It was nearing the end of the week, with rain fluctuating, changing its tempo. By night, it came in thin, silvery sheets against her window, whispering like static over glass. Coco sat at the edge of her couch, hair still damp from the shower, a mug of lemon cooling between her palms. The apartment was a collection of silences: brushes drying by the sink, a single lamp glowing too yellow, the low hum of the fridge. She liked it that way. Quiet didn’t ask for much. Quiet didn’t dig.
Her phone buzzed once, face down on the coffee table. A text. She didn’t need to read it; the shape of bad news was so obvious. She flipped it anyway.
[Vireo]: They looked you up. Analyst, Bureau. Same system.
The mug trembled slightly as she set it down. It wasn’t fear, not exactly- more like… disbelief at how sheer the veil had become. For someone who’d spent her life living between the cracks, fake names, safehouses, old codes no one should still have, and the fact that a bored analyst could type one word and something came up made her stomach twist.
No photo, but too much attached to that name. Her file. Except it wasn’t supposed to be that easy. It's never been. Someone wanted it to be found. She leaned back, eyes half-lidded, replaying the day. The curiosity in Garcia’s eyes. The way Hotch and Gideon were too quiet, like they’d already done the math.
Coco exhaled slowly through her nose. Her reflection ghosted faintly in the window. As always, it surprised her what she looked like. It never became a habit to notice her appearance much. But even with all her stillness, the thought stayed: someone in that building knows what door to knock on. Someone’s feeding them breadcrumbs.
Sour, incorrect breadcrumbs.
She closed her eyes and let the rain carry the thought away- or tried to. But the quiet wasn’t so quiet anymore. Looking at her phone, the woman chewed on her lip as the name Elle lit up on her messages. Coco couldn't wait until morning. The air was icy, biting on her cheeks and nose as she pulled her hood up and walked the two blocks to Elle’s apartment. She’d texted once- just “You up?”- and Elle, ever the night owl, replied within minutes.
The door opened before Coco could knock twice. Elle looked half-asleep but alert in that profiler way, hair tied up, eyes scanning Coco’s face.
“Bad night?”
Coco stepped in and kicked her shoes off neatly. “Rain woke me,” she said softly.
Elle smirked. “Sure it did.”
They sat at the small kitchen table, the one that always smelled faintly like takeout and gun oil. Elle poured coffee into mismatched mugs, watching Coco over the rim.
“You’re wound tight. What happened?”
Coco hesitated, tracing the rim of her cup with her thumb. “Someone in your unit ran a name they shouldn’t have.”
That got Elle’s attention. “I can guess who.”
“The tech. The one with the dead hair.”
Elle leaned back, connecting the dots almost instantly before realizing the subtle insult to Garcia's hair.
“Garcia, yeah.” She scoffed, a bit miffed that the blonde didn't leave it alone.
Coco nodded once. Her voice didn’t waver, but there was a tiny tremor in her stillness.
“It shouldn’t have shown up, Elle. Not even a trace. But it did. Which means someone let it.”
For a moment, the rain filled the space between them. Elle’s eyes softened, the profiler in her stepping aside for the friend.
“You think someone inside-”
“-wanted to see if I’d notice,” Coco interrupted quietly. “Or wanted them to notice me.”
Elle sighed, rubbed her forehead. “You’ve got to stop assuming the world’s still playing the same game you grew up in.”
“Game isn't over.”
A long pause. Then Elle set her mug down and leaned forward. “You want me to look into it?”
“No.” Coco’s response was immediate. “If you move, it’ll look like you're involved. You don't need that smoke yet. Keep your ears open. If anyone asks about me, I wanna know.”
Elle studied her for a beat longer, then nodded. “'Not every ghost in this building wants to haunt it again'. That right?” she recounted.
Coco’s gaze drifted toward the window, her voice quiet but sure.
“Funny thing about ghosts, they only linger where someone still remembers.”
Elle exhaled through her nose, something between a sigh and a laugh. “So what does that make you?”
Coco’s lips twitched, the ghost of a smile. “Pissed.”
“And…?,” Elle said, eyes narrowing.
“And nothing,” Coco replied, sipping her coffee like she hadn’t just dropped a line meant to deflect a profiler.
Elle huffed a laugh. “You forget who you’re talking to. I read evasions for a living.”
“I don’t forget,” Coco murmured. “You’re kind enough to let them slide.”
There was a beat. The kind of quiet where truth hums beneath every word, but neither of them is brave enough to touch it. Elle finally leaned back, crossing her arms.
“You ever gonna tell me what really happened? Back in California to make you move way out here?”
Coco’s fingers tightened on the mug. Not visibly, not to anyone who didn’t know her - but Elle saw it. The slow, gradual movement anyone would miss if not for trained eyes, understanding that sudden twitches in body language are not the only sign.
“Job was slow,” Coco said simply. “Gotta go where the money is. Next stop, New York.”
“That’s not all of it.”
Coco gave a small shrug. “It’s the part that matters now.”
Elle studied her, reading the microexpressions like a book she wasn’t supposed to open.
"You know you're quite different now. Talk-y, smiley. Kinda weird."
"When in Rome…" At this, Elle nodded.
"Ah. I see."
A pause.
"Are you really leaving?"
"Depends. My last lead died by suicide by cop- caught my target's attention. They've gone dark since. So, going camo is all I can do for now."
Elle smirked, "Maybe if you go Mrs. Doubtfire, you won't turn heads as much."
"I'd look good as a saggy old bitty."
Coco grinned, dimpled, and contagious before her shoulders shook with light laughter. Elle laughed with her. After a while, Coco reached into her pocket, pulled out a folded napkin, and wiped an invisible coffee ring off the table- busy hands, calm voice.
“You know what’s funny?” she said softly. “I used to think the hardest part was losing everyone. Turns out, it’s remembering what not to lose after.”
Elle’s gaze softened, the sharp profiler’s edge fading into concern. “You’re not alone in this, you know.”
“I do. That's the problem,” Coco shook her head, “you couldn't care less about coming too close.”
A tired smile tugged at Elle’s mouth. “If you're worried about me, I'm not scared to play the game with you.”
Shaking her head, Coco set her mug in the sink. “They’re the only way you can be securely protected…nicer playground for games.”
She turned toward the door, pulling up her hood again. Elle didn’t stop her- she knew better.
Before leaving, Coco paused, just for a second. “If she- Garcia- starts digging again, don’t stop her.”
“Why not?” Elle asked.
Coco’s voice was soft, almost kind. “Because if someone’s feeding, I want to see what they feed next.”
"Alright."
Coco nodded, "Sleep, Chanel. Stay up some more and you'll look like a raccoon."
"Get outta here!" Elle laughed, feeling a mix of emotions at once. Warm at the old nickname, insulted for her face, and caught red-handed for her sleepless nights.
And then she was gone like she’d never been there at all. Elle's eyes looked down into her mug, half full, and then flickered to Coco's. Empty, without a drop.
What was that saying about half-empty, half-full cups…
…and what did it say about Elle?
Elle huffed, shaking her head. She stood, trudging to her couch. She settled comfortably and gazed into the fireplace. It was late, and in Elle's opinion, having a warm fireplace was one of the best things in cold weather. It took her back to fond memories as a child, roasting marshmallows inside the house because her tender mother was afraid Elle and her dad would catch a cold outside with the small, poorly constructed pit.
Growing up in poverty, Elle and her family understood hard work and life's little treasures it passed along the way. As fire can symbolize life, and warmth to many…it was a harbinger of death for others- not a single marshmallow to replace the pain. Elle sipped her coffee, very much used to losing herself in the past. She could remember every detail back then.
How she met Coco.
----------------------
Nine Years Ago, Tacoma, Washington. Winter…
An old shoe warehouse sat crooked on the edge of the Tacoma port, half swallowed by fog and cold. The nearby snow-capped mountains painted a beautiful picture, but in this case, it loomed over the evil inside the building.
Snow fell heavily, thick like wet ash, and every breath Elle took felt like inhaling glass. The sting of winter clawed through her gloves as she steadied her weapon.
It started clean: intel from a local task force, an organized ring moving trafficked women through a forgotten shipping yard. Elle and an accompanying officer were first in on the south side of the building, and everyone else on the north.
They should’ve had backup with them. Now, one dead cop and radio static were all she had in the dark. The air smelled of salt and metal, the floor slick with melted snow and grime. She crept between rusted containers, smelling like toxic shoe leather polish. Her boots made soft, muddy thuds against the concrete. Somewhere deeper inside, a woman cried. Then a voice- male, low, irritated.
Elle edged closer-
-and something dropped from the catwalk above.
A dark blur. Small. Controlled.
