Chapter Text
"Welcome to the FBI," the man on my right told me as he walked me out of my apartment in handcuffs. He was a tall, dark-skinned man in a well-tailored suit, accompanied by another man on my left, both with their hands on my shoulders and back, walking me to a police car.
"What is this even about? I didn't do anything wrong," I yell as they continue to carry me unbothered. I struggle to look behind myself, but when I do, I see people moving boxes of stuff out of my apartment, bold yellow tape plastered on the side of them reading "evidence."
"Don't look through my sock drawer," I yell to the people in my home. "You won't like what you find."
The men taking me placed me into the back of a cop car. The one from my right then steps into the driver's seat. I memorize the shape of his face, his jawline, his nose, and his eyes—anything to avoid the thoughts taking over me. The man who I presume to be an FBI agent starts to drive.
The drive was probably no longer than 45 minutes, but it felt much longer knowing how much trouble I was in. Of course, I knew why I was being arrested. I'm trying to rack my brain on how I can talk my way out of this. I'm a twenty-eight-year-old lawyer; I'll find a way.
"Can we please take the cuffs off?" I ask, playing dumb, trying to seem innocent. To which he doesn't respond. "Can you at least turn the AC on? I shouldn't be in pain and sweating," I say. It was eighty degrees outside today, the beginning of summer in Washington, D.C.
He didn't say anything, but soon I heard the rush of AC jets, a good sign I'm not in too much trouble.
When we arrive at the destination, the car pulls into the parking garage of a vast building. The agent steps out and opens my door, pulling me out of the vehicle.
He takes me by the arm, and we walk in silence to the parking lot elevator. "Why aren't we at the police station?" I ask, genuinely confused. I had heard what he said about the FBI before but disregarded it. It's then when it hits me, what this place is.
We're in Quantico. I practically grew up here.
"You're not being arrested," he surprisingly answers.
"Oh fuck, I'm being recruited," I think to myself.
The officer takes me up a few floors on the elevator and walks me through hallways past the offices of FBI officials before taking me into a questioning room.
Thankfully, he takes off the handcuffs. I rub my wrists as the red lines start to subside.
I wait; the room was devastatingly dull and cold. I look forward to a mirror in front of me, the only thing on the walls. They're dark gray and there are no windows. The table in front of me is bolted to the ground, and I feel almost like a zoo animal, knowing I'm being watched.
It's been only minutes, but I feel the start of a panic attack, my claustrophobia and anxiety not mixing well. "I know you're there watching me or whatever. Just come in; let's get this over with," I yell to the mirror.
Finally, after way too long, a man walks in.
He looks professional, with his short black hair—it's Agent Hotchner. I knew Hotch. I hadn't seen him in twelve years, so it took a second to place. But this was him. My father's longest friend.
He doesn't get the chance to say anything before I start, "Nope, no, I know who you are. Don't bother recruiting me. I would rather go to prison."
There's a pause. He didn't expect that. Gauging what to do next, he looks at me, puzzled.
"Just hear us out," he says as he sits in a chair across the table. "The FBI could use somebody with your skill set. You have a genius IQ, you are extremely persuasive, and you have a Ph.D. in criminal psychology."
His praise means nothing to me. "I don't want to be a profiler," I respond, apprehension starting to rise in the air.
"I'm afraid you might not have much of a choice," he says calmly. I was in school for ten years, and a lawyer for two. I know that there are always choices in any given situation.
"What are they? My choices?" I ask. I would do just about anything to not join the BAU. There's no world where I would choose to have an everyday relationship with that man. No world where I would want to follow in his footsteps.
"You can join the BAU, or be charged with tampering with evidence and malpractice, but not limited to accessory to murder."
"Whoa, whoa, whoa. Accessory to murder is quite the stretch. I changed the time of death presented in court by 15 minutes. It's not like I killed the guy."
"But your client did, isn't that right?" he asks. I nod in response. "But Mrs. Cynthia McMurray was found innocent, the court ruled in self-defense. Except it wasn't, not technically." I sit in stunned silence. His voice is slow and calm, intimidating. "That's where you come in. The victim was Mr. James Fleat. He broke into your client's home and robbed her, but she hid in a closet. When Mr. Fleat got what he needed, he left and Mrs. McMurray was not harmed. When Mr. Fleat was walking away, when he was outside of the home getting into his car, she shot him with her late husband's hunting rifle. She was in no imminent danger. Now he was outside of her home, and that's a punishable offense that no longer falls under self-defense. Except you knew that. You knew the court would rule in favor of the man. So you changed his time of death ruled by the coroner and showed a fake in court, saying that he died within the time frame of being in her home. Is that correct, Mrs. Baker-Rossi?"
I figured I might be caught eventually. I covered my tracks, but I knew what I had done could come back to haunt me. But this man and his team figured me out immediately. The case had ended just a day earlier, and already every detail of what I had done was discovered.
