like mother... ⋆˙⟡ spencer reid x strauss!reader
summary: the behavioural analysis unit have no idea that their section chief has a daughter in the bureau until she shows up in the middle of an investigation to kick ass, take plushies, and leave a sour taste in the mouth of a certain genius.
genre: angst (kind of) word count: 6.2k
tags: reader is erin strauss' daughter | set in season five, bad first impressions, first day on the job, negative self-talk, reader has a horrible chameleon complex, emotional repression, reader is HR trained and working in victim services, hints of mutual attraction, hints of a strained mother/daughter dynamic, david rossi is a father figure kind of, no use of y/n
notes: because what could possibly go wrong with falling for your boss' boss' emotionally stunted daughter? welcome to the strauss!reader universe, where if you wear enough pink everybody will love you—it's guaranteed! requests for this spencer/reader pairing are open, so please don't be shy if you have any ideas!
⤷ strauss!reader masterlist ᝰ.ᐟ
“Truth becomes fiction when the fiction’s true. Real becomes Not-Real when the Unreal’s Real.” — Cao Xueqin, Dream of the Red Chamber
A person is comprised of many things. Traits and characteristics, beliefs and experiences—it all culminates to form you, the person. The individual. Unique in all the worst ways, yet somehow no different from anyone else.
You are an anthology of two-and-a-half decades of thoughts, feelings, and moments. You’re a stained-glass display of everything that has happened to you, around you, and within you. Who you are at your core, your true self, is a product moulded over years, shaped by various sets of hands, some of which did better work, more polished work, than others. Some people left indents in the parts of you that had not yet dried. Others left cracks in parts that were too brittle.
But what you are on the inside, that ever-changing amalgamation of stuff, is not reflected on the outside—nor should it be. Your intricacies, your nuances, your messes, they’re all yours. Nobody else’s.
What you are on the outside, the version of yourself that you choose to present, is tangential. It exists outside of that notion of the “self” and functions as its own independent being. Two-dimensional, digestible, and whatever it needs to be in any given moment.
Adaptability was instilled in you at a young age; the ability to contort your personality to fit any social situation, to sever parts of yourself and, in its place, sprout new branches that imitate those of the people around you. Who you were didn’t matter, it was what you could be that was most important. The key to success lies in a person’s ability to reshape themselves.
Reach for the stars was what your mother had told you, back when the world as you knew it had little depth beyond report cards and homework.
Reach beyond the stars, if you want to; you’re more than capable. But you must remain aware of how people perceive you, and you must use it to your advantage. Play the part, flash a smile, people like that. Make them see you in whatever light is most appealing to them, and then you can do anything.
Perception. Control how people see you, control what they think of you, and you’re golden. The world is your oyster when you win the favour of its people, when they see you as something of value.
And a last name? It’s an added bonus. It’s something to be used, but never relied on.
Strauss might get you an interview, but you get the job. To use your last name as a crutch would be to discredit the years of hard work you have put into becoming this version of yourself; the best version of yourself.
This job didn’t fall into your lap because of your lineage—your mother would never write a letter of recommendation even if you asked her to—you landed this job because you are good. Because you can identify what people want you to be, even if they themselves don’t know, and become it instantaneously.
You juggle flattened shades of a personality as naturally as your heart beats in your chest; each one slightly different, each crease ironed out. Each iteration of you is little more than a two-dimensional cardboard cutout, an imitation of realness, and yet nobody seems to notice. Nobody thinks to look past the façade you present them with, but why would they? Why would they want to scrutinise something that is so unquestionably perfect when taken at face-value?
Living, it seems, is a performance art that you have all but mastered.
There are, however, instances where you will confess to feeling out of your depth, though they are few and far between. An example of this would be, say, if your mother were to call you late one night and ask you to abandon your current position and dedicate three months to monitoring the FBI’s Behavioural Analysis Unit.