Her instincts fired before thought did. She swung her gun up, squeezed once. The bullet shattered a light fixture- a spray of sparks. The figure ducked, rolled, and came up with her own gun drawn.
Small girl, big curly hair. Little mole under her left eye. A girl who couldn’t have been more than nineteen, but her expression wasn’t one you found in the young. It was still. Watchful, but no direct eye contact.
“That was close.”
Elle’s finger hovered over the trigger. “Drop your weapon and get down on the ground with your hands up!”
“Can't do that. Sorry.”
The girl’s tone was calm enough to make Elle’s heart trip faster. The kind of calm people had right before pulling the trigger.
But she didn’t. She just looked past Elle, eyes narrowing- and fired twice.
Two bodies hit the floor behind her. Elle whipped around, heart in her throat. Traffickers, she hadn’t heard or seen nearly get the drop on her if not for this…person.
Friend, or Foe?
She turned back. “You-”
The girl was already moving, checking corners like she knew the building much better than all of them.
“Hold up,” Elle hissed, following. “You special ops? Bounty hunter?”
“No.”
A pause.
“Worse.”
They reached a set of chained doors. Behind them, muffled sobs. Elle holstered her gun long enough to start unhooking the chain, but the girl was faster - wire, twist, snap. The doors swung open. The captives blinked at them, faces streaked with soot and tears.
“Is everyone alright? We're gonna get you out of here.”
Elle looked at the stranger, eyes narrowing, "I'll deal with you later."
The girl didn’t move immediately. She stared at the lock, at the rusted steel, her eyes unfocused- like she was somewhere else for a moment. Elle noticed the tension in her jaw, the way her gloved fingers flexed once before releasing.
“You here for them?” Elle asked quietly.
The girl shook her head. “Not exactly.”
Elle bristled.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“One of them,” she nodded to the fallen traffickers nearby, “was tied to someone I came to find. He’s not here.”
Elle frowned. “You’re telling me you just happen to be looking for a suspect on a criminal trafficking case outside the law? Who the hell do you work for?”
“Call me impatient.”
Then- a crackle, sharp and electric, filled the air. The overhead lights flickered, the hum rising like a warning.
Elle realized too late: someone had been tampering with the wiring.
“You did this?”
The girl’s lips twitched. “Well I don't have a degree in electrical work.”
A shower of sparks fell from the rafters, kissing the oil-streaked floor.
Elle grabbed one of the women, yelling, “Everyone move, now!”
The explosion wasn’t cinematic- it was brutal, concussive. Flashes of light came before the suffocation. The ceiling roared, metal groaned. Elle hit the icy ground hard- and before she could roll, a hand gripped her collar, yanking her up.
“Come,” the girl said, voice steady even through the chaos. Behind them, the group of shivering women scurried to follow.
They stumbled out into the night. Snow hissed where fire met it. Cold slapped them all- lungs burning, skin stinging beneath wet coats. The women’s cries blurred with the hiss of falling snow and distant sirens.
Elle turned to the girl, chest still heaving. “You just destroyed evidence, you realize that!?”
“I burned what needed to be buried.”
“What, you think arson’s justice?!”
The girl looked at her, and for the first time, Elle saw something shift behind her eyes. Not pride. Not regret.
“It was for them,” she murmured. “The ones who didn’t get to leave.”
Snowflakes clung to her dark hair as the orange fire reflected off her pale face. The wind whipped at their coats, carrying smoke toward the Sound.
Elle swallowed, gun still at her side. “You’ve done this before.”
The girl turned away, leaving muddy, snow-packed footprints that the wind erased behind her.
“Wait. What do I call you?”
The girl didn’t stop walking. “You don’t.”
The wind picked up again, scattering flakes like ash. The snivvling cries of the newly freed women caught Elle's attention.
By the time Elle looked back, she was gone.
-------------------------
Present Day, BAU Bullpen, Quantico…
Elle leaned against the doorway, coffee warm in her hands but heavy in thought. Across the bullpen, Coco moved with that same quiet precision, sleeves rolled, brush gliding across pale green. Half the area was finished, and not much was left until to start Hotch's and Gideon's offices.
Elle’s gaze lingered longer than she intended.
She remembered Tacoma. Snow that packed around her boots, lungs icy, fingers stiff. The warehouse reeked of oil, metal, and fear. And that girl… that small, impossibly controlled machine, who’d dropped from the shadows, firing immediately, yet dodging effortlessly, moving like a ghost. And with a quick wit.
Her name had been unknown then, but the memory of her fluidity, the unflinching way she’d pulled Elle out of the chaos, stayed. The hand that yanked Elle to safety, the precision of her shots, the calm in her eyes as fire ate the warehouse around them. It was burned into Elle’s mind, more vivid than any evidence photo, more alive than any report she’d ever filed.
Elle sipped her coffee, letting the bitterness ground her. She remembered the fleeting confession- one of the traffickers had a connection to Coco’s real target who hadn’t shown up that night that slipped through her fingers. Someone had left traces that made her hunt possible. And Coco had known it, her moves, her planning, her timing, all quiet but deliberate.
It took time for Elle to accept in this reality, outside the Hollywood movies, that mercenaries were real.
And yet, here she was, years later, in the middle of a government office, painting walls like they were canvases, quiet but utterly commanding attention without trying. It still begged the question: what was Coco really doing here? In Quantico?
Elle noticed, almost subconsciously, the rhythm that never left Coco. The way she measured each stroke, adjusted her posture, checked the alignment of tape, dipped the brush with the same care each time. It seemed to be a ritual, a method of keeping the chaos outside at bay. Elle suspected that the quiet obsession with control wasn’t only about painting. She’d seen it before- in the tiniest details, in the tiniest victories. And it made her respect Coco all the more.
Elle knew then what she’d always known, even back then: anyone else might have been scared of that girl. But Elle? Elle trusted her. Not blindly, never blindly, but the kind of gradual trust earned in the middle of chaos, where survival wasn’t about rules and protocols, but about instinct, precision, and a strange moral compass that had chosen the right side, even if only for the moment.
She shook her head, amused at herself. Coco didn’t need Elle’s respect. She had her own. But Elle would give it anyway. And maybe, just maybe, she’d never fully stop marveling at it, respecting a killer.
How ironic.
Across the room, Coco paused to smooth a little glob of paint with her thumb. The way her eyes darted toward an errant smudge, the careful alignment of tape along the wall, all of those smooth movements reminded Elle of the past: quiet, lethal, and methodically in control.
And in that calm, Elle realized she’d never met anyone quite like Coco. By now, Elle finished her drink and returned to typing away her reports. Half of her mind was on the task, the other was thinking back to the second time she'd seen Coco.
With a quiet snort, Elle let her memories take her away once more.
----------------------
Los Angeles, Spring, Two Years After Tacoma…
Glimmering LA sun filtered through the cracked skylights of the warehouse, dust motes floating in lazy, golden beams. The air smelled of musty table cloths, wet cardboard, and faint traces of spray paint from a nearby alley someone had ignored for months. Outside, the soft hum of city traffic mingled with distant talking. This place was just a hop away from a large street market full of families and vendors. But inside, it was echoing…breathing on its own.
Elle crouched behind an overturned crate, pistol raised, breath shallow in the spring chill. She could hear it first: the soft, deliberate shuffle of feet across dust and concrete, muted but precise, like someone moving in rhythm with the building itself. The op had no hostages this time, but suspects were chased to this spot, in another raggedy warehouse. Faintly, Elle thought back to the last time she wandered in a rotting building.
And then she saw her, as though summoned.
That girl, a little older and now a young woman. Almost impossibly quiet. A faded baseball cap low over her eyes, pink sunglasses perched askew on the brim. A half-eaten bagel sandwich in one hand, crumbs still clinging all over her. She crouched near the mezzanine stairs, eyes scanning the room with cold precision, motion measured as if the chaos around her were part of a perfectly choreographed dance. The first man glided into the line of sight, walking and talking into an earpiece. The young woman followed low with the grace of a trained acrobat, firing a single, precise shot, the silencer hissing out the bullets. The man fell soundlessly, dust swirling around him when another three took his place, running at her.
It was a simple bite, chew, shoot, bite chew, shoot. Her movements were fluid, with each gesture economical, almost casual. The sandwich never left her hand.
Elle froze, wide-eyed, pulse hammering. Her hands shook slightly on her weapon. The familiar stranger's calm was as unnerving as before. It wasn’t the type of cool she was used to in her rombuncious unit; it was something else entirely: a predator’s stillness wrapped in a veneer of casual human quirks. And a bagel paper wrap.
