Chapter Text
TW: explicit description of drug usage.
ɤɤɤɤ ɤɤɤɤ ɤɤɤɤ
Desk cleared, box filled with your personal belongings (a photo of you and your partner and a white hourglass filled with black sand) in your hands, you take one last look around the office you spent so many years in. The familiar faces, the smell of the shitty coffee, the sound of footsteps muffled by the carpet and of course the continuous sound of keyboards clicking.
Said partner, Isaac, gives you a wave while the doors of the elevator close in front of you. He wanted to hug you so bad, but he knows that you can’t stand that. So, he opted for a very long handshake and making you promise to take him out for dinner soon to tell him all about your new job.
Pressing the button to the lobby, you take a deep breath. You already handed in your gun and badge. You are no longer an Agent of the DEA.
The call came three weeks ago. SSA Rossi of the BAU was on the other end of the line. He said he followed your career. He said he would like you to come in for an interview. Of course, you know who he is. You also know about the BAU. The job of a profiler always has been appealing to you. Somehow, you never pursued it. Now it had pursued you.
The death of a team member let to your hiring. You only met your future boss, SSA Aaron Hotchner. And, well, Rossi on the phone. Hotchner was a tall guy with dark hair and only one facial expression: stern. The interview itself was pretty short, the references you brought were apparently quite convincing on their own. Also, since Rossi seems to have chosen you, you assume there was little discussion.
You don’t know if there were any other candidates. When you asked around at the DEA, no one even knew there was a position open. They seemingly kept it pretty lowkey. Maybe because the former Agent died. You cannot imagine how difficult it must be to hire someone new just weeks after your colleague was murdered. Especially, as far as you know, they haven’t caught the guy, nor do they have a lead.
You try not to think about all that too much when you enter the bullpen of the BAU early the next morning. You walk straight to Hotchner’s office; he is the only one already here.
“Good morning, Sir.” You hold your box with one hand to shake his with the other.
“Good morning.” Without further welcoming words, he hands you over your badge and gun. You smile at you badge. It has FBI written on it in bold letters. You feel like your icon, Dana Scully. Then you look back at Hotchner. You see his eyes wander over you like he’s checking you out. But not in a sexual way – oh no. More like he’s at a dealership and thoroughly making sure the car he just bought doesn’t have any scratches or dents before driving off.
Even though he still appears skeptical about you being here, he points out the window and tells you: “Your desk is the last one on the left.”
Alright, this conversation seems to be over. You nod and step out.
While you are placing your personal belongings on the table, you hear footsteps approaching behind you. Before you even fully turn around, someone tells you: “That’s Emily’s desk.” The voice actually sounds nice, and you cannot wait to see who it belongs to, but the words sent staggers right to your heart. You close your eyes for a second and wipe the frown off your face.
Standing behind you, is a good-looking man. Maybe mid-twenties. Pale, dark-blonde hair, a leather bag over his shoulders, wearing chucks and mismatching socks. You manage to flick the switch inside of you that turns you into a friendly, joking person who you don’t mind when they are in the same room.
“Good thing, my name is Emily then.” You extend your hand: “Emily Byrne.”
He looks at you, blinking a few times. When he snaps out of it, he just gives you a small wave and a tight-lipped smile: “I’m Reid.”
You let your hand fall back to your side. Oh boy.
You try not to let it get to you and keep up the smiley attitude when you hear the next person enter.
“Oh wow! Had I known you’re this good lookin’ I had worn something more appropriate.” A fit, dark-skinned man comes over to you. You just stare at him; you don’t know what to answer. He offers you his fist. “Derek Morgan.” That makes you smile genuinely and give him a fist bump.
“You transferred from the DEA?”
“Yeah. Nice to meet you.”
Reid is still standing next to you, eyeing you up and down without saying anything. Wouldn’t he have given you the cold attitude in the beginning, you’d think he finds you attractive. However, the way he behaved makes it more likely that he’s doing the same thing Hotchner did earlier and looks for any obvious blemishes that would entitle them for a refund.