I worry they may be struggling more than they let on, she had said, and your skillset makes you the perfect candidate to assist on cases whilst keeping track of their behaviour.
You want me to act as in-house HR?
Is that an issue?
No, it’s just…given the circumstances, I don’t think—
Circumstances?
You’re my mother. Last I heard, they weren’t exactly fond of you.
Then it’s a good thing you’re not me.
I doubt the BAU will see it that way.
Your transfer has already been approved. You start in two weeks.
Mom—
I expect reports every week detailing any concerns regarding the team’s behaviour, both on and off the field. Agent Hotchner is to be reinstated soon, and I need someone competent to tell me whether he is capable of leading this unit.
I feel like there are people more qualified for this than I am.
Yes, but I trust you.
…
Think of this as a vacation, if you must. And be sure to purchase some medication for your flight anxiety; wherever they go, you go.
⋆˙⟡
The FBI Academy building has not changed in the four years that have passed since you last set foot inside, when you had decided to slaughter your social life in favour of joining the Honours Internship Program in the summer before your senior year of college. Those ten weeks you had spent at Quantico had dragged, but you had left the program with everything you needed to join the Bureau the moment you graduated—and that's exactly what you did. You feel the same way about the Academy now as you had done then: the elevators are awful, and the floor plan is worse.
The clock above the entrance reads 8:55AM when you finally locate the Behavioural Analysis Unit, but what you are greeted with upon your arrival is an office that looks nothing short of a ghost town, population: zero. This should probably be your first sign that something is amiss, but you push on until you reach the office of Unit Chief Aaron Hotchner, only to find that he, too, has seemingly vanished without a trace.
It isn’t until thirty minutes later you learn that the BAU have already been deployed on a case in Baltimore, and that you have been doing nothing but wasting your time haunting the office of a man who was never going to appear, anticipating a meeting that was never going to happen. You loiter in that empty room, scanning the various accolades that decorate the walls, before embarking on your journey back to the parking lot.
It is a two-hour drive from Quantico to Baltimore, so you best get going.
⋆˙⟡
By the time you make it to the city police department, it’s already nearing midday. You try not to dwell on the amount of time you’ve lost as you climb out of your car, and you instead begin mentally drafting the strongly worded email you're going to send, addressed to whatever idiot was supposed to keep you informed on the whereabouts of the BAU, come the end of the day.
Traffic, like everything else, had not been on your side this morning, but the highway blockages and infuriating queues had given you ample time to engage in some distracted driving and familiarise yourself with the case, and you walk into the building calm, composed, and ready to face your new coworkers—or you would be, if you knew where they were.
Fortunately, all it takes is your best smile—and a quick flash of your credentials—for the dull, lifeless officer at the front desk to point you in the direction of Agent Hotchner and his team and, after thanking him, you promptly take off down the corridor.
The soles of your flats are silent against the floor as you run through every word of the conversation you are about to find yourself in; the questions, the concerns, the controversy that your presence is bound to cause, you have a response prepared for all of it.
But before you can even make it to their room, you collide head-first into something—someone—with such force it almost knocks the both of you to the ground.
Sweater vest.
His outfit is the first thing you notice, the only thing you notice, as he begins frantically waving his hands in apology: a purple sweater vest tucked into a pair of brown trousers, secured with a belt so worn-out it looks as though it may disintegrate under the slightest touch.
Cane.
The second thing you notice. Shit.
You quickly purse your lips, shifting the blame you were ready to throw at him back onto yourself as you raise your head, meeting the panicked gaze of the man who just barged into you— no, the man that you have just barged into. He’s still apologising, flipping between I’m sorrys and are you okays like he’s being graded on how many times he can repeat each phrase without stopping to take a damn breath.
“It’s okay,” you say. Your words are measured, purposeful, and spoken in that practiced, agreeable tone you always default to in situations like this—the unforeseen situations, the inconvenient ones. “I should have been paying more attention, I’m sorry.”