Dirt scratched faintly under their shoes as they moved, breaths dusty in their lungs. The spring air seeped in through broken windows, brushing cool against their skin, but the young woman didn’t flinch. She rolled, twisted, ducked a shot with the fluidity of water over rocks, fired again, and never once dropped a single bite of her sandwich.
“Loose ends,” the brunette murmured, voice low and conversational, eyes flicking to Elle as though knowing she was there from the start.
“Beat's the cold, don't it?” Another bite, chewed deliberately, unhurried.
"Behind you!" Elle spat when a burly man grunted and shoved himself at the young woman, only for her to spin in a way for him to fall to the floor again.
The brunette's gun fired twice, bullets piercing the man's kneecaps. She pulled out a small dagger- Elle simply watched it disappear into the man's neck and cutting off the loud wails of the man. The same man who preyed on small children, boys and girls, with poisonous touches.
Dust motes floated lazily in the streaks of sunlight. Gunpowder smell lingered faintly, mixing oddly with bagel crumbs. The young woman straightened, brushing dust from her clothes: faded denim jacket, comfy black leggings, white scuffed sneakers. Baseball cap low, pink sunglasses now firmly in place over her eyes.
Elle exhaled shakily. Her voice came out as a laugh-hiccup. “You… just… eat while you kill?”
Those sunglasses didn't allow Elle to see her eyes but it wouldn't have mattered. She'd find nothing but nonchalance, anyway.
But her responses were always random.
“I love turkey cranberry."
Elle’s pulse slowed fractionally. Bewilderment gave way to cautious curiosity. She leaned forward slightly, voice threatening,
“You killed my suspect, you know."
The young woman's head turned to the corpse, humming thoughtfully.
"Not your guy."
Elle's brows furrowed, sharply looking at the body as well. Her fists clenched, "How can I trust what you say? I don't even know your name! "
The young woman shrugged, "Check his phone."
"What?"
She ignored Elle, comfortably leaning against a staircase railing on the verge of falling over, and took a hefty bite of her sandwich. The agent could feel her eye twitch at the chewing sounds. Elle sighed, approaching the body and patting his pockets before pulling out a black, chunky burner phone, and a second phone followed. Silver, compact. Elle clenched her jaw, sharp eyes mulling for a moment. She stood, facing the young woman.
"Look… I want to know why you’re here, who you are. Maybe I can make a trade. Info for info. You promise no innocents get hurt and I’ll keep my mouth shut, maybe even help you. But I need to know you're not against us.”
Birds shifted atop the ceiling of the warehouse, through old and moldy plywood, chirping away. She was silent for a long beat, chewing, wiping crumbs from the corners of her mouth. The dusty air bit at Elle's lungs, but she didn’t cough. She wanted a shower.
Finally, her gaze returned, neutral but sharp. “You wear Chanel boots to your missions often?"
The hell…?
"You trying to say something about my boots?"
"Your ankles are saying something about your boots."
Quick-witted, she was. Elle scowled, "Don't piss me off. I don't have to let you go free and always just arrest you."
“Can you really catch me?"
Oh.
Elle can feel herself bristling; this bitch was getting on her nerves.
"Hm. Go catch your real suspect, Chanel.”
With that, the young woman took the last bite of her sandwich, crumpling up the wrapper and tossing it in a rotting waste bin. Unable to hide her scoff, Elle's brows rose, as if saying 'really?' at the display of being mindful of littering in a trashed warehouse. Old converse shoes made hardly a sound walking away across the building, the young woman's silhouette disappearing a second time.
For who knew how long this time.
Elle exhaled softly, leaning back against the crate, a mix of anger and trepidation washing over her. She could feel the beginnings of cordiality, fragile and tentative, forming in the space between them. She’d seen glimpses of gray morality before in her work, but this… this was different. This stranger wasn’t just gray. She was a storm contained within a human frame. Endlessly unpredictable.
Outside, the faint scent of spring and the hum of the city reminded Elle that the world carried on, oblivious, when she realized…
...that wasn't exactly a no.
----------------------
Appalachian Mountains, Autumn (One Year After LA)…
The third time Elle saw the woman, it felt like a crossroads of sorts. Right in the middle of her fighting someone during her own op.
The wind cut through the abandoned mansion like a blade, rattling loose shutters and carrying the scent of wet leaves and decay. Sunlight slanted through the broken panes, illuminating dust motes that danced like tiny ghosts. This woman, 'stranger' Elle dubbed, crouched near the grand staircase, her leather jacket worn, fur-lined at the collar, hugging her small frame. Faded jeans, combat boots silent against the wooden floor, gloves snug. Every piece of her outfit was practical, offering mobility, warmth, and protection; nothing ornamental, nothing wasted. Even her hair was cut in a feathery curly bob this time. Much more practical.
Her target, a wiry man with the twitch of a predator, was knocked into another henchman. Stranger moved like liquid, a quiet shadow weaving through the debris-strewn hall. She didn’t breathe more than necessary; her senses were split between the target, the structural decay of the mansion, and the faint sound of footsteps and shouts echoing down the halls, Elle’s team in pursuit.
The mansion groaned like it was remembering something ugly. In the half-light, the man facing her wasn’t half as graceful; he came at her with the confidence of someone who’d won more brawls than he’d lost.
Heavy steps. Telegraphed punches. She slipped the first swing and caught him in the throat with the heel of her hand.
The sound was wet. He staggered, but didn't fall.
Elle watched from her cover near the hall archway, breath caught somewhere behind her teeth. The brunette didn’t hesitate, no wasted motion. When the man grabbed for her arm, she used his momentum, pivoted, and drove his face into the edge of a banister hard enough to rattle the railing.
The henchman who was taken down earlier was in the back, then stepped forward- slow, testing the dark. Elle’s eyes tracked him. He wasn’t jumping in. Not yet. Waiting to see how this ended.
Stranger's current opponent threw a desperate right hook, sloppy and wide. She ducked low, slammed her knee into his ribs, then another- this one higher, meaner. He folded with a sound that wasn’t quite human.
Stranger then got behind him, wrapping her arms around his neck as though she gave him the grace of a gentle embrace- a welcome to death. Elle couldn't look away from this horrifying display of faux mercy, and when his neck snapped in a crackle, the mansion was still as though also watching.
Elle shifted her weight, ready to draw if the lurker made his move. But he just watched the stranger and then melted back into the dark, seconds from escaping. Elle took a step forward just as Stranger spun before he could disappear. A flash of steel- the glint of a blade slicing the air. The man fired a gun, a single desperate shot as the knife struck the man's skull. The sound cracked through the hall like thunder.
Coco ducked instinctively, untouched. The bullet veered off-course-
-and found Elle.
She didn’t even register it at first. Just a bloom of heat across her shoulder, then the smell of iron as her breath hitched.
The lethal brunette wiped the blade clean against his sleeve and sheathed it, her expression unreadable. Elle pressed a hand against the wound, forcing herself silent, and failing. But the stranger’s head tilted slightly, eyes flicking toward her hiding spot. Like she’d heard the pain before Elle could even swallow it down.
She stumbled, wind knocked out of her lungs.
Stranger didn’t pause. She was at Elle’s side in seconds, hands firm and precise, assessing the wound. Her gloves pressed on the torn fabric, adjusting the position to stem the bleeding. Each motion is economical, deliberate. Hyper-focused, brain filtering: stop the bleeding, keep Elle alive.
“Pressure constant. Breathe slow,” the woman murmured, voice low, almost clinical. She noted the shallow, uneven breaths, the way Elle’s eyes flickered toward every sound. Every inhale and exhale, she cataloged silently, mapping the physiology, making micro-adjustments.
Elle tried to straighten, but Stranger gently held her upright, tilting her head to maintain alignment. “Stay. Eyes forward. Focus.”
Pain and astonishment mixed in Elle’s chest. The precision, the calm, it was as if Stranger existed in a pocket of control that the rest of the world couldn’t touch. The small, calculated movements, the way the woman's eyes darted between threat and victim, betrayed a mind wired differently: not disorderly, but hyper-organized, methodical in her attention to detail.
Elle's eyes flicked toward the bodies.
“They're gone.” Stranger assured, voice firm. A sweep ensured no immediate threat from other corners.
Then she returned to Elle, fingertips deftly pressing on the wound, stabilizing. The sharp autumn wind outside gusted through broken windows, chilling their exposed skin, sending shivers up arms and spines. Stranger's mind cataloged it all, the bite of cold on exposed necks, the faint metallic scent of blood, the uneven broken marble debris, the sounds of distant struggle- all sensory data feeding her precision.
Elle’s team moved closer, muffled battle cries growing louder. The woman gave a quick nod, signaling that Elle could be lifted and moved safely once stabilized.