A blond woman walks in next: “Hi, I’m Jennifer Jereau. Everyone calls me JJ.” You shake her hand: “Hi, JJ.”
Morgan pads Reid’s shoulder: “We have a narc in the building, maybe you want to cut back on that coffee-consumption.”
You smile and say: “As long as the beans aren’t smuggled, we’re cool.” Morgan laughs, but Reid keeps quiet. So, you add, desperate to make him stop looking at you like a possum he found under the porch: “You may, however, overdose.”
Morgan raises an eyebrow: “You can overdose on coffee?”
“Oh yeah. At 1g caffein it starts to get dangerous. But with 40mg caffeine in 100g coffee and about 12g coffee per cup, you can still drink…”
“20.8 cups of coffee.” Reid interrupts you.
You bite your tongue. You hate being interrupted. “A lethal dose is about 10mg. I don’t know how long you have to stay awake, but that would be a lot of coffee… Still better than cocaine though.” You add.
“Did someone say cocaine?” A familiar male voice says.
“Agent Rossi.” He actually takes your extended hand and shakes it. You hear a door open behind you. “We have a case.” Hotchner calls.
ɤɤɤɤ ɤɤɤɤ ɤɤɤɤ
“Wheels up in 30.” Hotchner declares and everyone gets up.
“Shit.” You mumble. JJ leans over: “What’s up?” You shake your head: “I didn’t bring an overnight bag.
Reid seems to have heard what you said, he scoffs at you and walks out. You rub over your face and explain: “I didn’t expect to fly out on my first day.”
JJ smiles understanding: “Welcome to the BAU.” Then she adds: “We’ll figure something out when we land.”
You give her a small smile “Thank you.”
Everyone piles into the elevator. You feel somewhat naked being the only one without a bag. Internally, you keep chastising yourself for not thinking of this. You were so focused on getting here on time and making a good impression and being friendly with everyone that you didn’t think about what this job would actually entail. Maybe because something inside of you actually expected to be rejected and send home.
On the way to the jet, Hotchner asks: “You didn’t bring a bag?” You sigh internally and shake your head: “I forgot.”
“Bring one next time.” He tells you.
No shit. You turn your head away from him and roll your eyes.
“What was that?” Hotchner asks. “I didn’t say anything.” You look at him and furrow your eyebrows. He stares at you for a moment but lets you be.
You don’t know where to sit on the jet, so you just take the seat next to JJ. She was nice and understanding so you figure she’s your best chance of getting into the team. The others also show a great amount of respect to her and when she says something, everyone shuts up. So, you hope, should she be kind and accepting, the team also will be.
When Reid stares at you with a grim face and what can only be described as fire in his eyes, however, you figure that it usually was Emily’s seat. The other Emily.
After you went over the preliminary file, you try to relax. It’s still hours until you land in Texas. Reid keeps shooting you angry looks when he isn’t reading the file. You finally give in and stand up. Mumbling something about coffee, you walk to the other end of the jet. This is not how you imagined your first case.
ɤɤɤɤ ɤɤɤɤ ɤɤɤɤ
You mostly keep quiet and try to follow the other’s lead when you arrive at the police station. You worked with local law enforcement before, of course, but you have no idea how the BAU handles these relationships. You’re glad when you’re finally all in the makeshift conference room and you get to contribute something that isn’t just taking notes.
“The tox-scan shows that all the victims had fentanyl in their system.” Reid declares.
“That’s an opioid.” You explain.
“Yeah, I know.” Reid counters. He says is with such underlying aggression in his voice that you, for just a second, think it was wrong of you to even speak up. You furrow your eyebrows, but before you can reply anything Morgan says: “I didn’t, thanks.” It makes you relax your shoulders.
Hotch’s eyes dart around the room until he proposes: “Maybe the unsub didn’t want to feel the victims what he was doing to them?”
You extend your hand towards Reid: “Can I see the tox-screen?”
He stares you down, not moving his hands. Stubbornly, you stare back, not letting your hand sink this time. His eyes are as cold as his facial expression. Neither of which matches how he looks otherwise. His vest, his sneakers…You expect such an attitude from Hotchner, not from the young, pretty guy.
