-paced, panic-fuelled ramblings.

“I—I’m sorry, I didn’t— I knew Chief Strauss had a daughter in the Bureau, um…in the Victim Services Division, I think— but I had only read your— your name in the past, and I’d never seen a photograph— I’m so sorry about earlier, I was—”

“Reid.”

Agent Hotchner’s stiff voice promptly silences him, and he mumbles another apology as he shrinks back like a sad puppy that has suffered a boot to the stomach. You can see Hotch in your peripheral vision, waiting for you to follow him outside, but your gaze is fixed on the plushie that Spencer is holding.

“Um,” he clears his throat, trying to unscramble his words before he speaks. “This isn’t mine. This, uh— the child of the victims, it’s his. I was going to use it, because it has sentimental value, to try and—”

“I know,” you say.

“Right,” he nods, pressing his lips into a sheepish smile, “yes. Of course you do. I’m— I’m sorry.”

“It’s a good idea,” you hold out a hand, “can I…?”

Spencer looks as though he may sprint straight out of the room as you step closer to him but, with no reason to refuse, he hands the plushie over to you. Immediately, you turn back to Hotch.

“Agent Hotchner, I think it would be best if I were to speak to the child.”  

Confused, Spencer steps forward as his expression sours. “Wait—”

“I was briefed on this case on my way here,” you say, keeping your gaze fixed on Hotch. “Home invasion of a two-parent household with one seven-year-old child. The parents were murdered in their bedroom, and the house was ransacked. The child you have here is Michael, DOB March 19th 2002, and he—”

“That’s enough,” he says, voice firm.

“This is my specialty, Agent Hotchner.”

“You are not a part of this team,” he counters.

“I am now,” you say, matching his tone, “and I will be for the next three months, at the least. If you want those months to pass smoothly, then I suggest you allow me to assist in areas I have the most experience in.”

Intransigent. That’s an apt descriptor for Agent Hotchner—both based on the tales you’ve heard, and on what you’re seeing in front of you. He’s stubborn, defensive, and protective of his team to the point where it does more harm than good.

Barging head-first into a situation as delicate as this is a risk, and it isn’t something you would do unless you were certain it was necessary. And it is necessary, because there is no playing nice with a man who is certain to hate you no matter how you act. There is no compromise to be had, no moulding yourself to fit what he wants, because he doesn’t want you here at all.

If you want to find your place on this team, you will have to carve it out yourself.

If he wants to be intransigent, you will just have to push twice as hard—and you’re willing to bet good money that you’re a hell of a lot more stubborn than he is.

You don’t need Agent Hotchner to like you; the favour of the BAU was never something you were ever going to win, but what you do need is for them to understand exactly where you stand in all of this. Your assistance isn’t optional, and your presence is not ignorable. You are here, whether they like it or not.

And, thankfully, Hotch seems to get the message. His throat bobs as he swallows back any further complaints, and you interpret that as a victory.

Spencer Reid, however, does not.

“But I’ve been with Mikey all morning,” he protests, looking between the two of you in disbelief like you’ve sprouted an additional head, “it wouldn’t be fair on him to introduce a new person. I’ve already established a rapport—”

“Rapport means nothing if you make no progress,” you say, cutting him off with a tone so sharp you could swear you see him wince. You meet his frustrated gaze with a calm, controlled look and add, “we’re FBI agents, Doctor, not babysitters.”

Spencer opens his mouth to argue, but you’re already turning back to Hotch, running away from those big, stupid brown eyes before you can consider feeling guilty about this.

“Where’s the child?”

Before any further hell can break loose, Rossi steps forward. “I’ll take you to him, boss, don’t worry.”

With that, he quickly ushers you out of the meeting room, leaving the rest of the team in a stunned silence that persists long after your departure.

As the two of you round the corner, Rossi gives your arm a playful nudge. “It’s good to see you again,” he says, smirking.

“I’m glad someone thinks this is funny,” you mutter as you fiddle with the soft ears of the plushie.

“Oh, please. Don’t sell yourself short, kid,” he says, “this is hilarious.”

The sigh that his words elicit is the only reply you’re willing to give him.

“Stealing a witness from Reid, though…” he tuts, shaking his head as he leads you to another, more secluded meeting room, “did Erin tell you to come out swinging, or is this just a you thing?”

Ignoring his question, you gesture to the door. “Is this it?”

“Yup,” he leans against the wall as you reach for the handle, “you sure about this?”

In response, you just open the door and step inside, pretending not to see the way he dramatically deflates as you leave him stranded in the corridor.

Inside the meeting room, you find Michael sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by pieces of paper. Upon second glance, you realise they’re drawings—failed attempts at getting him to draw the unsub, by the look of it. Sitting at the table is a defeated-looking police officer, but she perks up a little when she sees you walk in; she even flashes you a smile. Without saying a word, you politely motion for her to leave, and she immediately stands up.