For a fraction of a second, Elle glimpsed the reasoning behind the almost unassuming mercenary before her: survival, precision, control. Stranger didn’t pause to explain herself, and Elle didn’t ask yet. Though there were layers, choices, and past missions she hadn’t seen.
“You… you keep showing up where you shouldn’t,” Elle gasped, wincing. “Are you… tracking my unit?”
“Don't worry, I'm not interested in your job.”
Elle’s breath hitched, awareness sharpening. This wasn’t a coincidence. This wasn’t luck. Stranger was… other. Calculated. Dangerous. Necessary. And yet, in these brief moments, unexpectedly humane.
The wounded shoulder throbbed; the immediate threat neutralized. Stranger finally stepped back slightly, scanning the mansion once more. Her leather jacket creaked faintly as she adjusted it, the fur collar brushing against her neck. Her eyes, sharp and alert, tracked the fading echoes of battle, analyzing, recording, storing contingencies.
Elle could only watch, bleeding, bewildered, and utterly aware that this… mercenary of some kind, was someone she could never underestimate. And perhaps, begrudgingly, someone she could trust… carefully.
"Can I at least know your name?" she asked. Stranger never looked back at her, simply observing the dead men, and crouched to rummage through her first opponent's pockets. Elle saw her take a cellphone, pocketing the device. Stranger turned to her.
Elle nodded, "I'm Elle. Elle Greenaway."
The woman, still as stone, didn't blink. Fascinating; for a dusty old mansion with particles floating everywhere, the atmosphere didn't irritate Stranger's eyes. But it did irritate Elle's bullet wound. The agent huffed, patience wearing thin, when her team could be heard coming down the hall. It brought Stranger to life, sprinting to the open, large glass windows. Elle scrambled, "Wait!"
The stranger looked back at her, quickly nodding, and jumped through the open space. Maybe disappearing for good.
Elle doubted that. Someday she'll see her again. And when that time comes, Elle will be stronger.
The group of agents rounded the corner, spotting her. One lowered their weapon, calling into the earpiece in a hurry,
"We need a medic!"
…A lot stronger.
------------------------
Present Day, BAU Bullpen, Quantico…
Elle blinked, shaking herself free from the memory, as Coco stepped past her toward the offices. The brush in her hand moved with that same effortless precision, sliding across the wall, measuring color and alignment like battlefield calculations made visible. Not weapons. Just paint. Yet Elle felt the tension coil in her chest anyway. The kind that never fully left after watching Coco in action.
The memories of all the missions past, of old buildings and blood, bled into the sterile light of Quantico. Coco’s presence here made Elle’s mind start turning over plans she hadn’t yet admitted to herself.
She could help. She could get close enough to know, to protect, to anticipate. Not just watch. Not just file reports, but from the inside.
Uproot without killing the plant.
Elle's fingers brushed the greige keyboard. Quietly, almost to herself, she mapped possibilities, contingencies, and exit strategies. Her mind was already weaving through the corridors of the BAU, the people she could trust, the ways she could make it seamless. But if push comes to shove, could she choose who would be their ally? Then again, when everyone knows about the secret, it wouldn't be a secret.
Which again, comes the big perky problem named Garcia.
Elle let her gaze drift over the bullpen again, noting the rhythm of movement. Agents shuffled past desks, phones buzzed, keyboards clicked- small, predictable patterns. Even in a place designed for chaos, routines emerged. Coco, of course, existed outside them. She painted in arcs, not squares; she checked edges more than surfaces; she paused just long enough to register the faintest smudges in her own work. Observing her was like reading an expert marksmanship test: precision in motion, anticipation in every gesture.
Elle’s fingers tapped her mug absently. If she wanted to stay close, she’d need leverage. Predictable hours, habitual paths, who passed by and when, who asked questions they shouldn’t. Nothing too obvious, nothing that would raise alarms- just quietly noting, storing, connecting. Like cataloging a suspect.
She imagined herself shadowing Coco without being noticed, even if it meant staying one step behind, waiting for a signal she couldn’t yet define. She ran scenarios through her head: what if someone tried to get to her? How would Coco react? Where were the blind spots in the building? The ventilation, the stairwells, the janitorial closets that no one thought to check? All data points Elle could use, quietly, to keep the mercenary safe.
And yet, ugh, she had to remember: this wasn’t a mission. Not officially. Not yet. Every observation had to be a natural extension of her work; her presence justified by paperwork and routine. Any deviation could blow the plan before it even began.
Elle shifted slightly, tracing Coco’s movements across the room. Small details stood out: the brush never left her hand for long, her gaze always swept the edges before she focused on a section of wall, her body pivoted subtly, like she was aware of the entire bullpen without glancing. If Coco noticed Elle watching, she might dismiss it or she might test her.
The thought brought a faint, tight smile. It was dangerous, of course. Coco wasn’t just someone to protect; she was someone impossible to predict. But Elle had long ago learned to thrive in the unpredictable. She could adapt, she could anticipate, and she could intervene- discreetly, efficiently, surgically.
For the first time in a long while, Elle allowed herself to feel the beginnings of resolve. Not just to remember Coco’s history or marvel at her skill. But to act. To plan. To be a presence, unseen but steadfast, until the next storm came- and she would be ready.
Elle took a slow sip of her cooling coffee, eyes following Coco’s back as she stepped closer to finish the section near the offices. Each brushstroke became a silent countdown. Each measured movement, a reminder: she would find this malevolent ghost, and she would make sure Coco didn’t have to face what came next alone.
And maybe, just maybe, this time Elle wouldn’t just be watching the storm- she’d be standing in it, shoulder to shoulder.
Without Chanel boots, of course.
-------------------------
A/N: Chapter 2 down, who knows how many more to go hehe.
Thanks for reading, if there are any grammatical errors i missed, let me know!
The clouds hung thick over Quantico, soft and gray like a blanket pulled too tight across the sky. The rain hadn’t started yet, but it was coming- you could smell it in the air, that mix of metal and cold promise.
Coco sat in her car, parked in the same spot as the day before. Her fingers tapped the steering wheel absently, her brushes and clipboard in the passenger seat. Her reflection in the glass looked…tired, but steady. She could work with steady.
Last night ended with take-out, a glass of Moscato, and a silly sitcom. She’d smiled, for real this time- small, private, the kind of smile that happens when you realize life is way too big to let a bug smear the view.
Now, the morning was quiet. Well. Not really morning, but she didn't have to come in as early as everyone else. (Take that, Elle.) Her phone buzzed on and off with Elle’s messages- You coming in soon, girly? Want me to grab coffee? Or tea? Or something with sugar?
Coco didn’t answer, just reached for her thermos, murmuring under her breath, “Alright, Picasso. Let’s make the government look less depressing.”
By the time she stepped out, the first drops had started to fall, lazy and certain. She pulled her comfy fleece hood up, feeling that first cool speckle hit her cheek, and hummed happily to herself. The smell of rain always made her feel like she was in on a secret the sky hadn’t told yet.
Inside, the lobby was dim and peaceful. She crossed it quietly, sneakers squeaking against the marble, and headed toward the elevator. When the doors opened on the BAU’s floor, she could already hear Morgan laughing down the hall.
He noticed her first. “Hey, hey! Look who decided to bless the building again.”
Coco smiled, soft but quick. “Morning, Agent Morgan.”
“Morning?” He grinned. “Girl, it's almost noon. Long night?”
“A little,” she said simply, setting her bag down against the wall she was scheduled to repaint. “Caught up on a good show and food.”
Elle appeared behind him, a paper bag in hand. “I brought muffins,” she announced, as if it were classified information. “And one has chocolate chips. Guess which one’s yours.”
That earned a dimpled smile out of Coco. She accepted it gently, eyes crinkling. “Thank you.”
Coco and them settled at the break room's table, munching away on their super responsible, adult breakfast. Morgan noticed she brought no coffee cup, and offered a freshly brewed cup.
"Yes, please," she nodded, "I wanna see how FBI agents fare with their version of coffee."
"Oh shoot, alright then," Morgan teased, "I better not disappoint."
Elle snorted, giving her a look, "If it was good, babe, I wouldn't be over as much for a drink."
Coco felt her cheeks ache with how much they've made her smile. She shook her head.
Ah, Elle. She sarcastically mused. A gentle woman you are, really.
After a few minutes, Morgan returned and set down a cute mug in the shape of a pumpkin. So cute. (She had half a mind to steal it, but morals won again).
The two agents watched her dimples return, cradling the mug. It gave Elle an idea on her next Christmas gift. It didn't take long to finish their little pow-wow, and sooner than they expected, Coco had half of the walls taped off.