Eventually Hotchner says: “Reid.”
After another second, he finally hands you the papers. “Thank you.” You tell him, holding the eye-contact until he looks away. Only then you go over the report, comparing the doses that were in every victim’s body. You shake your head while you’re reading in silence.
“What’s taking you so…” Before Reid can finish his affront, you explain: “The unsub didn’t use the fentanyl to subdue their victims, they killed them with it. The doses are so high, it was lethal within seconds.”
You lift your head to look at the others: “You don’t get fenty this pure on the streets. It has to be someone with access to medical supplies.”
They nod and you’re incredibly relieved that your first time really saying something to the team gets accepted. Morgan calls Garcia: “Baby Girl, can you send us a list of medical personnel in the area that has a record of stealing medical supplies or similar offences in their file?”
“Sure thing, Chocolate Thunder.” She chirps and hangs up.
The corners of your mouth twitch, but you don’t comment on it.
“Are you sure there isn’t a local dealer that distributes pure fentanyl?” Reid questions your former statement. You clench your jaw at first but manage to then answer calmly: “In my experience, there isn’t.”
Hotchner looks at you, then at Reid and says: “We will check out the list Garcia sent, you two track down local dealers and try to get some information on that.”
“Alright.” You state and holster your gun. It’s nerve-racking that you have to work with Reid alone, however, you’re really glad that it’s in your field of expertise. Without waiting for him, you leave the room and make your way to the SUV in front of the police station.
Before you unlock it, you see a cop standing outside, smoking. You walk over to him and ask: “Can I have one?” He smiles and hands you a cigarette, leaning closer to light it for you.
After the first few puffs, Reid walks out, wearing his FBI jacket. You roll your eyes: way to go get meet some dealers. The cop notices and raises an eyebrow. You sigh and tell him: “We are trying to track down someone who deals fentanyl. The jacket won’t help with that.” The cop lets out a laugh and gives you an understanding smile.
Reid looks around for you and sees you smoking: “You coming?” He yells in a condescending tone.
“I see why you need that cigarette.” The cop comments.
You give him a smile: “Oh yeah.” After a pause you ask: “Do you know where I could get something stronger?”
He side-eyes you: “Aren’t you about to arrest someone?”
You nod: “Yeah, but I won’t arrest someone I buy from.” He laughs and leans closer to your ear. Whispering, he tells you about an apartment on fifth street. You thank him and walk away, turning around for a moment to wink at him.
ɤɤɤɤ ɤɤɤɤ ɤɤɤɤ
When you get in the driver seat, Reid is already buckled in and waiting for you. He turns to look at you: “Could you organize yourself a hook-up after we solved the case?”
Now he starts to seriously piss you off.
“What the fuck is your problem?” You snap at him.
“My problem is you.” He barks. The volume at which he does catches you off guard. You really tried to stay calm, but now he pushed too far. You hit the steering wheel and turn to him: “Listen, I try to do my job here. I understand that you are angry and sad about your friend dying, but that is not my fault!”
He huffs: “You don’t understand anything.”
You grip you’re the steering wheel tightly and take a deep breath: “Get out.”
That surprises him: “What?”
“I said: get out.” You point to the door of the car, voice dripping with venom.
He doesn’t move. You fasten your seatbelt and start the engine. “If you say something like that to me again, I will push you out of the car. Do you understand?” Your voice is quiet but aggressive.
Reid doesn’t reply, but you can see him shift in his seat and lean away from you. You speed off without another word. You drive to where you assume the main street is and park in front of a clothing store.
“You want to go shopping now?” Reid asks. At least his voice is less patronizing this time.
“Do you want to talk to dealers wearing your FBI jacket?” He shakes his head. “That’s what I thought.” You get out and Reid follows you quietly. With a basket in your hand, you walk through the store. Other than him, you’ve done this before and it’s calming to have a task you’re familiar with. Even when it’s something so mundane as buying clothes for a job.
“What’s your size?” You ask him casually.