You wait until the door closes behind her before you direct your attention to Michael, and you take a slow, steady breath in.

“Can you catch?” you ask, swapping out your usual flat tone for something looser. Something casual, and something slightly more emotive.

Michael warily raises his head, but something in his expression changes when he sees the plushie in your hands. His eyes widen, and he sits up eagerly. You toss it to him, and he hugs it tightly to his chest as though it’s his lifeline, the one thing keeping him tethered to reality—and you suppose, after everything he’s been through today, that it is.

“I’m Doctor Strauss,” you say, “I’m here to—”

“Are you a real doctor?” he asks. He’s soft-spoken, but not afraid; that’s a good sign, at least. “Or are you another fake one like Doctor Reid?”

You purse your lips into an embarrassed smile, acting as if he’s caught you red-handed. “I’m not a real doctor, no,” you admit. “I don’t do surgeries, or…anything like that.”

He frowns. “Why not?”

“It’s above my pay grade.”

He doesn’t fully understand what you mean by that, but he doesn’t have to. The way in which you say it conveys all he needs to know: you’re approachable, not overly serious and, above all, you aren’t trying too hard. You haven’t come in here bursting with sunshine and rainbows and false positivity, you’re just…yourself. A version of yourself; the version this kid needs.

And it must work, because he doesn’t try to back away as you cross the room, and you’re able to plop yourself down on the floor beside him without issue.

⋆˙⟡

Fifteen minutes later, you emerge to find the entire Behavioural Analysis Unit standing outside. They try to busy themselves as you step out into the corridor, acting as though they haven’t had their ears pressed to the door this whole time. You wait, expecting them to say something to you, or to speak at all, but they don’t.

So, you turn your gaze to Rossi; he seems to be the only person here willing to engage with you.

“Have the extended family been notified?” you ask.

“His aunt is flying in as we speak,” he says.

You nod, and silence overwhelms the team once more. Every agent has their eyes on you, studying you—profiling you—like you’re some foreign creature. Something they aren’t quite sure of, but something that has intrigued them, nonetheless.

“Doctor Strauss…” Morgan muses, narrowing his eyes as he regards you with a slight smirk. “Doing in fifteen minutes what Reid couldn’t do in three hours. Colour me impressed.”

Beside him, Spencer frowns. He purses his lips tight, presumably to stop himself from saying anything foolish, and crosses his arms. There’s no arguing with Morgan’s words; you did manage to get Michael to talk, and you had done it far faster than Doctor Reid ever would have. It’s almost like having experience might actually mean something, but who’s to say?

“Maybe you should take notes next time,” you say, meeting Morgan’s gaze. Your expression doesn’t stray from its perfectly neutral baseline, but there’s something in the way that you speak that could, if he so desired, be interpreted as smug.

He raises his eyebrows, smirking unapologetically now, but Hotch clears his throat before he can say anything further. 

“Get Garcia on the line,” he instructs, gesturing for the team to return to their meeting room, “we should have everything we need to track down this unsub.”

That’s all he needs to say for the team to understand what he is truly asking of them: privacy. A moment alone with you so he can pick you apart, vivisect you and learn what your game is. The agents turn almost in sync and quickly begin scurrying away. You hear them start to whisper amongst themselves as they turn the corner.

Interactions can typically go one of two ways: good, or bad. For the most part, the outcome is entirely in your control. You know how to get the ball into your court, and you know how to keep it there—you know exactly how to turn a bad conversation into a good one, if such a need were to ever arise.

In this case, however, your options are bad or worse. There’s little you can do here to manipulate the outcome; Agent Hotchner’s iron defences won’t allow for it.

So, you let him make the first move, hoping to get a decent read on him, to gauge where his head is at, before you say anything that may damn you further.

And, thankfully, it doesn’t take long for him to speak.

“I wish I could say it’s good to see you,” he says stiffly.

“I’m not here to cause you any trouble.”

You watch as he nods slowly—thoughtfully, almost—but you know better than to assume it means anything good for you. It’s a polite gesture, nothing more, because telling you to your face that he thinks you’re full of shit would be rude.

“I’m here to help,” you add, reciting your lines with just enough emotion to come across as genuine without laying it on too thick, “to assist on cases and ensure that this team is functioning efficiently, internally and externally."

Hotch’s gaze drops momentarily to your outfit: pale pink blouse, deep burgundy slacks, and ballet flats that you clean so often they look as though they have never been worn. Your outfits are the most colourful thing about you, and that isn’t unintentional. Pink is friendly. Trustworthy. And, in a place where trust is going to be a scarce resource, you need all the help you can get.