His head jerks as though he’s about to agree with you and say yes, you should have been paying more attention, you dumb bitch before he realises that, actually, that would be incredibly rude. Instead, he shakes his head hurriedly. Fast enough that his features blur and his shoulder-length hair whips around his face, and you’re sure you see a strand poke him in the eye.
“I was distracted,” he says, countering your apology with another one of his own. He speaks like his words are running away from him, fast and breathless and at a level louder than your ears are comfortable with. The fluorescent lighting does nothing to hide the blush creeping into his cheeks as he says, in a firmer tone, “it’s my fault, I’m sorry.”
Doe-eyes.
The third thing you notice, and you really wish you hadn’t. Big and dark. Soulful in a way that is disconcerting.
“We’re both sorry, then,” you say. Your voice comes out strange; gentler than how you had intended to sound, softer than would ever be warranted in a situation like this.
The way he’s looking at you is making your skin crawl. You feel your throat tighten in response to his gaze, like you’re allergic to him. And it isn’t as though he’s doing anything wrong, either, he’s just…looking at you.
And then he isn’t.
He breaks eye contact so fast you’d think he was allergic to you, too. He apologises again—quieter, this time—and mumbles something about needing to go as colour continues to pool in his already beet-red cheeks.
Before you can say another word, he’s hurrying past you.
Seconds tick by as you linger at the join between those two corridors. Your hands move on their own, smoothing out the front of your blouse, searching for the familiar feeling of crisp fabric under fingertips as you take a moment to re-orient yourself after that bizarre encounter. Shaking your head, you push the thought of those distracting doe-eyes to one side and continue on your path to the BAU.
It takes two more turns before, at last, you locate them hiding away in a dimly lit meeting room as though they’re some secret underground society. You stand there for a while, hovering where you can see them but they can’t see you, and watch as they discuss the case.
Agents Hotchner and Rossi stand at the head of the table, anchoring the team. They’re the only familiar figures in the room, but they aren’t exactly comforting. You know them well enough to understand how they work: Hotchner is the protector, the leader, and Rossi is the right-hand man—the yang to his yin. Prentiss, Morgan, and Jareau on the other hand are agents you have not met. They’re wildcards, essentially: all you know about their personalities is what you have been able to infer from reading their files.
It doesn’t take a genius to know that someone is missing, an idiot could figure that out based on the composition of the team alone: there’s an empty seat to Morgan’s right, presumably where Doctor Reid once sat. But where is he now?
Something clicks into place as your gaze flits between their faces and you realise, now minutes after the fact, that the man you had just walked into was Doctor Reid.
Doctor Reid the prodigy, the genius and, somehow, the man you had utterly failed to recognise in the moment.
The sweater vest. The kind he’s been wearing in almost every photograph you’ve seen of him.
The cane. Evidence of the injury sustained in his run-in with Patrick Meyers.
The doe-eyes. The ones you had barely noticed until they were right in front of you.
God, this isn’t like you. When did you get so stupid? What’s the point in you even being here if you can’t recognise the best agent on this damn team?
You must shift slightly, because when you look back towards the BAU, you find that David Rossi is staring right back at you. Mouth slightly agape. Eyes wide as though he’s come face-to-face with a ghost. Or a demon—that might be more appropriate.
“Oh shit.”
His words quite rightfully catch the team off-guard and, confused, each of them follows his gaze until they find youstanding in the doorway. Steadying yourself, you relax your shoulders and don your most composed face as you turn your attention, finally, to the elusive unit chief himself.
“Agent Hotchner.”
“Doctor Strauss.”
As you had expected, the agents that don’t already know you react as though Hotch has just sworn at them, but he ignores their slack jaws and bewildered looks as he keeps his gaze fixed on you, and you alone. His sharp eyes bore into yours, wordlessly dissecting your demeanour, your body language, your motives. Your presence, it seems, is already enough to concern him—and all you’ve done is say his name.