“Small.” It makes you grin for a second, but you don’t say anything. You get a sweater and black jeans for him. A loose tank top and dark slacks for yourself. At the checkout you grab an eyeliner and hair ties.
Outside you rip the labels off the clothes and throw them on the ground, dragging them through the dirt until they look used and ragged. Reid just observes you and helps you pick them up when you’re done and put them back in the shopping bag.
You park a few blocks away from where the cop told you about and declare: “Down the street is an apartment from which drugs are sold.” Then you get in the backseat and stat to take off your clothes, changing into the ‘new’ ones. Before Reid can turn around to look at you, you throw his clothes at him: “Change.” You order. He’s a little hesitant but eventually starts to unbutton his vest.
“Done?” You ask him, eyes on the floor. You hear him turn in his seat, apparently checking what you’re doing. After a short pause, he then tells you: “Yes.”
You climb back into the driver’s seat, barely looking at Reid. Using the front camera of your phone, you smudge the black liner around your eyes and put your hair up in a messy bun, revealing your undercut. Reid sees it and his hand twitches. He doesn’t comment on it though. Lastly, you move your gun from the side of your body to the back to make it look less official.
“Let me do the talking.” You say, hoping Reid won’t make a fuzz about it.
He follows you down the street and asks: “How do you know of this place?”
You don’t answer him but keep walking.
“Oh.” Reid quietly says. “That’s what you talked to the cop about.”
You give him a look: “What was your plan? Drive around in a huge government issued car and ask about drug dealers?” Reid looks to his feet, kind of admitting his defeat.
ɤɤɤɤ ɤɤɤɤ ɤɤɤɤ
You knock on the door. A man opens it, door chain still locked: “What?”
“A friend recommended you.” You whisper. “Can I come in?”
He looks at you, then at Reid. “Yeah, but the pipe cleaner with eyes has to wait outside.”
You raise your hands: “Fine by me.” Reid is smart enough to not object. You’re less nervous about being in a room with a dealer alone than being in a room with a dealer and Reid. You look at him over your shoulder while the door is being unlocked. He looks somewhat worried, and you give him a nod. Even though he’s an asshat, you believe he’ll back you up should something go wrong.
You go inside and look around. The apartment is a mess. Empty bottles, overflowing ashtrays, and needles everywhere. “Sit.” The man points at a sofa. Reluctantly, you comply.
“What can I do for you?”
You get straight to the point, no need to apply any complicated tactics. Being brisk is the most authentic behavior. “Do you have any fenty?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t have taken you for the opioid type.”
“And what type do you take me for?”
He shrugs his shoulders: “I don’t have any anyways.”
“Do you know where I can get some?”
He shakes his head: “All you’ll find is spiked with some other shit.”
“No one has it pure?”
He shakes his head again.
On the one hand, you’re happy that you were right, on the other hand this doesn’t narrow down your suspect pool like being pointed at a certain dealer would have. So, you’re relieved and frustrated at the same time.
Your eyes dart around the room as your thoughts are racing. You already have decided what you will ask next, no matter how much you tell yourself that it’s reckless. You’re jetlagged and emotionally drained by all the shit Reid gave you today.
You rub your face and clear your voice: “You have some white girl?”
“Ah, that’s what I thought. What do you want with fentanyl if you do cocaine?”
You shrug your shoulders: “The party has to end eventually.”
The dealer doesn’t question that statement and kneels down by a safe to get a small bag out: “Wanna try?”
You nod, forgetting that you’re not at your usual dealer but on a case. You forgot as soon as he waved with that little bag filled with white powder. All you can focus on it the powder and its promise of relief.
You extend your hand. Before you can take it from him, he says: “Sixty.”
“Fine.” You get out the money you stashed in the side of your bra. You hand him sixty dollars and he gives you the cocaine. You hold it tightly like it will shatter should you drop it. The plastic rustles and you feel the contents pressed to your palm.
“May I?” You point at a key on the table.
“Be my guest.”
Picking up the key, you clean it with your slacks and pour a small amount onto it. You’re hyper focused on the key and the powder and the rest of your surroundings disappears. Without hesitation, you snort it up with your nose and lean back into the sofa. With closed eyes, you wait for it to hit.