“And if you have reason to believe we aren’t?” he asks.

“Then I will take the necessary steps to set you on the right track,” you say simply. “I can only hope that you will be cooperative.”

He spends a few more seconds just looking at you, regarding you with an expression as neutral as he can manage with that perpetual frown tugging at his brows. And then, in a gesture that you can only interpret as a surrender, he turns away.

“The team aren’t going to like this.”

“I don’t expect them to,” you say.

Glancing back at you over his shoulder, he asks, “and you can handle that?”

Is he serious? Of course you can.

“I wouldn’t be here if I couldn’t.”

He nods, jaw working subtly like he’s chewing on his thoughts before he adds, as a final note, “don’t attempt to undermine my authority again. Expertise is appreciated, arrogance is not.”

“Yes, sir.”

⋆˙⟡

Back in the meeting room, the interrogations begin.

“I didn’t think Strauss had any children old enough to be working in the Bureau.”

“Doctor Sunshine here is the eldest,” Rossi says, responding to Morgan’s question before you can get a word in.

Doctor Sunshine. You’d turn around and punch him in the throat if you thought it would make him stop.

“Of four,” you add. “My siblings are a lot younger than I am.”

Your responses, when Rossi isn’t delivering them for you, are rehearsed. They’re to-the-point without feeling overly blunt, and they’re honest—as honest as you’re willing to be with a group of strangers, anyway. Presenting yourself as unapproachable will do little to help your case. You need them to think they can talk to you, that they can be honest with you as you are honest with them. Communication is, unfortunately, a two-way street, and you’re willing to lead by example, if you must.

Agent Jareau—JJ, she has insisted you call her—flashes you a smile from across the table. “Working in the same field as your parent has gotta be tough,” she says, “there’s a lot of weight to a last name.”

Beside her, Prentiss sighs. “Tell me about it.”

“I suppose, but the Victim Services Division primarily operates out of DC,” you explain, “so there’s little overlap between my mother and me, professionally speaking. My last name does raise some eyebrows from time to time, though.”

“How’d you wind up here, then?” Morgan asks. “Victim Services to BAU’s little helper is quite the jump. Did mom recruit you to spy on us, or something?”

The question is phrased as a joke rather than an accusation, but you spare a fleeting glance at Hotch all the same. He offers you nothing; this is your job, not his.

“I have a background in Human Resources,” you say, keeping your tone even as you survey the team’s reactions, “and while spy isn’t the term I would use…I am here, in part, to monitor the performance of this team.”

The energy in the room shifts as you speak. What was once mere intrigue freezes over in an instant, and it solidifies into something heavier. Judgement.

In an instant, their defences have shot up and you are no longer just a bossy stranger, but an enemy. They all turn to look at you, some in disbelief, others in disappointment. Even Spencer, who has been making a point to ignore you since your return, raises his head to join in on the staring.

Morgan’s brows come together in a harsh frown. “Does Strauss think we’re falling behind?”

Here we go.

“In light of recent events, I think—”

“We’ve been doing perfectly fine,” he says. 

You purse your lips.

“You don’t agree? What did she tell you—”

“Kids,” Rossi interrupts, wagging his finger, “play nice, please. I think we should give our friend here the benefit of the doubt—”

“There have been some concerns raised,” you say, keeping your gaze fixed on Morgan.

Playing nice isn’t a possibility here. You knew that two weeks ago, and now the rest of the team are finally beginning to catch on.

Morgan scoffs. “Concerns? Like what?”

Even with everyone’s eyes on you, you do not falter. You inhale, ready to deliver your own death sentence, only to be interrupted by the ringing of Morgan’s phone. He answers the call with a huff, and you are introduced to the voice of what you can only assume is their technical analyst, Penelope Garcia.

“Ugh, I know you were just thinking of me, handsome,” she says. “Thinking about this big, juicy rack of…informationthat I am about to graciously bestow upon you.”

The entire team wince. Rossi lowers his head so far it almost hits the table, and the rest of the men shake their heads as Prentiss and JJ choke back a laugh. Even you have to close your eyes, if only for a moment, to maintain your composure.

Morgan glances at you, mortified, before clearing his throat. “You’re on speaker, Garcia.”

“Oh!” her voice breaks. “Derek, please tell me Strauss’ daughter isn’t—”

“I’m here,” you say.

“Oh! It’s, um, nice to meet you, agent— Doctor Strauss. If you could just…erase the last thirty seconds from your mind, I would appreciate that. A lot. I promise you that I am a mature, professional—”

“If you could just…bestow what must be bestowed, that would be great,” you mutter, cutting her off before she can make this any worse.

“Right. Of course. Um— so I ran a search using the parameters you gave me—thank you, Doctor Strauss, for speaking to our witness—and I found a guy who matches the unsub’s description to a tee: known to the family, history of breaking in to places he shouldn’t, and so on.” 