“What are you doing here?” he asks.
And you realise nobody told him you were coming.
Your placement was approved weeks ago. The Bureau have had ample time to warn him of your arrival, yet nobody bothered to.
Just like that, the mental draft of that bitter email just got a hell of a lot longer.
“Well,” you begin, keeping your tone calm and controlled as you step into the room, “I went to your office to speak with you but, clearly, you were not there, and so I came here. I take it you haven’t been told why?”
“No,” he says, crossing his arms defensively, “I have not.”
“…I see, there must have been some…miscommunication,” you say. And then, thank God, you can start reciting your trusty script. “I have been placed temporarily in the BAU for the purposes of providing assistance and feedback in any way I can, and—”
“May we speak in private?”
You keep your frustration buried, hidden away under the smallest, politest smile you can muster as you mimic his stance. “Of course.”
Without another word, Agent Hotchner makes for the door. Your gaze strays briefly to Rossi, who has one hand covering his mouth in what appears to be a display of deep thought, but you know damn well he’s trying his hardest not to laugh.
But before either of you can make it out of the room, that cane-wielding, sweater vest wearing “stranger” comes barrelling into the room. This time, you have the sense to recognise him for who he is: Doctor Spencer Reid. The avidly discussed, seldom seen agent with three PhDs, two BAs, and a whole wealth of knowledge in his infamous supercomputer of a brain.
“I got it!” he announced, smiling like an excited little kid as he raises his arm, holding up a children’s rabbit plushie like it’s some kind of trophy. His expression begins to falter when he sees the look on the faces of his coworkers, and by the time his gaze finds you, that smile has vanished completely.
“Reid,” Rossi says, grinning, “this is Doctor Strauss.”
Spencer blinks at you, as if Rossi has just spoken nonsense. You can almost hear the cogs spinning in his mind before the pieces fall into place. His eyes go impossibly wide, and he immediately launches into another bout of fast-paced, panic-fuelled ramblings.
“I—I’m sorry, I didn’t— I knew Chief Strauss had a daughter in the Bureau, um…in the Victim Services Division, I think— but I had only read your— your name in the past, and I’d never seen a photograph— I’m so sorry about earlier, I was—”
“Reid.”
Agent Hotchner’s stiff voice promptly silences him, and he mumbles another apology as he shrinks back like a sad puppy that has suffered a boot to the stomach. You can see Hotch in your peripheral vision, waiting for you to follow him outside, but your gaze is fixed on the plushie that Spencer is holding.
“Um,” he clears his throat, trying to unscramble his words before he speaks. “This isn’t mine. This, uh— the child of the victims, it’s his. I was going to use it, because it has sentimental value, to try and—”
“I know,” you say.
“Right,” he nods, pressing his lips into a sheepish smile, “yes. Of course you do. I’m— I’m sorry.”
“It’s a good idea,” you hold out a hand, “can I…?”
Spencer looks as though he may sprint straight out of the room as you step closer to him but, with no reason to refuse, he hands the plushie over to you. Immediately, you turn back to Hotch.
“Agent Hotchner, I think it would be best if I were to speak to the child.”
Confused, Spencer steps forward as his expression sours. “Wait—”
“I was briefed on this case on my way here,” you say, keeping your gaze fixed on Hotch. “Home invasion of a two-parent household with one seven-year-old child. The parents were murdered in their bedroom, and the house was ransacked. The child you have here is Michael, DOB March 19th 2002, and he—”
“That’s enough,” he says, voice firm.
“This is my specialty, Agent Hotchner.”
“You are not a part of this team,” he counters.
“I am now,” you say, matching his tone, “and I will be for the next three months, at the least. If you want those months to pass smoothly, then I suggest you allow me to assist in areas I have the most experience in.”
Intransigent. That’s an apt descriptor for Agent Hotchner—both based on the tales you’ve heard, and on what you’re seeing in front of you. He’s stubborn, defensive, and protective of his team to the point where it does more harm than good.