Morgan watched her start setting up the more painter’s tape with her care, precise, quiet, almost meditative. He glanced at Elle, lowering his voice.
“You’d never know she went through some crap these days.”
Elle smiled faintly. “Oh, she feels it. She just doesn’t let it change her color.”
Coco hummed softly to herself as she began to stir the paint, one earphone nearly blasting her eardrum. And somewhere between the sound of the rain outside and the faint scent of plastic, the building felt just a little bit warmer.
If only she knew that as time progressed on the job, the series of events that followed should've kept her on her toes.
--------------------
By afternoon, the rain was steady- thin, rhythmic, like it had settled in for the day. Coco was kneeling by the baseboard, painting clean, perfect lines, while Morgan leaned against a desk nearby, pretending to read a case file but mostly watching her work.
Reid sat a few feet away, sipping from his mug.
“You know,” he said thoughtfully, “it’s fascinating. Her features are kind of ambiguous. I’ve been trying to figure out where she might be from.”
Morgan raised an eyebrow. “Reid, you can’t just profile the woman’s ethnicity. That’s not in the handbook.”
“I’m not profiling, I’m observing,” Reid replied earnestly. “Her complexion is light olive but not distinctly Mediterranean. Eyes- hazel, with some green? Bone structure suggests Hispanic or possibly Middle Eastern ancestry, but-”
“Kid,” Morgan interrupted, smirking, “that’s profiling.”
Elle, walking by with her second cup of coffee, snorted. “You two are unbelievable. Leave the poor woman alone before she paints ‘Do Not Disturb’ on your faces.”
“Technically,” Reid said, “I wasn’t disturbing her. I was making a neutral observation based on visible-”
Morgan pointed at him. “And that’s exactly why you’re single.”
Coco, still focused on her work, smothered a cough behind her sleeve. She didn’t turn around, didn’t break her rhythm. But there was a flicker of amusement in her eyes. The kind that said she’d heard every word. A few minutes later, Gideon emerged from his office, coffee in hand, the faintest trace of a smile already forming when he noticed her painting. He stopped a few feet away. Not hovering, just watching.
“You use sable brushes?” he asked finally, voice low but even.
Coco glanced over her shoulder, a little surprised he knew the difference. “For detailed work, sir. They hold the paint better.”
He nodded, considering that. “I tried painting once,” he said, almost absently. “Turned out the canvas had more talent than I did.”
That earned a short laugh from her- a soft exhale through her nose, brief.
He took a sip of his coffee. “You’ve got a steady hand. Means you’re patient.”
She tilted her head, eyes still on the wall. “The job calls for it, sir.”
Gideon gave a mirthy stretch of his lips that didn’t quite reach his eyes, but the warmth was there. “Patience is good. Around here, it’s rare.”
Then he was gone again- back to his office, like he’d only stopped to test the temperature of her calm.
JJ watched the exchange from across the room, passing out file folders around the bullpen “Man,” she muttered, “how does he do that? One question, and it’s like he read her whole soul.”
Morgan smirked. “That’s Gideon. He doesn’t talk to people, he reads them out loud.”
Coco just kept painting, after quickly popping a piece of gum into her mouth. A large pink bubble blew from her lips. She liked people who noticed things without trying to fix them.
------------------
After some time, Coco was crouched near one of the hallway walls, finishing the halls and beginning the bullpen faster than anticipated, a roll of painter’s tape looped around her wrist and a small can of warm beige primer at her side. She painted in long, careful strokes that were fluid and almost meditative. If anyone walked by, they’d see a woman completely in her element.
Garcia appeared first, heels clicking, coffee in one hand and curiosity in the other.
“Okay,” she said, stopping just short of the wet paint. “I need to know- is ‘Coco’ your real name or are we talking stage name, witness protection, or, like, mysterious European nickname? Or are you pulling a Cher?”
Ah, yes. The tech analyst is responsible for the video surveillance of her harassment case. Quirky, clicky, and loud.
Morgan could be heard off to the side and behind them. "Here we go."
Coco didn’t look up, but there was the faintest hint of amusement in her voice. “It’s just… Coco.”
Morgan’s voice once again met their ears. “She’s not gonna tell you, Penelope. She’s too smooth for that.”
“Oh, please,” Garcia said, flicking her free hand. “Everybody’s got a government name. You can’t just walk around with a one-word moniker like Madonna and not expect people to ask questions.”
Elle rounded the corner, files in hand. “Garcia,” she said lightly, but her tone carried weight, “let the woman paint.”
Coco’s brush didn’t pause. “It’s okay,” she murmured, still focused on the wall. “I don’t mind.”
Garcia crouched beside her anyway, fascinated by the steady precision of each line. “You’ve got surgeon hands,” she observed. “Or sniper hands. Or- okay, I’m just saying, it’s very exact and on the first try.”
Coco made a 'sure' expression, tilting her head. “Occupational habit.”
“From painting?”
Her eyes flicked up, meeting Garcia’s for half a heartbeat, and popped another gum bubble. Purple this time.
“Mhm.”
Garcia’s grin faltered just enough for Elle to notice. The silence that followed wasn’t tense, just… curious. Heavy with the kind of questions that didn’t feel polite to ask.
“It's just,” Coco said softly, rinsing her brush in the tray. “it’s easier if people call me Coco. Keeps things simple.”
Elle leaned against a nearby shelf, arms crossed over the files on her chest, watching her with quiet understanding. “Simple’s good,” she said.
Garcia straightened, a bit flustered. “Right. Totally. Simplicity is, uh, the new mystery. Love that for you. Gotta go! Changing the world one case at a time and all that jazz.”
Coco’s lips curved into barely a smile, but it was there. She taped off the next section, her movements so measured it was almost hypnotic.
As Garcia finally walked off, the tech pondered a second longer, biting her lip.
--------------------
Later that night...
It was well past 12 am. The kind of hour when even the Bureau’s hum quieted… like the whole building was holding its breath. Garcia sat alone in her neon kingdom, screens reflecting in her glasses, a half-empty mug of something that once claimed to be coffee cooling by her elbow. She wasn’t snooping. Not exactly. Just a little curiosity trip. A “who’s the new painter lady?” background check.
Completely harmless. Probably.
Except harmless checks don’t usually hit encrypted walls.
“Okay,” she muttered, typing faster. “You have one name, sweetheart. Just one. Coco. And yet… nothing else. Not even a last name, which is, like, HR blasphemy.”
The system gave her nothing but a minimal contractor ID and one vague note:
Clearance verified. Origin classified.
“Classified? For wall paint?” Garcia frowned, rolling her chair closer. She cracked open another layer, rerouting through internal archives- and found a hidden file. Old. Half-corrupted.
She clicked again. Suddenly, the system hesitated, blinked- then the entire file vanished. Gone. Not deleted. Wiped.
A soft chill ran through her, the way it does when you realize the house you’re in isn’t as empty as you thought. Before she could react, a knock tapped against the glass. Garcia jumped, slamming a few keys in panic. Windows disappeared. Her heart practically launched out of her chair.
Elle stood in the doorway, arms crossed loosely. “Working late again?”
Garcia smiled too fast. “Who, me? No, just, you know, defragging, debugging, totally above-board-”
Elle raised an eyebrow, strolling in with that lazy confidence of hers. Her gaze flicked to the still, warm glow of one monitor. Then to Garcia’s jittery hands.
“You were looking into her,” Elle said simply. Not a question.
Garcia winced. “…Is that bad?”
Elle didn’t answer right away. She leaned against the desk, quiet. Then, softly,
“Some people aren’t meant to be looked up, Penelope.”
There was a faint steel under her tone. The kind that comes from seeing too much.
Garcia blinked. “Elle. Who is she?”
A small smile ghosted across Elle’s face: affectionate, almost protective. “Someone trying to start over. Leave it at that.”
Elle turned toward the door, pausing just long enough to toss over her shoulder,
“Not every ghost in this building wants to haunt it again.”
And then she was gone.
Garcia sat there, pulse still quick, staring at her reflection in the blank monitor. Her fingers hovered above the keyboard. Then she sighed and pulled them away. Basically, it’s Elle’s way of saying: Leave her alone. She’s not here to be part of the system, and she doesn’t want to be exposed.
“…Okay,” she whispered, forcing a nervous laugh. “Painter lady, 1. Tech goddess, 0.”
A beat of silence. Then, quieter:
“But seriously- what the hell is Project Wren?”
-------------------
5 minutes earlier…
Coco was curled up on her couch, the hum of the apartment’s heater blending with the faint drizzle outside. A cup of her cinnamon tea steamed in her hands, and the soft glow of a single lamp cast elongated shadows across the walls. It was the kind of calm she thrived in…the quiet before the next wave of chaos.