“Tell us his name, babygi— Garcia,” Morgan says.

Babygirl. You’re going to need a pen and paper in a second.

“Just give me one moment, and…yup, his name and address have been sent your way.”

“Thank you, Garcia,” Hotch says before directing his attention to you. “Strauss, are you authorised to be in the field?”

“No, sir,” you say. 

Two weeks’ notice was not enough time to schedule a practical re-evaluation. Not that it would have mattered, because your mother has decided that you are to stay out of the field unless it is absolutely necessary. 

Dealing with criminals isn’t your job, she had said, dealing with this team is.

“Very well,” he says, “you stay here with Reid. We’ll be back shortly.”

With that, the team scramble to their feet and promptly make their exit, leaving you and the silent Doctor Reid to manage the tension that settles in their absence. 

To play it safe, you opt to let him speak up first, but he does not say a word. Instead of addressing you, Spencer reaches into his bag and pulls out a book: Dream of the Red Chamber—and it’s in the original Chinese, too.

Something in your gut stirs as you watch him handle that book. Delicately, like it may break. His fingers run along the edge of each page, tracing the sharp corners, before turning them, and you realise far too late that you are staring. 

What is wrong with you today?

Lowering your gaze, you decide to address the elephant in the room.

“I apologise,” you say, “if I came across as rude earlier.”

All that earns you is a silent nod.

“I know you’re a capable agent, Doctor Reid. I’m sure you all are.”

Setting his book down, Spencer looks at you directly and asks, “then why are you here?”

“As I said, the Bureau have their concerns.”

“And you’re here to…fix us?”

“If I must,” you say. You allow a moment to pass, giving him time to respond if he wishes to, before adding, “I don’t want you to see me as a threat—”

“But that’s exactly what you are,” he cuts you off with words that sound more disappointed than they do angry. “If you find a fault in this team, you will report it, and then…” he shakes his head. “I’m sure you’re a capable agent, too, but you are, by nature, a threat to our team. I don’t think there’s any use in pretending otherwise. I’m sorry.”

Your gaze remains fixed on him even as he breaks eye contact. The table, it seems, is suddenly the most interesting thing in the room to him.

I don’t think there’s any use in pretending. There’s a first.

There is always use in pretending, but you don’t expect him to understand that. Doctor Reid wears his heart on his sleeve, you could see it from a mile away. He blushes freely, stumbles over his words, allows himself to get excited over the little things, and he takes things personally even when he shouldn’t.

He’s sensitive; soft in all the ways you don't know how to be.

So, to save him any further disappointment, you nod. You even put on a small, gentle smile, shielding sharp teeth behind agreeable lips.

“Yes,” you say, keeping your voice light. “Yes, I suppose you’re right.”

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have you ever wondered what it would be like to be erin strauss' daughter? ...probably not, yet here we are!

── .⟢ get to know strauss!reader .ᐟ

set in season five after the events of episode 100. strauss suspects that hotch is struggling after the death of haley and, naturally, she recruits her eldest, and bluntest, daughter to help her investigate.

SERIES MASTERLIST ✶⋆.˚

ᢉ𐭩 - fluff | ✶ - angst | ❀ - smut | ༄ - hurt/comfort

like mother... | ✶ the behavioural analysis unit have no idea that their section chief has a daughter in the bureau until she shows up in the middle of an investigation to kick ass, take plushies, and leave a sour taste in the mouth of a certain genius.

lighten the load | ᢉ𐭩 when spencer and you are the last people in the bullpen after dark, he ropes you into helping him with paperwork in a not-so-subtle ploy to spend more time with you. his questions are endless, but there's something about his voice that has you starting to open up, even when you know you shouldn't.

EXTRAS .ᐟ

strauss!reader moodboard

cheeky spotify playlist

you showed up, unannounced, mere days after agent hotchner was reinstated as unit chief following the reaper incident, and it took just one glance for him to understand exactly who you were and why you were there. the rest of the team soon followed suit, and you were promptly ostracised, banished to an empty office a little ways down the hall—not that you minded all that much.

whilst you may not be the spitting image of your mother, the moment you open your mouth all doubts about your lineage are wiped clean from the minds of anyone who dared hope there may be more than one agent—or, in your case, doctor—strauss working at quantico. you've been told that your monotone voice and terse way of speaking are "off-putting", and yet somehow you have the highest client satisfaction score of your entire division. it's funny how things like that work out.

you don't believe in sugar-coating your words; people deserve to hear the truth, and nothing but the truth. words are humankind's greatest asset, they save lives, make or break cases, and flowery language does little to ease the suffering of the victims you work with. it's obnoxious. you're an anchor, a life jacket; your top priority is to provide real, tangible support, not delude vulnerable people into thinking that everything is going to be okay. if that makes you a cynic, then so be it, you'll happily stand by your beliefs until the bitter end.

you're a stickler for the rules—you inherited that from your mother, no doubt—an anal-retentive nitpick with a neck so stiff a strong breeze may cause it to snap clean in half; dave tells you you're made of glass, but you insist you're made of steel.

you didn't infiltrate the BAU by choice. you don't want to be surrounded by chaos junkies, even if it's only for a short time, but whatever chief strauss wants, cheif strauss gets.

after all, mother knows best, does she not?