Barging head-first into a situation as delicate as this is a risk, and it isn’t something you would do unless you were certain it was necessary. And it is necessary, because there is no playing nice with a man who is certain to hate you no matter how you act. There is no compromise to be had, no moulding yourself to fit what he wants, because he doesn’t want you here at all.
If you want to find your place on this team, you will have to carve it out yourself.
If he wants to be intransigent, you will just have to push twice as hard—and you’re willing to bet good money that you’re a hell of a lot more stubborn than he is.
You don’t need Agent Hotchner to like you; the favour of the BAU was never something you were ever going to win, but what you do need is for them to understand exactly where you stand in all of this. Your assistance isn’t optional, and your presence is not ignorable. You are here, whether they like it or not.
And, thankfully, Hotch seems to get the message. His throat bobs as he swallows back any further complaints, and you interpret that as a victory.
Spencer Reid, however, does not.
“But I’ve been with Mikey all morning,” he protests, looking between the two of you in disbelief like you’ve sprouted an additional head, “it wouldn’t be fair on him to introduce a new person. I’ve already established a rapport—”
“Rapport means nothing if you make no progress,” you say, cutting him off with a tone so sharp you could swear you see him wince. You meet his frustrated gaze with a calm, controlled look and add, “we’re FBI agents, Doctor, not babysitters.”
Spencer opens his mouth to argue, but you’re already turning back to Hotch, running away from those big, stupid brown eyes before you can consider feeling guilty about this.
“Where’s the child?”
Before any further hell can break loose, Rossi steps forward. “I’ll take you to him, boss, don’t worry.”
With that, he quickly ushers you out of the meeting room, leaving the rest of the team in a stunned silence that persists long after your departure.
As the two of you round the corner, Rossi gives your arm a playful nudge. “It’s good to see you again,” he says, smirking.
“I’m glad someone thinks this is funny,” you mutter as you fiddle with the soft ears of the plushie.
“Oh, please. Don’t sell yourself short, kid,” he says, “this is hilarious.”
The sigh that his words elicit is the only reply you’re willing to give him.
“Stealing a witness from Reid, though…” he tuts, shaking his head as he leads you to another, more secluded meeting room, “did Erin tell you to come out swinging, or is this just a you thing?”
Ignoring his question, you gesture to the door. “Is this it?”
“Yup,” he leans against the wall as you reach for the handle, “you sure about this?”
In response, you just open the door and step inside, pretending not to see the way he dramatically deflates as you leave him stranded in the corridor.
Inside the meeting room, you find Michael sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by pieces of paper. Upon second glance, you realise they’re drawings—failed attempts at getting him to draw the unsub, by the look of it. Sitting at the table is a defeated-looking police officer, but she perks up a little when she sees you walk in; she even flashes you a smile. Without saying a word, you politely motion for her to leave, and she immediately stands up.
You wait until the door closes behind her before you direct your attention to Michael, and you take a slow, steady breath in.
“Can you catch?” you ask, swapping out your usual flat tone for something looser. Something casual, and something slightly more emotive.
Michael warily raises his head, but something in his expression changes when he sees the plushie in your hands. His eyes widen, and he sits up eagerly. You toss it to him, and he hugs it tightly to his chest as though it’s his lifeline, the one thing keeping him tethered to reality—and you suppose, after everything he’s been through today, that it is.
“I’m Doctor Strauss,” you say, “I’m here to—”
“Are you a real doctor?” he asks. He’s soft-spoken, but not afraid; that’s a good sign, at least. “Or are you another fake one like Doctor Reid?”
You purse your lips into an embarrassed smile, acting as if he’s caught you red-handed. “I’m not a real doctor, no,” you admit. “I don’t do surgeries, or…anything like that.”
He frowns. “Why not?”
“It’s above my pay grade.”