Her phone buzzed, a sharp ping that made her fingers pause mid-sip. She frowned, setting the cup down, and glanced at the screen. A message from an old friend.
[Vireo]: Heads up. Looks like your info was queried at Quantico tonight. Someone poking around.
Coco’s brow furrowed, and her chest tightened ever so slightly. Not panic, but enough for her muscles to coil like springs. Quietly, methodically, she typed back:
[Coco]: Confirm. Who?
[Vireo]: Technically anonymized. But it’s Penelope Garcia. She’s digging.
A faint exhale left her lips. So curious. So thorough. And entirely unaware of how close she’d come to uncovering more than she wanted.
Coco’s fingers hovered above the keyboard for a moment, then typed swiftly:
[Coco]: Ghost it.
The reply came almost instantly.
[Vireo]: Already on it.
Her hand relaxed slightly, but the edges of her mind stayed sharp, scanning for any residual risk. Coffee in hand again, she leaned back, letting the warmth seep into her wrists. She frowned like when a manager assigns you to a shift on your day off.
That’s why I can’t ever truly relax, she thought. Some things are too easy to leave to chance. And now the problem is, the search was pinged on someone else's engine.
They'll know.
-------------------
Next Morning, BAU Bullpen
The rain hadn’t quite quit. It just loitered in the clouds, grumbling. The glass walls of Quantico were streaked, the world outside a blur of gray and water.
Coco was already there. Headphones in, thermos of coffee by her side, a lunch bag tucked away in the break room fridge, as offered by Morgan. sleeves rolled to her elbows as she worked a fresh coat over yesterday’s section. The pale green shimmered faintly under the lights- softer today, like it had finally settled in after the beige primer.
Morgan walked in first, yawning big enough to crack a rib. He stopped mid-step when he saw her.
“Okay, wait a sec. You beat me here?”
She didn’t look up. “Guess so.”
He grinned, sauntering over. “Hold up, you brought your own coffee? What- ours wasn’t good enough?”
Coco capped her thermos, glanced at him with that soft smile, and said simply,
“Tasted like tears.”
Morgan blinked. Then laughed, loud, genuine, the kind that echoed through the bullpen.
“Alright, I walked right into that one.”
By then, Garcia appeared, hair pulled into a messy bun that screamed I didn't sleep. She froze halfway through the door, watching them. Coco stopped her painting for a moment, sipping from her thermos, observing the tech. Garcia looked like she kept trying to find those files with no luck.
“I swear, you two are flirting with caffeine trauma,” Garcia muttered.
Morgan grinned. “Hey, at least she’s honest.”
Garcia pointed her coffee cup toward Coco. “You really said ‘tasted like tears’?”
Coco shrugged a shoulder. “San Francisco Bay brand will be better for you.”
Reid shuffled in next, mumbling something about barometric pressure affecting REM sleep. He stopped short at the wall. “The weather looks… calmer today,” he said, which, for him, was high praise.
“Storm’s easing up down south. News said we'd only get a few more days of rain,” Coco replied simply.
Morgan took a sip of his coffee, made a face. “She’s right. Checked the weather earlier.”
Garcia snorted. “Of course she is. She’s mysterious, artistically gifted, and somehow immune to government-issued despair. I’d follow her cult.”
“Cult?” Morgan echoed, smirking. “Please, she’d make you fill out a color palette before joining.”
The corner of Coco's mouth tugged up. Outside, thunder rolled again, but the sound felt softer this time.
The group dispersed, following their duties for the next several hours. Many more employees and agents strolled into the building by then, looking more disgruntled that the rain was persistent and leaving a few of them with a minor cold. Coco had moved on to the next section of wall, a slow rhythm of brushstrokes and quiet focus.
Garcia had taken up residence at the bullpen on Morgan's desk, pretending to 'monitor security feeds,' which- to anyone who knew her- was code for 'definitely poking where she shouldn’t.'
Morgan leaned over her shoulder. “You’ve got that look again, baby girl. The one right before you uncover aliens in the IRS.”
Garcia didn’t glance up. “It’s called curiosity. Totally healthy.”
Reid, sipping tea, added, “Actually, excessive curiosity leading to boundary testing is considered-”
“Not now, genius boy,” Garcia cut in.
Morgan peered at her screen. “Hold up. Are those…owl pictures?”
“They’re just, uh, symbolic placeholders,” Garcia said quickly, minimizing the window so fast the computer beeped in protest.
“Symbolic of what?” Morgan grinned. “Your midnight hacker hobbies?”
Before she could fire back, Gideon and Hotch appeared in the doorway of Hotch's office like the twin horsemen of quiet judgment. They didn’t say a word- just exchanged that subtle, unreadable glance.
Gideon’s tone was mild, which somehow made it worse. “Garcia, what are you looking into?”
“Oh, you know, just…regional paint suppliers, color psychology, the occasional redacted file-” She trailed off. “Kidding! Totally kidding.”
Reid frowned thoughtfully. “Actually, color psychology does correlate with-”
“Reid,” Hotch said. One word. Flat. It worked like a tranquilizer dart.
Morgan was grinning ear to ear. “I think you’ve officially become the suspect, Garcia.”
Garcia gasped. “Me? You think I’m suspicious? I bake cookies for half this team!”
“Exactly,” Morgan said. “Distraction technique.”
Even Hotch’s mouth twitched. Just barely.
Across the bullpen, Coco continued her painting. She could feel the temperature shift- the fluttering gaze tilting her way. Not direct, not yet, but curious.
That perky blonde wouldn't know subtle if it hit her in the face...
Garcia was still babbling under pressure. “See, I was just trying to run a quick cross-reference on contractors because-”
“Because?” Gideon asked.
“-because background checks are fun,” she finished weakly.
Coco dipped her brush again, heart ticking faster.
Great. Techie is still sniffing. Where’s Elle when I need her?
She didn’t look up, just smoothed another tiny glob of green across the wall with her thumb. The trick was to look too normal to be interesting (which, ironically, she was getting very good at).
Gideon’s gaze lingered for another second before he turned back toward his office. Hotch followed, quiet as ever.
Across the bullpen, as she rolled the brush across the wall in measured strokes, Coco caught the subtle shifts in the area. Garcia’s eyes that lingered too long on her, fingers twitching near a keyboard. Morgan’s grin carried a teasing undertone, like he knew something she didn’t. Even Reid’s gaze was sharper than usual, analytical and persistent.
Coco’s lips curved faintly, almost impressed.
The one time Elle is off doing her job somewhere else in the building and I'm scoped in less than a week…
She didn’t glance up. Didn’t break her rhythm. The brush in her stained hand moved like clockwork. But behind her calm exterior, a small part of her brain was already strategizing, already knowing that Vireo was gonna complain about this.
For now, though, it was just paint, rhythm, and the soft hum of her own control. She could handle that.
-------------------------
A/N: I also love autumn and pumpkin mugs. :) If anyone reads this, how'd I do?
It seemed, to the BAU's amusement, that painters can be a little awkward like certain BAU geniuses.
The main lobby had a recent renovation, and Elle recommended a local painter who did great work on her house. A greenie to the paint business, fresh out of California with a wonderful price range. Gideon agreed, and a quick call later came a petite young woman with paint-splattered overalls and an equally splattered canvas bandana covering most of her short brown feathery curls (styled in a bob…Elle wanted a bob too, hmm). In one hand was a clipboard, the other held a Starbucks cup.
The team loitered in the lobby, waiting for Elle to get her painter settled before leaving for the airport to handle a case. Elle's eyes lit up and waved,
"Coco!"
Morgan shared a look with Reid, "'Coco'?" He snickered, leading the group to the two ladies.
The young woman met the agent halfway, opening her arms as Elle gave a quick greeting hug. Gideon was the first to approach, causing Coco to shift the clipboard to the arm holding the coffee cup to shake his hand. She gave a shy smile. Of course, being profilers, the team pinpointed how it took a second for her hazel eyes to make contact with Gideon's.
"Nice to meet you, my name's Jason Gideon, and this is our team. We're about to, uh, head out for a case. Elle recommended your work?" He rambled in his usual 'nice-to-meet-you-but-hurry-up-please' manner. Hotch gave him a side glance in exasperation.
"It's nice to meet you, I'm Aaron Hotchner." Hotch greeted, shaking her hand. Briefly, he noted she had French tip nails with a small gem on the nail bed. Girl got class.
"Yes, I've gone over the color palette with the Section Chief," she checked her clipboard, "with Miss Strauss? I'll have my supplies within the hour and get started. Everything will be finished by the end of the weekend."