── .⟢ featured in: handprints in wet cement

── .⟢ theme song: hard out here, lily allen

── .⟢ favourite things: dusty pinks, the beach, speeding on empty roads, being correct, comic books, reality tv, doing laundry/cleaning whilst listening to music, putting time into her appearance, hour-long showers

── .⟢ least favourite things: rain, being told to smile, the nepo baby allegations, underachieving, letting people down, being compared to her mother, when people call her "agent" instead of "doctor", failure.

── .⟢ music taste: lily allen, lorde, rihanna, lady gaga, ariana grande, lana del ray, pitbull (on occasion), beyoncé

Agent Morgan’s complexities are hidden under a typical class clown persona, a cliché defence mechanism that is about as ineffective as it is predictable. Agent Prentiss puts up a similar façade, one of unending wit and cheerful smiles; you don’t know what exactly she’s hiding but, based on your observations, neither do the rest of the team. 

Agent Jareau thinks that overloading herself with work and motherhood will quell whatever is haunting her behind her perfectly positive exterior, and Agent Garcia parades herself around in bright colours and cracks jokes that ought to be reported to counteract the darkness that creeps in when the office goes quiet.

Agent Hotchner presents himself as calm and stony to hide how he is still tearing himself to pieces over the loss of his ex-wife, and Agent Rossi balances him out with light-hearted chaos and sly remarks—but he, too, is wrestling with decades of baggage brought on by this job.

And Doctor Reid…he’s the token genius. The baby of the group, some may say. Educated in the complex and naïve in the basic. He could teach string theory without stumbling over a single word, but you doubt he knows how to tie his own shoe—or hold a conversation with a woman. 

They are all good agents, you will never deny that, but there are not without their problems. There are clear cracks in their exteriors that you can see from the window of your office: the way Emily bites her nails, for example, or the way Reid seems prone to zoning out. And this is without touching on their professional flaws which, to be frank, there are too many to count.

You’ve spent the week scrutinising just about anything BAU related that you can get your hands on—performance reviews, case reports, incidents in the field, and so on—and you’re already noticing unsavoury patterns. Patterns of reckless and impulsive behaviour, or hypervigilance and emotion-driven decision making. Their outcomes are favourable, but their methods are without a doubt cause for concern.

But you suppose they learn from the best; Agent Hotchner just spat in the face of protocol and killed Foyet with his bare hands. You aren’t casting any kind of moral judgement on his actions, that isn’t your place, but you can’t help but wonder what kind of example such behaviour has set for his already reckless team. 

It’s safe to say that, in the months going forward, you are going to have your work cut out for you. If you want to help this team, it is going to take dedication, and a whole lot of patience. More importantly, the BAU have to be willing to work with you and allow you to do your job which, so far, does not seem to be in the cards.

You were more than prepared to claim one of the half-dozen empty desks in the bullpen, but Agent Hotchner had other plans: he had assigned you an office two doors down from Jareau’s, which was about as far from the team as he could get without kicking you out of the department entirely. He had phrased it as though it were an act of grace, giving you space to work without interruption, but you knew what he truly meant: there’s only so much meddling you can do when you’re confined to an office, and to monitor the team effectively you would need to linger in the bullpen far beyond what would be natural—he’s made it awkward, almost impossibly so, for you to do your job. 

But you don’t complain. As petty a move as it was on Hotch’s part, you are happy to have your own space to work in. You think better, clearer, when you’re alone and, as you are quick to discover, the bullpen is more of a social space than anything else. The agents are constantly talking; visitors are always poking their heads in; and, twice so far, you’ve witnessed Morgan pull Reid’s chair out from under him as he’s tried to sit down, and he has fallen rather unceremoniously onto his ass. Even in your office, you can hear the chaos unfolding as you try to work, and it is already making you wonder if your mother has sent you here for the sole purpose of torturing you—you wouldn’t put it past her.

There is one thing you’re sure of, though, and that is this job is not going to be easy. These next three months are going to be spent chasing unfinished reports, giving lectures on professional conduct, and catching Doctor Reid every time he has his chair stolen.