He doesn’t fully understand what you mean by that, but he doesn’t have to. The way in which you say it conveys all he needs to know: you’re approachable, not overly serious and, above all, you aren’t trying too hard. You haven’t come in here bursting with sunshine and rainbows and false positivity, you’re just…yourself. A version of yourself; the version this kid needs.
And it must work, because he doesn’t try to back away as you cross the room, and you’re able to plop yourself down on the floor beside him without issue.
⋆˙⟡
Fifteen minutes later, you emerge to find the entire Behavioural Analysis Unit standing outside. They try to busy themselves as you step out into the corridor, acting as though they haven’t had their ears pressed to the door this whole time. You wait, expecting them to say something to you, or to speak at all, but they don’t.
So, you turn your gaze to Rossi; he seems to be the only person here willing to engage with you.
“Have the extended family been notified?” you ask.
“His aunt is flying in as we speak,” he says.
You nod, and silence overwhelms the team once more. Every agent has their eyes on you, studying you—profiling you—like you’re some foreign creature. Something they aren’t quite sure of, but something that has intrigued them, nonetheless.
“Doctor Strauss…” Morgan muses, narrowing his eyes as he regards you with a slight smirk. “Doing in fifteen minutes what Reid couldn’t do in three hours. Colour me impressed.”
Beside him, Spencer frowns. He purses his lips tight, presumably to stop himself from saying anything foolish, and crosses his arms. There’s no arguing with Morgan’s words; you did manage to get Michael to talk, and you had done it far faster than Doctor Reid ever would have. It’s almost like having experience might actually mean something, but who’s to say?
“Maybe you should take notes next time,” you say, meeting Morgan’s gaze. Your expression doesn’t stray from its perfectly neutral baseline, but there’s something in the way that you speak that could, if he so desired, be interpreted as smug.
He raises his eyebrows, smirking unapologetically now, but Hotch clears his throat before he can say anything further.
“Get Garcia on the line,” he instructs, gesturing for the team to return to their meeting room, “we should have everything we need to track down this unsub.”
That’s all he needs to say for the team to understand what he is truly asking of them: privacy. A moment alone with you so he can pick you apart, vivisect you and learn what your game is. The agents turn almost in sync and quickly begin scurrying away. You hear them start to whisper amongst themselves as they turn the corner.
Interactions can typically go one of two ways: good, or bad. For the most part, the outcome is entirely in your control. You know how to get the ball into your court, and you know how to keep it there—you know exactly how to turn a bad conversation into a good one, if such a need were to ever arise.
In this case, however, your options are bad or worse. There’s little you can do here to manipulate the outcome; Agent Hotchner’s iron defences won’t allow for it.
So, you let him make the first move, hoping to get a decent read on him, to gauge where his head is at, before you say anything that may damn you further.
And, thankfully, it doesn’t take long for him to speak.
“I wish I could say it’s good to see you,” he says stiffly.
“I’m not here to cause you any trouble.”
You watch as he nods slowly—thoughtfully, almost—but you know better than to assume it means anything good for you. It’s a polite gesture, nothing more, because telling you to your face that he thinks you’re full of shit would be rude.
“I’m here to help,” you add, reciting your lines with just enough emotion to come across as genuine without laying it on too thick, “to assist on cases and ensure that this team is functioning efficiently, internally and externally."
Hotch’s gaze drops momentarily to your outfit: pale pink blouse, deep burgundy slacks, and ballet flats that you clean so often they look as though they have never been worn. Your outfits are the most colourful thing about you, and that isn’t unintentional. Pink is friendly. Trustworthy. And, in a place where trust is going to be a scarce resource, you need all the help you can get.
“And if you have reason to believe we aren’t?” he asks.
“Then I will take the necessary steps to set you on the right track,” you say simply. “I can only hope that you will be cooperative.”
He spends a few more seconds just looking at you, regarding you with an expression as neutral as he can manage with that perpetual frown tugging at his brows. And then, in a gesture that you can only interpret as a surrender, he turns away.