Elle grinned, slinging an arm over Coco's shoulder. "Coco has the local record here for fastest and most professional paint job."
Said young woman looked down, bashful, before looking back up again. "I won't take up any more of your time. I'll see you around, Elle." With that, she nodded politely to the others and waved to Elle before heading to the receptionist across the lobby.
Morgan huffed a laugh, "Elle, come on, is that really her name?"
Elle shook her head, "Nah, just something that stuck after someone got her a drink at a bar we were at, and it happened to be hot chocolate. The 'cocoa-culprit' was just her old roommate who was travelling by, and they told me they have a prank war going on."
Reid scrunched his nose, "I didn't even know they had hot cocoa at a bar."
"I'm sure she got her roommate back, right?" Morgan chuckled. Elle shrugged, turning away and following Gideon and Hotch out the door. Reid shared a funny look with him.
"How much you wanna bet she's got hot cocoa in that Starbucks cup?"
"Pff. Come on, pretty boy. We got a flight to catch."
...
"I bet you 20 bucks."
---------------
The smell of drying paint was not pungent, but at a level of smell that whispered every time they turned their heads. It was the first thing the team noticed walking into the lobby well past midnight. Not many personnel were in at this time, mostly just one tired nightshift receptionist typed away on his keyboard with three cups of something scattered on the desk. Morgan clapped the back of Reid's shoulder once he noticed the younger was staring at the cups in longing.
Said man whistled, taking in the nice change, "This place looks brand new." Morgan looked up, "She even patched up the old cracks."
Gideon and Hotch turned this way and that way, impressed at the work. Light sage replaced boring greys, paired with creams. Such an easygoing color gave life to the black, white, and beige accents that have always been present in the decor. Coco's expertise gave them a cozy atmosphere in the lobby. The only problem now was that it didn't match the rest of the building.
Elle smiled, relishing in the fact that once again, she was right. Coco initially refused to take this job, being cynical about the pay, meeting the FBI, and whether they were going to be critical of the job down to the most minuscule detail.
But she saw the bills hidden in the coffee table drawer. A young aspiring woman looking to start a life on her own. With no one to help, Elle can understand her need to prove that the young woman can handle her own. Though Coco slightly struggled in a way different from Elle. Different from the regular adult- and it embarrassed Coco, hence her habit of suffering in silence. Elle didn't feel too guilty for snooping in this case. All that really mattered was Coco being able to make ends meet.
The sound of familiar heels clicking against the marble floors met their ears as JJ approached the group with a tired smile.
"Isn't it great? Your friend did such a good job, Elle."
Hotch came up on Elle's left, "You think she'd do some extra work upstairs?"
At this, JJ gave an uncomfortable wince, alerting the group.
"Uh," she started, "I'm not sure if she'd wanna come back to be honest. Elle, you should call her up and make sure she's okay when you can."
Elle frowned. "What happened?"
"Garcia might show you the footage later, but while you were away," JJ looked around the lobby, "it was some of the agents from Accounting- she received plenty of harassment. One of them tried kicking the ladder while she was up there, and Garcia caught them and reported them to HR."
"Are you serious?" Elle scoffed, turning to Hotch and Gideon, "I'm gonna head over there-"
"It's late, Elle, it's most likely she needs the rest." Hotch disagreed. The Latin woman sighed, looking down with her arms crossed. After a moment, she nodded.
Gideon sighed, rubbing his eyes, "Get me the names, we take care of this first thing. Everybody get home safe and report in the morning."
Everyone nodded, staying silent.
----------------
And as Gideon said, very first thing in the morning everyone huddled into the briefing room with Garcia on their heels and shutting the door firmly.
"Hope you all did some yoga this morning because this might irk ya." The perky blonde started.
Typing a few buttons on her laptop, she pulled up camera footage. It was midday, mere hours after the team left. Coco was seen pouring the paint onto a plastic dip tray when two heavy men entered the lobby. They loitered for a bit, making obvious glances at the woman as she worked, mostly ogling her backside as she was bent over. One of them said something to her, with the way she snapped her head towards them and straightened up. Her hand holding a rag went to cover her backside and quickly grabbed her nearby flannel and tied it around her waist.
Garcia flicked through other moments on camera, showing the team an obvious pattern with the same two men often arriving at the front desk for whatever reason. Sometimes the men left for lunch, nudging the paint tray as they walked past her with such force that the paint spilled over her shoes. Another moment, when Coco was going up the ladder, one of the men took her lunch bag on the way out.
"These guys are just asking to get punched in the face." Elle scowled. "Do they have any idea that's her only meal of the day?"
Morgan, leaning back in his chair with one hand figeting with a pen on the table, scoffed and shook his head, "These guys never see the light of day and choose now to come downstairs for some eyecandy."
"They feel the need to prove themselves as powerful to those who seem powerless," Gideon muttered.
"And the fact that they don't even start with a conversation indicates they have some stressors going on in their life to be harassing a civilian right off the bat." Reid furrows his brows.
"Wait. You guys don't actually think they'll build up to hurt someone, do you?" JJ blinked, looking at each agent in bewilderment. But it was a given; you bring some behavioral lashes of anyone to their attention, and they'll dissect every piece down to the T. Such is their life.
"It's possible," Hotch answered, "They've already almost made Coco fall off the ladder. What's concerning is their confidence to enact harassment in a building full of law enforcement while also possibly carrying arms themselves. But with their section offices, they shouldn't be carrying at all."
"Oh gosh, no. None of these times were they seen with arms luckily, but still. They'll get in trouble for this, right? The poor girl is just doing her job and we work with these creeps!" Garcia whined, quickly glancing at each face.
Hotch nodded, "We'll talk to Strauss."
Elle's eyes focused on the message chat on her phone. Morgan looked her way, "You get a hold of her?"
"Yeah, she said she's fine, but I know her. Coco would rather fall off a cliff than let people know what's up."
"If she's willing to come back to file a formal complaint, we'll make sure to send it through Strauss personally, and with the camera footage, the punishment will be severe." Gideon reiterated.
"Yeah, and we'll be with her the entire time," Morgan promised. At that, Elle sighed.
"Right, I'll call her up."
Gideon stared.
"What's really wrong, Elle?"
---------------
Stepping back into a place where someone gave time and effort at a job site was sort of a closure feeling for the common working person. Coco's hand grazed the wall, patting here and there. It was lucky not to have to purchase primer since the condition of the wall was near perfect.
That grey though, ugh.
She didn't hear the footsteps coming up behind her. Coco flinched when a hand lay on her shoulder.
"Hey girly," Elle soothed, "It's just me. This is Morgan, a good friend and teammate- you saw him before." She gestured to a tall, broad man, who gave her a smile. It was easy to return it, but Coco couldn't say it didn't come off as a wince.
"He and I are gonna hang with you for the process- make sure nobody bothers you, ok?"
Her smile wiped off. Coco looked down, "Right."
Elle and Morgan shared a look, and the former placed her arm around her shoulders. The two agents led her to an elevator, hitting a number Coco didn't notice.
The brunette couldn't tell if it was because the FBI were hardly seen by anyone (like bats) but Coco wasn't expecting to see so many armed people in a building, much less on a single floor. And, of course, grey, boring walls with boring grey cubicles. Boo.
Elle and Morgan led her past the bullpen to climb a handful of stairs to a room- 'SSA Aaron Hotchner' it read. Morgan knocked, and a muffled voice called out to enter. The room was a nice contrast to the bullpen, Coco thought. Mahogany wood was a good choice, with lovely decor. But the walls- the walls.
Gideon sat leisurely on an armchair when they came in, and once again he met her first and shook her hand. This time, he seemed a bit more relaxed without being in a rush for a case. Coco didn't envy their job- it still deserved massive respect. Behind the desk was the other man she saw with the others before- tall, crisp suit. He also stood and reached for her hand.
Both their hands were very warm. Gideon caught her attention first.
"It's nice to see you again, Miss Coco. We're just sorry it had to be like this. I can assure you we've never had something like this happen, and it will definitely be the last."
Coco gave a nod, "I'm…not sure how I feel. It isn't a nice thing to go through, but it could have been worse."
Hotch gave a flat, professional expression. He then nodded to Gideon, who stood near Elle and Morgan. The latter pair shared a look, and Elle placed a hand on her shoulder. "We'll be right outside the door, and if you need anything- water or something just call for me. Okay?"
"Right. Thanks, Elle."
Maybe it was something about her own face that made Elle and everyone in the room stare for a moment. This profession would be Coco's nightmare, really. Not a spick of privacy here and there, and no way to keep it with professional behavioral analysts all over the place. It hasn't even been 30 minutes. Gideon gestured her to a chair, and she took it.