⋆˙⟡

Your office light is always the last to be turned off. You watch from your window as the rest of the team head home: JJ first, Spencer last. You earn polite, albeit somewhat stiff waves from each agent as they pass you by, and some of them—Rossi and Prentiss, mostly—will stop for a moment to say goodnight. You just flash them a smile and wave them away.

Emily Prentiss seems to think she has some kind of kinship with you because her mother’s a diplomat. She isn’t wrong, you suppose, but every time she tries to “bond” with you over your “shared troubles” you always find an excuse to walk away; it isn’t a conversation you want to have, not at work—not ever, ideally. It doesn’t matter how similar your experiences may be, you aren’t interested in talking about your mother.

However, due to the nature of this job, Erin Strauss is a rather difficult topic to avoid. In this office, she defines your very existence; the BAU may look at you, they may talk to you, but they don’t see you. You’re a shadow, a pale imitation of the section chief they so love to hate. Despite your attempts to separate yourself from her, you are inextricably linked to your mother.

Your last name has never caused you much trouble, but now that is all they see you as. A Strauss; cold, sharp, and calculated. A woman who overcompensates for her insecurities by ruling over the BAU with a dented iron fist.

The only real exception to this is Rossi, but he knows you. He’s been in the outstretches of your orbit since you were a child, it wouldn’t make sense for him to lump you and your mother into the same box after all this time. 

The team may one day learn to separate you from her, but the circumstances of your transfer make that near impossible. You are here because of her, you work for her, and she is who you will be reporting back to; there’s no distancing yourself from that.

It’s 7pm by the time you finally decide to leave your office. You quickly file away any loose papers and force yourself up from your chair, ignoring the way your stiff legs ache in protest at the unwanted movement. You grab your coat, sling your messenger bag over your shoulder, and shuffle out of your office into the darkness of the bullpen.

Only it isn’t dark—not fully, at least. The overhead lights have been switched off, but there’s a quiet, dim glow coming from across the room. 

Turning toward the source of the light, you find Spencer Reid sitting, hunched over, at his desk. Only the top of his head is visible over the partition. His hair catches the light of the lamp he has brought to his desk, and it looks, from this angle, as though he has some kind of halo.

The sight of him brings you to a halt and, for a moment, all you can do is watch him from the other side of the room, caught somewhere in the space between speaking up and walking away.

Eventually, you make a decision.

“Do you always stay this late?”

Despite your quiet tone, Spencer almost jumps out of his skin when he hears your voice. His head jerks up, wide eyes meeting yours through the dark, mouth agape like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t.

“I was, um— no. No, I don’t usually…stay this late,” he says, staring at you with that deer-in-headlights look you’ve spent all day trying to avoid. His gaze flicks from your face to your bag, and then to the coat hanging off your arm before he asks, “do you?”

“Most of the time, yes,” you say stiffly. There’s an air of defensiveness to your words—an unintentional one—as you eye him from across the bullpen, arms crossed.

Spencer nods. He doesn’t look at all surprised.

Your brows draw together in a frown as you arm yourself with an excuse, a reason for why you’re still here after hours—for why you’re always here. You straighten up, puffing out your chest the way your—

…the way your mother always does.

Fucking hell, you aren’t helping your case here.

Quickly, you uncross your arms, trying to appear less Strauss-like as Spencer watches you in silence. Not watching, analysing. He’s reading you, or trying to, and it’s making your skin crawl. 

You hate the way he looks at you, bright-eyed and curious, like you’re something of interest to him. It’s the same look he gave you when you first met, the look you thought was a one-time occurrence that has since cemented itself into his features.

He’s trying to see through you, as though whatever lies beyond the surface is any better than what you’re presenting. God, he’d be disappointed. 

Pushing that stupid thought aside, you shift your focus to the files spread out across his desk. There’s a dozen of them, at least, and none of them have his name on them.

“I’m assuming people have offloaded their paperwork onto you” you say.

Spencer shrugs. “I can work through it the fastest.”

It’s a simple answer. He doesn’t try to make any excuses for his coworkers, and that’s something you can respect.

As he returns his attention to his work, you step closer to his desk, watching him quietly as he sifts through papers with practiced ease. It’s almost like he’s trying to show off, to prove that he is in fact the fastest at working through piles of paperwork—though you’re willing to bet you’d have him beat. Regardless, it’s interesting to watch; he moves like a well-oiled machine, cross-referencing files and filling in missing details like its second nature. 

Your gaze strays to his hand, the way those fingers grip his pen as he writes, firm but light. He has nice hands.

It’s a fleeting thought, a harmless one, but it stops you dead in your tracks. Why on earth are you thinking something like that?

“The team don’t seem to like you very much.”

His voice startles you out of your thoughts, and it takes you just a second too long to reorient yourself before responding in a neutral tone.

“I don’t need them to like me.”