“The team aren’t going to like this.”
“I don’t expect them to,” you say.
Glancing back at you over his shoulder, he asks, “and you can handle that?”
Is he serious? Of course you can.
“I wouldn’t be here if I couldn’t.”
He nods, jaw working subtly like he’s chewing on his thoughts before he adds, as a final note, “don’t attempt to undermine my authority again. Expertise is appreciated, arrogance is not.”
“Yes, sir.”
⋆˙⟡
Back in the meeting room, the interrogations begin.
“I didn’t think Strauss had any children old enough to be working in the Bureau.”
“Doctor Sunshine here is the eldest,” Rossi says, responding to Morgan’s question before you can get a word in.
Doctor Sunshine. You’d turn around and punch him in the throat if you thought it would make him stop.
“Of four,” you add. “My siblings are a lot younger than I am.”
Your responses, when Rossi isn’t delivering them for you, are rehearsed. They’re to-the-point without feeling overly blunt, and they’re honest—as honest as you’re willing to be with a group of strangers, anyway. Presenting yourself as unapproachable will do little to help your case. You need them to think they can talk to you, that they can be honest with you as you are honest with them. Communication is, unfortunately, a two-way street, and you’re willing to lead by example, if you must.
Agent Jareau—JJ, she has insisted you call her—flashes you a smile from across the table. “Working in the same field as your parent has gotta be tough,” she says, “there’s a lot of weight to a last name.”
Beside her, Prentiss sighs. “Tell me about it.”
“I suppose, but the Victim Services Division primarily operates out of DC,” you explain, “so there’s little overlap between my mother and me, professionally speaking. My last name does raise some eyebrows from time to time, though.”
“How’d you wind up here, then?” Morgan asks. “Victim Services to BAU’s little helper is quite the jump. Did mom recruit you to spy on us, or something?”
The question is phrased as a joke rather than an accusation, but you spare a fleeting glance at Hotch all the same. He offers you nothing; this is your job, not his.
“I have a background in Human Resources,” you say, keeping your tone even as you survey the team’s reactions, “and while spy isn’t the term I would use…I am here, in part, to monitor the performance of this team.”
The energy in the room shifts as you speak. What was once mere intrigue freezes over in an instant, and it solidifies into something heavier. Judgement.
In an instant, their defences have shot up and you are no longer just a bossy stranger, but an enemy. They all turn to look at you, some in disbelief, others in disappointment. Even Spencer, who has been making a point to ignore you since your return, raises his head to join in on the staring.
Morgan’s brows come together in a harsh frown. “Does Strauss think we’re falling behind?”
Here we go.
“In light of recent events, I think—”
“We’ve been doing perfectly fine,” he says.
You purse your lips.
“You don’t agree? What did she tell you—”
“Kids,” Rossi interrupts, wagging his finger, “play nice, please. I think we should give our friend here the benefit of the doubt—”
“There have been some concerns raised,” you say, keeping your gaze fixed on Morgan.
Playing nice isn’t a possibility here. You knew that two weeks ago, and now the rest of the team are finally beginning to catch on.
Morgan scoffs. “Concerns? Like what?”
Even with everyone’s eyes on you, you do not falter. You inhale, ready to deliver your own death sentence, only to be interrupted by the ringing of Morgan’s phone. He answers the call with a huff, and you are introduced to the voice of what you can only assume is their technical analyst, Penelope Garcia.
“Ugh, I know you were just thinking of me, handsome,” she says. “Thinking about this big, juicy rack of…informationthat I am about to graciously bestow upon you.”
The entire team wince. Rossi lowers his head so far it almost hits the table, and the rest of the men shake their heads as Prentiss and JJ choke back a laugh. Even you have to close your eyes, if only for a moment, to maintain your composure.
Morgan glances at you, mortified, before clearing his throat. “You’re on speaker, Garcia.”