"I understand this may be uncomfortable to go through again, but we'll need every detail."
Coco nodded before sighing at the floor. "Sir, it won't be an issue to tell you everything, but I won't be able to afford it if those people decide to sue me for whatever reason."
Hotchner frowned, "It won't have to come to that."
Gideon sat down beside Coco, leaned forward with his arms resting on his knees.
"Alright. Let's get started.”
———————————————
The click of the doorknob opening made Elle and Morgan stand at attention from their cubicles, the former walking up the stairs to the heavy-lidded Coco, obviously exhausted from the in-depth interview. She smiled tiredly at Elle.
"How'd it go? You feeling okay?"
"Tired, ready to go home. But I'm okay." Coco squinted at Elle, "And you make people do this all the time, huh."
Elle huffed a snort. "Yeah, well, it pays to people watch."
Morgan smirked. He led the two back to the elevator and held out a few cards, "Take these. If you need to reach out for any reason, give us a call. The best thing about this team is that if we can't reach the phone, Garcia will contact us asap on the job."
Coco softly sputtered, "But-"
"Honestly, we might call you first. That paint job was perfect and I'm seriously thinking this entire building will need an upgrade."
Morgan lit up, "You know what, hell yeah. People don't realize how much color can affect us and in this job, it would help to have an uplifting environment."
Coco gaped like a fish as Elle gave her a mirthy smile. "All we need to do is appeal to the benefit of the BAU to Strauss and she's in."
Alright. Obviously there was a tension with Strauss, "I can only get confirmation from Miss Strauss again for an extended job…"
Reid, coming out of the break room with an abnormally large jug of steaming coffee sped by, somehow knowing what they were talking about, "She should be in 'till 8 all week."
He set his jug down and turned to them with a scrunch of his nose, "And grey is ugly."
Coco couldn't stifle the dimpled smile, catching the three off guard.
"I thought so too."
At this moment, Mr. Hotchner entered the space with Gideon right behind, "I think it's a good idea. Agent Gideon and I are heading over to her office right now. If you'd like to come along with us?"
Coco nodded, while nervousness mostly kept her throat tight, the stress of paying bills on time overruled it. Should Strauss deny their request, there were always the surrounding facilities and neighboring town to offer services to. The eroding paint details in many places were just signs of opportunities- not to make fun of the East Coast, but it was known to have many historic locations. If it's old, it's a paycheck.
She followed the two towering men, and the others followed her. Like a trail of ducks. Except made of grown adults snickering behind her at the possibility of getting rid of such a depressing color scheme at work. Especially Elle, who adored the French Cottage palette for her home, or Morgan, partial to the brick and olive-green scheme. Coco was listening to Reid argue that 70s decor was on par, if not better than what the 80s offered in style when the brunette nearly collided into Mr. Hotchner's back. She steadied her hand on his back for a second, embarrassed. They came to a stop at the elevator.
"Sorry, Agent Hotchner."
He nodded politely, "It's alright. Chief Strauss's office is a few floors up."
Morgan gently nudged his arm into Coco's shoulder, "So what'd you think of Strauss?"
Elle rolled her eyes, "Come on."
"What? When I first met her, I wanted to apologize just for being in her office."
"Morgan."
Reid piped up from the back, "She thought I was applying for the receptionist position when we met."
Coco covered her mouth at this. Gideon kept a neutral face, but his next statement threw them off guard.
"She thought I was the custodian."
Coco exhaled a giggle as Morgan barked out a hearty laugh. Elle and Reid similarly wore comical expressions, and Agent Hotchner tried to smother his grin. The elevator dinged, and they huddled inside with Coco in the middle (being the smallest).
What a funny bunch.
-------------
Coming home was…freedom…after a long day. Free to sigh as much as you want, free to just walk around in your best loungewear, free to do face masks and paint your nails some gaudy color before erasing it again and again until finding the right shade. Coco felt as though she had aged. Elle was great, her team was great, their place of work is great, but damn. That Strauss was going to make her ask for a refund, even though they paid her.
Strong, steely, cold, Strauss strutted around the place as though she deigned to command it- but at the same time her eyes were lit with a fire Coco didn't understand what they burned for. She set her bag down on the ground with a plop and stumbled into the kitchen with comedic floppiness, opening the refrigerator. Coco had enough of a serious day with her back straight and tense in front of super professional people, save for Elle and her team.
Her hand slowly gripped the glass handle of the jug of sweet hibiscus water. Her eyes unfocused as the interaction from earlier that day came to the forefront of her mind.
Somehow the walls that led to Strauss's offce were a mismatch of navy blue, white, grey, and oak. If anyone took notice how cold that combination of colors made people feel, they didn't voice it. In fact, everyone around Coco didn't say a word. Their mirth fell away and now Coco didn't know how to behave. Gideon didn't seem to care much about this woman but only knocked for formality once before opening the door. Gideon led Hotchner, and Hotchner led Coco. Reid would have followed if Morgan hadn't grabbed his collar and dragged him back out with him and Elle into the waiting area. Coco tensed, slightly glaring at Elle for not going in with her, but this was her job. Strauss was her boss.
Hair pinned back with a pearl hairpiece, sharp green eyes looked up from her paperwork behind dark glasses.
"Chief Strauss, sorry to barge in like this but we have some concerning news." Gideon broke the silence.
Delicate eyebrows furrowed. Strauss removed her glasses and slowly stood up from her chair.
"What is it."
Hotchner gently placed a hand between Coco's shoulder blades and urged her forward. The young woman met her gaze. Strauss walked around her desk to step close to Coco, steely eyes raking over her person once.
"Have you been injured on the job, Miss-"
The young woman shook her head, "No ma'am, I'm okay, thank you. But, something did happen."
Strauss frowned, eyeing the two agents, "Is this something you want to talk about in private?"
"No ma'am, they did a cognitive interview with me this morning about it. They can stay if they'd like."
"Alright." The woman returned to her seat, gesturing everyone to do the same. Gideon simply leaned against her desk and crossed his arms. It surprised her that Hotchner broke the silence first.
"Our technical analyst came forward with footage of harassment and physical endangerment, from personnel in the Accounting section offices."
Strauss turned to look at Coco, eyes unblinking for what felt like 5 minutes, before opening a drawer full of crisp white files. She slid a packet over to them, gesturing with her head, "If the video was confirmed by Garcia, then send it over. Please fill out everything down to the last letter. As much as I don't appreciate such behavior, I must follow protocol. Do you understand you may be here all day to sort this through?"
Coco nodded, "Yes, ma'am. I'm willing to be here."
Settling into the cushiony couch with a freshly poured hibiscus drink, Coco sighed. It did indeed take all day. Nearly 7 hours before it turned pink and orange outside. After one hour, Hotch needed to tend to other things and left with the team in tow, promising through the glass doors to check on her later. Well, really just Elle, but the sentiment was there with Morgan and Reid, albeit the latter only gave an awkward wave.
Gideon was patient, though. If she was being honest, it looked like this job took more than acceptable from this man, but he never wavered in the office with her. Coco could respect that.
The whole process was a lot. Like a lot. But she understood that big authorities like the FBI wouldn't dare to leave a single detail out. And Strauss didn't. What did Coco do that day? Who did she talk to? Did she unintentionally stare at someone? Perhaps the only saving grace was that their technical analyst sent them cold, hard proof of everything that had happened in the span of three days. But she still needed to be detailed about the before and after leaving the building.
It wasn't until the last half hour that Gideon brought up bringing Coco back in for more work in their offices. She had to bite her cheek when the man said, 'This place looks like a morgue Erin- how do you expect people to get work done when they feel as glum as the paint?' Though Strauss, in her opinion, deserved more credit than her subordinates gave her. The woman had a respectable job, but she must've hated it there as much as everyone else. Didn't need to be a profiler to see how she welcomed a change of environment.
Flicking the TV on, Coco pulled up one of her current favorite shows, Living Single, with Queen Latifa. It was her new binge craze; she'd already finished Golden Girls.
Coco smiled. It was a long day. Yeah. Couldn't deny it. But her reward came in take-out, chocolate, and a glass of Moscato she'll be nursing soon. Then she'd settle comfortably in bed at a reasonable hour.
After all, she had a new job lined up with the FBI.
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Should I continue? 🤷🏻♀️ Not sure if i should give it a try to write, but let me know constructive criticism, advice etc.!
When I’m reading an ‘x reader’ and Y/N is written with the most pick-me, Hollywood yt girl, no manners, irritating, unemployed characteristics cuz that hoe ain’t me
titsay
turnnoffyourmind
origamiaround
2087
areudirty