You can literally feel the moment it arrives at your brain and how your heartrate increases. Letting out a content hum, you clench and relax your fists rhythmically as the cocaine is pumping through you.
Taking a deep breath, you stand up: “Nice making business with you.”
He gives you a smile: “My pleasure.”
Before you open the door, you put the bag and the money back in your bra.
ɤɤɤɤ ɤɤɤɤ ɤɤɤɤ
Reid follows you to the car quietly. You feel your body tense up and it’s hard for you not to fidget. You hand him the key to the car: “Drive.” He looks at you in surprise but gets in the driver’s seat.
Even in your high mind you are careful enough to not drive right now. Getting in the backseat, you close your eyes. You try not to show how high you are right now.
It was an impulse. It was a lost battle as soon as you were alone with the dealer. You try to tell yourself that you bought it to not raise suspicion and then took the drug because you’re an idiot. That’s not true, though, and you know it. There is a reason you had cash in your bra.
But it’s too late now anyways; you might as well enjoy it. Should make it easier to deal with the asshole that’s driving you right now.
When you feel the car stop, you open your eyes and jump out. You do it a little too enthusiastic and stumble. Reid clears his throat while you catch yourself on the side of the car. You ignore him and get your FBI jacket out of the trunk, throwing his jacket in his face. Jacket on and your gun in the proper place again helps you to feel somewhat like you’re being professional right now.
You enter the conference room to only find Hotchner in front of the whiteboard.
“Where are the others?” Reid asks him. Hotchner turns around: “They went to question pharmacists with a record of stealing drugs. Did you find anything?” Even though he is addressing the both of you, he is just looking at Reid.
In an action of annoyed unruliness, you get out the small bag with cocaine in it and throw it on the table and declare: “As I said, no one deals pure fentanyl.”
Finally, Hotchner takes a better look at you. His eyes dart between you and the bag on the table: “Did you pose as a buyer?”
“Yeah.” You shrug your shoulders.
“Did you know this?” Hotchner points at the table and raises his voice, looking at Reid. Before Reid can say anything, you answer: “No. He had to wait outside. I talked to the dealer. I couldn’t just question him and leave.”
“And your solution was to buy cocaine!?”
You stare back at him without flinching at his angry voice: “Yes.”
Hotchner clenches his jaw, then he points at the adjacent office. You follow him inside. Loudly, you shut the door. He just looks at you for a moment. Then he talks with a calm but evidently angry voice: “You can’t just go off on your own like that without back up. And you certainly cannot buy an illegal drug while you’re on the clock!”
You narrow your eyes: “So, off the clock it’s alright?”
He crosses his arms: “I’ll do you the favor of pretending that I didn’t hear that. I don’t know how you handle these things at the DEA, but you will never do such a thing again while you’re a part of my team. Understood?”
You take a deep breath and try to focus: “Yes, Sir.” You finally answer and go to open the door. “And bag the cocaine as evidence.” Hotchner yells after you.
You salute him and walk back into the conference room.
ɤɤɤɤ ɤɤɤɤ ɤɤɤɤ
It’s hours later and the cocaine hasn’t fully worn off yet. Good stuff. Pity it’s registered evidence now. You’re restlessly pacing around the room until Rossi tells you to stop because you make him nervous. When you sit in a chair, you bounce your leg up and down until it hurts. You hyper-focus on the pictures in front of you. They show the crime scenes and bodies of the victims. Eventually, you declare: “It looks professional. I think someone ordered to have these people killed. Someone with access to medical supplies. Maybe even someone who produces fentanyl.”
When you look up, everyone is staring at you.
“What?” Reid shakes his head: “There is no evidence for that.”
“Of course there is! Look at the crime scenes!” You forcefully slide the pictures towards him. “No prints, no hairs, clearly scrubbed.”
“The victims have nothing in common. They never crossed paths. Why would someone order to have them killed?” JJ tries to defuse the tension.
“I don’t know.” You rub your face.