“Oh!” her voice breaks. “Derek, please tell me Strauss’ daughter isn’t—”
“I’m here,” you say.
“Oh! It’s, um, nice to meet you, agent— Doctor Strauss. If you could just…erase the last thirty seconds from your mind, I would appreciate that. A lot. I promise you that I am a mature, professional—”
“If you could just…bestow what must be bestowed, that would be great,” you mutter, cutting her off before she can make this any worse.
“Right. Of course. Um— so I ran a search using the parameters you gave me—thank you, Doctor Strauss, for speaking to our witness—and I found a guy who matches the unsub’s description to a tee: known to the family, history of breaking in to places he shouldn’t, and so on.”
“Tell us his name, babygi— Garcia,” Morgan says.
Babygirl. You’re going to need a pen and paper in a second.
“Just give me one moment, and…yup, his name and address have been sent your way.”
“Thank you, Garcia,” Hotch says before directing his attention to you. “Strauss, are you authorised to be in the field?”
“No, sir,” you say.
Two weeks’ notice was not enough time to schedule a practical re-evaluation. Not that it would have mattered, because your mother has decided that you are to stay out of the field unless it is absolutely necessary.
Dealing with criminals isn’t your job, she had said, dealing with this team is.
“Very well,” he says, “you stay here with Reid. We’ll be back shortly.”
With that, the team scramble to their feet and promptly make their exit, leaving you and the silent Doctor Reid to manage the tension that settles in their absence.
To play it safe, you opt to let him speak up first, but he does not say a word. Instead of addressing you, Spencer reaches into his bag and pulls out a book: Dream of the Red Chamber—and it’s in the original Chinese, too.
Something in your gut stirs as you watch him handle that book. Delicately, like it may break. His fingers run along the edge of each page, tracing the sharp corners, before turning them, and you realise far too late that you are staring.
What is wrong with you today?
Lowering your gaze, you decide to address the elephant in the room.
“I apologise,” you say, “if I came across as rude earlier.”
All that earns you is a silent nod.
“I know you’re a capable agent, Doctor Reid. I’m sure you all are.”
Setting his book down, Spencer looks at you directly and asks, “then why are you here?”
“As I said, the Bureau have their concerns.”
“And you’re here to…fix us?”
“If I must,” you say. You allow a moment to pass, giving him time to respond if he wishes to, before adding, “I don’t want you to see me as a threat—”
“But that’s exactly what you are,” he cuts you off with words that sound more disappointed than they do angry. “If you find a fault in this team, you will report it, and then…” he shakes his head. “I’m sure you’re a capable agent, too, but you are, by nature, a threat to our team. I don’t think there’s any use in pretending otherwise. I’m sorry.”
Your gaze remains fixed on him even as he breaks eye contact. The table, it seems, is suddenly the most interesting thing in the room to him.
I don’t think there’s any use in pretending. There’s a first.
There is always use in pretending, but you don’t expect him to understand that. Doctor Reid wears his heart on his sleeve, you could see it from a mile away. He blushes freely, stumbles over his words, allows himself to get excited over the little things, and he takes things personally even when he shouldn’t.
He’s sensitive; soft in all the ways you don't know how to be.
So, to save him any further disappointment, you nod. You even put on a small, gentle smile, shielding sharp teeth behind agreeable lips.
“Yes,” you say, keeping your voice light. “Yes, I suppose you’re right.”
taglist: @girlblogging777 @goldencherries @elsisenta @unlikelylovebarbarian @velvetcherries @reidswife-x @thecrimsonfog @siriuslyval03 @shesoperfectt @brookedupforyou @jjellecubed @munsons-mayhem28 @fox-saturn @fandomscombine @ov-rwhelmed @kazukazukiiii @patslondonstuff @sassychicsings
cheeky shoutout to @whisperedmeg and @esote-rika for being part of the inspiration for this with their respective greenaway & liaison!prentiss reader series (erika i'm soso excited for yours you have no idea)