“Yes, you do,” setting his pen down, Spencer leans back in his chair and looks up at you, lips pressed thin into an awkward, but slightly empathetic smile. “This…plan of yours, to fix— help us, it isn’t going to work unless you get the team to like you. Or, at the very least, trust you.”

Narrowing your eyes, you watch him for a moment, struggling to discern whether he’s mocking you or actually trying to help. You know the former is the more likely option; his expression reads as sincere, and you know from your research that Doctor Reid is about as soft-hearted as they come—but he is still a profiler, and a good one at that. He’s more than capable of putting up a kind, doe-eyed front if he wishes to. 

In the end, you trust your gut, but a hint of scepticism remains as you ask, “and how do you suggest I do that?”

“You could start by…” Spencer puffs his cheeks full of air and shrugs before flashing you another smile, “grabbing a chair and helping me with this paperwork?”

His question seems to amuse him a lot more than it does you.

In response to your silence, he raises his eyebrows. “You said you were here to help, right?”

You have half a mind to turn and walk away, but you don’t. You don’t do anything. You’re just standing there, arms crossed despite your efforts to keep them at your sides, watching as his smile inches wider and wider.

Shit, he has dimples.

“Fine,” you concede, abruptly turning away as you feel the faintest heat creep into your cheeks. You brush it off as you grab a chair. 

Spencer scoots over, making room for you at his desk as you set your coat and bag down. You slot in beside him, putting as much space between you as the small space allows, and grab a file at random.

“If you need any help, just—”

“I know what I’m doing,” you say.

You don’t snap at him, or even sound annoyed at all, but Spencer freezes all the same. His pen hovers mid-air, just centimetres from the paper as he clears his throat. “Yes,” he mutters, quickly shaking his head, “of course you do, I’m sorry.”

So, he can tell you to your face that his team doesn’t like you, but the mere idea of possibly coming across as patronising is enough to make him short circuit?

You can feel your lips curling at the corners, but you force them back down. “You were being polite,” you say, keeping the amusement out of your voice, “there’s no harm in that, Doctor Reid.”

“Mhm.”

Spencer doesn’t say anything further as he returns to his work, but when you steal a glance at him you find him watching you out of the corner of his eye. Your gazes meet, and he promptly turns away.

The two of you fall into a silence—not quite comfortable, but not uncomfortable, either. You’re acutely aware of the way he’s breathing, the way he inhales deeply every few minutes like he’s preparing to speak. But he never does. Clearly, his mind is elsewhere; he’s probably wracking his brain for questions to ask, ways to prod your mind and reveal what your true motives are. And you are more than ready to remind him, again, that you’re only here to help. If your reports end up reflecting badly on this team, then they will have no one to blame but themselves. It really is that simple.

“What made you interested in Victim Services?”

You’re halfway through scouring one of Morgan’s half-finished case reports when Reid speaks up again. The end of your pen slows to a stop halfway down the page, and you ponder the question for a moment, weighing out the perfect response; one that answers his question without leaving room for any more, else you’ll be stuck here with him all night.

“I suppose I like helping people,” you eventually say. “I wrote my PhD thesis on—”

“The long-term effect of victimisation among children and adolescents,” he says, smiling. “I know.”

You blink at him, unsure of what has bewildered you more: the way he just interrupted you, or the fact that he knows that. “You’ve…done your research.”

Spencer blinks at you as he registers your reaction. Clearly, it isn’t what he had been expecting—but what could he have been trying to achieve by cutting you off? 

“I, um…I have, yes,” he mumbles awkwardly. He looks nothing short of mortified, but then, after regaining his footing, he adds, “I actually found your research to be quite, um, enlightening. Especially when you addressed the disparity in the quality of support received by victims of…differing social classes.”

…God help you.

He’s read your PhD thesis. Not only has he read it, but he also enjoyed it. And now he’s talking to you about it, taking an actual interest in your research with those stupid brown eyes and that smile and—

“I suppose the point I was trying to make is, um,” his voice cuts your shorts short, thank God, as he continues, “on paper, you seem like the perfect fit for the BAU, or— or the Violent Crimes Against Children Program. I-I don’t think that the Victim Services Division is any less valuable, or anything, I was just…wondering why you opted for that particular position, as opposed to taking on a role in a more…proactive unit.”

 You sit with his words for a while, keeping your gaze on the desk, before asking, “you’re asking why I chose a desk job over chasing serial killers?”

“…yes,” he says.

He thinks your job’s boring. Of course he does, he’s a profiler; he’d lose his mind to boredom if he couldn’t run around the country waving his gun and saving the day.