"Unless," he starts. This piques my interest. "You do a case with the BAU. I'll vouch for you and none will be the wiser of Miss McMurray's heinous act. Unless, of course, you don't, then she will be sent to a retrial where she will be convicted of first-degree murder and sent to prison, and you will go with her."
"Mrs. McMurray's acts were not heinous. She had every right to do what she did. Cynthia was a widowed 73-year-old who lived alone. That man broke into her home. He could have come back for her. She was trying to protect herself," I say, still trying to defend my client.
"Too bad you won't be there to defend her," he says, starting to stand from his seat.
"Wait," I say begrudgingly. He sits back down. "Why do you want me on your team? You already have exceptional agents. If you are here for my father, I will gladly go to prison in the place of nepotism."
"It's not nepotism, Y/N; you have a Ph.D. and a master's degree, with an IQ of 162," he says calmly.
"Then why your team specifically?" I ask, already knowing the answer.
"Because my team is a family, and you're part of it. You're smart and have natural talent. This is not an offer most people get; we see something in you. We want you on the team. We all do."
"That's a bullshit answer, and you know it! You and I are here simply due to my father. It's loyalty. He thinks he owes me. But if it were true, I would have talked to him in the past few years. David Rossi doesn't give two shits about family. If he did, it would be him in this room!" I say, assuming he's standing just behind the glass mirror.
I take a deep breath. My blood is boiling, and I can feel the anger making my skin flush. I'm worried about my career, about my future, Mrs. McMurray—just about anything and everything. The last thing I ever wanted was to follow in my father's footsteps, to go through the pain he had to on a day-to-day basis. To turn into the shell I saw him become.
"Mrs. Baker, I ask that you think about this. All charges will be dropped from you and your client. All we need is for you to agree to the FBI," he says.
I don't know how to respond. I don't know how to feel or answer. I'm not the only person wrapped in this. They vow to bring Mrs. McMurray down with me. As a lawyer, I know the power an agent has in a court of law, and I know all too well that this situation is as serious as it sounds. The accusations are not technically blackmail or threats. While it is an ultimatum, the FBI is allowed the right to make them in circumstances such as these.
"If I were to agree, would I have to be a profiler?" I ask. The FBI has hundreds of different jobs. "The BAU has jurisdiction on your case," he answers—essentially meaning yes, unless I am deemed unfit. "Would I be trained to be a field agent?"
"We would assign an SSA to you, and yes, they would train you in basic combat and takedown measures." I can feel my chest getting tight as I realize I won't be able to weasel my way out of this. Even though I'm no longer handcuffed, I feel as if I'm restrained. Bile starts to rise in my throat.
"Agent Hotchner?" I question. His eyes meet mine and he can sense my unease. "Can I speak to my father?" I don't fully know what I wish to accomplish, but there's no way this situation could get any worse. My father is likely to be more easy on my sentence, hence why he wasn’t in the room in the first place.
"You may," he responds, standing up. He soon leaves the room, and moments later the door opens, David Rossi crossing the threshold. He looks older than the last time I saw him a few years ago. His eyes are more sunken and his hair is almost fully gray. I feel like I'm going to be sick.
The last time we saw one another in person was three years ago, during my last year of law school. There was a case at Stanford where I was attending. We met for coffee, and the whole time he was talking about the future I could have in the FBI. I hadn't talked to him in months and he wouldn’t even let me get a word out. The only thing he could talk about was my joining the BAU. Then he left halfway through to follow a lead. I didn't even get to invite him to my graduation ceremony. It's not like he would have shown up anyway. We were nowhere near close.
"It's good to see you," he says, sitting down in front of me. "Is it? I've lived in D.C. for two years. You never spared me a visit," I say coldly. To be frank, I didn't hate my father. He was never abusive or harmful. But he was never home, always wrapped up in work. It was the only thing more important than my mother and me.
"I do apologize," he responds, not meeting my gaze. "What am I doing here? If the FBI wanted to recruit me, they could have sent me an email," I say. I'm practically getting blackmailed here.
"I apologize for the rash attempt at your recruitment, and for Hotch's threats." There's no denying what they were—threats in exchange for compliance. "I have the authority to propose a new deal," he says.
I feel my anxiety continuing to rise but ease at the same time.
“We would only require one case from you, as a temporary member of the team. You do not have to be fully instated as a profiler and would only need basic field advising,” he says, his eyes softening in the way they do when he's trying to connect with me. Like when he read harry potter when I was 12, or when he started reading romance novels much to my chagrin at 15. I don't need his pity.
I didn't then and I don't now. But this is the best deal for all of us, I get off the hook as will Mrs. McMurray and they get their profiler.
I take a deep breath dreading what comes next, I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose as my head starts to pound, "okay" is all I say in compliance.
He wordlessly stands and offers me his hand. I take it, and together we walk from the room. I'm already counting down the days until this deal is over and I can go on with my life.
When I woke up this morning I didn't think I would end the day a profiler.