“And why use fentanyl?” Reid adds.
“I don’t know.” You repeat, regretting that you even said anything. You know that you’re right but you simply cannot explain why you know that.
Hotchner gets up: “That’s not enough to back up your theory. It’s late. Let’s get to the hotel and get some rest.”
You look at your watch, it’s merely 11 p.m. You shake your head: “Go ahead, I’m not tired.”
Hotchner stares at you but eventually nods. The others pack their things. You collect all the material off the table and put it in front of you. “Good night.” Morgan tells you and you give him a small smile.
Reid lingers a little longer and leans down next to you: “Are you high?”
You turn your head: “Unfortunately, no.”
He raises an eyebrow: “You mean, not anymore?”
You roll your eyes and focus your attention back at the files in front of you. There has to be something the victims have in common. You push the table to the side and put the chairs on top of it. Then you spread out every single piece of paper on the floor and sit down in the middle. You sort the victim’s files from first to last victim and go over everything again, and again, and again. Until you finally see it.
You pick up your phone to call Garcia. When she doesn’t pick up, you look at the clock: It’s 3 a.m. Groaning, you throw your phone away. You get up and look around. You’re the last one in the station, except for someone at the reception. In the bathroom you wash your face and drink from the faucet. You put your hair back up and take off your jacket.
Turning off the lights, you take off your boots and lay down under the table, using your jacket as pillow. Your brain finally calmed down and exhaustion hits you like a truck. You get your phone again and set an alarm for 7 a.m.
ɤɤɤɤ ɤɤɤɤ ɤɤɤɤ
Just when your alarm goes off, you hear someone enter the conference room. “Byrne?” You hear Hotchner’s voice. You crawl out your makeshift bed and get up.
“Did you sleep here?” He asks you with bewilderment in his eyes.
“Barely.” You answer and yawn, stretching your arms and legs.
He looks at the files on the floor. The others pile in and stare at you just the same. You take the coffee Reid has in his hand: “Thanks.” You down half of it before you tell them: “I figured it out. At 3 a.m. I tried to call Garcia, but she apparently was asleep.”
Morgan walks past you to look down on the chaos on the floor. “What the hell did you do here, Byrne?” He laughs and sounds kind of proud.
You hand Reid his coffee back and step between the files. You pick up everything you need and walk to the board. You pin the papers with the statements of family and friends as well as the medical records to the board.
“We thought they don’t have a connection, but they do: they all got a flue shot about two months ago.”
“A flu shot. That’s your big insight?” Reid has that condescending tone again.
Without missing a beat, you bark at him: “Is it a habit of yours to interrupt others?” His mouth falls open and you continue: “As I was saying: they all got flu shots. They were all made by the same lab. And now guess what that lab is also manufacturing.”
“Fentanyl.” Hotchner mumbles. You already have your phone in your hand, dialing Garcia’s number. You want to find out if the shots were administered by the same person.
ɤɤɤɤ ɤɤɤɤ ɤɤɤɤ
You’re sitting at the back of an ambulance, holding an icepack to your head. The unsub hit you with a metal bar. You blacked out for a second but luckily don’t have a concussion, only a laceration. You persuaded the EMT to stich it on sight, so you don’t have to go to the hospital.
Hotchner walks over to you: “Are you okay?”
You shrug your shoulders: “It’s fine, Hotchner.”
That’s the first time you see the corners of his mouth twitch: “Hotch.”
“What?”
“Everyone calls me Hotch.”
You let the icepack sink to properly look at him. His eyes dart to the bloody bandage above your eyebrow. “I like Hotchner. It’s a nice name.” You state.
He offers you his arm and you grab it to pull yourself to your feet: “You did good.” He says quietly.
Letting go of his arm you grin at him: “I’ll put that in my diary.”
Hotchner shakes his head: “Don’t push it.” But his face betrays his stern tone: He gives you a genuine smile.
You punch his shoulder lightly and walk away. Before you get in the car, you yell: “Hotchner!” He turns to look at you. “Let me know when you need some cocaine.”
He sighs and walks away.