“I like helping people,” you repeat, tapping your pen against your file. “I like working with victims one-on-one. You guys—” you purse your lips, taking a moment to ensure your words can’t be taken the wrong way before continuing. “The BAU do a lot of good for a lot of people, and you’re rightfully commended for it, but your job ends when the case closes. You’ll spend an hour or two with a victim, if that, before sending them on their way. But at the VSD, we spend weeks, if not months, with victims; helping them get back on their feet, assisting with legal proceedings, and so on.”

You’re talking too much. Over-explaining. The sound of your voice is insufferable even for your own ears, you can’t imagine what it must be like for him.

But, upon sparing him a glance, you see that Spencer is nodding along, listening to you talk. He’s either one hell of an actor, or he’s actually interested in what you’re saying. It’s weird. He’s weird.

“…I also prefer the idea of a desk job over working in the field,” you add, returning your gaze to the safety of the desk. “The odds of getting shot are significantly lower, I’d imagine.”

You half-expect him to laugh—you were making a joke, kind of—but he doesn’t. In fact, he gives you the biggest, most serious nod you’ve ever seen. He’s like one of those bobbleheads people put on the dashboard of their cars. 

“I used to think that too,” he says, scooting slightly closer to you. “I was a little…out of shape when I first joined the Bureau; I failed my practical exam. They actually had to make exceptions to allow me in the field when I started at the BAU.”

“I know,” you turn your chair, just slightly, toward him. “You’re not the only person who does your research.”

Spencer’s eyes go wide for a moment as he realises just how much you may know about him. “Oh. Um. That—” his voice cracks, and it takes all of your willpower not to smile as he clears his throat. “It makes sense to do that— to, um, know who you’re going to be working with, I mean. Especially since you’re…monitoring us.”

He turns back to his work, and, for a moment, you think that may be the end of your conversation. But, just as you begin writing again, he turns back to you with an expression so intense it’s almost comical.

“I failed my firearm qualification in 2005,” he says, leaning in a little too close for you to be comfortable with, “and— and I just wanted to make it known that I’m not— I am a good shot. Just, um…in case you were wondering.”

“I know,” you say slowly, watching him out of the corner of your eye with a wary kind of intrigue. “2005 was four years ago.”

“I know,” he says. “I was just…making sure you knew.”

Yeah, he’s definitely weird.

“You’d be a better shot than me, regardless,” you say. “My certification expired a few years ago.”

“And you never retook the exam?”

You shrug. “I have no reason to, I’m not going to be in the field.”

Spencer’s brows furrow into a slight frown. “So…when we get called in on cases, you’ll be staying at the local PD?”

“Mhm,” you nod, bringing your pen back to the paper, “and you’ll have someone to keep you company.”

He goes quiet in the wake of your words. You can see him in your peripheral vision, just staring at you with this blank expression. So much for trying to be friendly.

“…your knee,” you add.

“Oh! Right,” he shakes his head, as though it may dispel the flush creeping into his cheeks. “Right, of course. I don’t know what I was, um— I should be cleared for the field in a few weeks, actually, pending a physical exam— I hope so, at least. My physician said that I’m recovering well, and that I should be able to make a full return to work once I’m healed. Oh, and I got to look at my x-rays, and you won’t believe how close the bullet was to my tibial nerve. It’s nothing short of a miracle; a few millimetres left, and I would’ve— um…”

He trails off when he realises that all of your attention is now on him, and only on him. You’ve turned away from your work, even set your pen down, to listen to him, and you watch as his flush darkens an additional shade or two. He’s blue-screened, it seems.

“…you talk a lot,” you observe, keeping your tone light.

“Yes,” he confirms, looking as though he’s wishing for the ground to swallow him whole. “I-I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be—”

“I never said it was a bad thing,” you cut him off, returning to your work as you shift your voice back into its neutral, flat tone, “you can keep talking, just…make sure you do this paperwork.”

Spencer is silent for a moment, like he’s struggling to wrap his head around what you’ve just said. You’re being far too nice; you know you are. Unnecessarily nice, and you’re sure he’s aware of it, too. You could have—should have—told him to shut up, but…

His voice isn’t all that harsh on your ears. He can be a little loud, at times, but not…obnoxiously so. His tendency to ramble isn’t a flaw, you don’t think, but more of a…quirk. An endearing one.

You daren’t look at him, because you know what you’ll find: wide eyes, flushed cheeks, all the ingredients needed to fill you with that strange sense of unease, that slight, barely-there ache that blooms behind your ribs. 

“Oh.”

That’s all he says. You hear his breathing change, like he’s holding back a laugh, or choking on something, but then he clears his throat and returns to his work.

And, after barely a minute has passed, he begins talking again.

You finally leave the bullpen that night a little after 9pm, with the beginnings of a headache and a far too intimate knowledge of Spencer’s injured knee—and, though you’d deny it if asked, a very, very slight smile.

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