Chapter Text
Anderson interrupted the BAU roundtable with a quiet knock on the doorframe.
"I'll be right there," Hotch told him and, as Anderson extracted himself, finished, "Five bodies may have been found so far but we know in cases like this there may be a lot more. Wheels up in twenty."
The much-depleted remainder of the team dispersed, and Hotch headed to his office. The woman waiting for him was blonde, not tall but projecting a self-assurance to make up for it, and unusually casually dressed for a job interview. It was meant to say Take me or leave me, but she wore the red leather jacket like armour against being hurt again. Or rejected.
"Agent Hotchner," she greeted him, sticking out her hand with a smile like they were old friends. "Emma Swan."
Her handshake was firm and business-like. "Agent Swan," he said as briefly. "I'm sorry we couldn't get hold of you before you caught your flight. The position's been filled."
She looked taken aback. "No, it hasn't."
Hotch had been prepared for a number of reactions, but not that matter-of-fact denial. "I'm sorry?"
"You're brushing me off. Why—? Crap," she concluded. "You found my record."
"You spent 11 months in prison for possession of stolen goods and multiple counts of shoplifting."
"At least it wasn't murder?" she tries, then winces. "Okay, I was a teenage screwup, I thought I was doing what I had to do to survive, I was wrong. After I served my time I turned my life around, and there is nothing wrong with my record in Missing Persons."
"Which is why I won't be telling your supervisor about this," Hotch said to forestall any more defensiveness: he had a plane to catch. "But the BAU has no place for agents with a criminal background."
"You're lying again," she said in wonder.
On the verge of outright telling her to take a hint and leave, he cocked his head. He'd met his share of interesting job candidates over the years, but no-one else had ever accused him of lying. Let alone twice. Correctly. "Why do you say that?"
"Uh," she said, belatedly wary. "I've got this skill, let's call it a superpower. —I mean, I must be picking up on changes in body language or intonation or microexpressions or something, but the point is I can tell when anyone is lying. The hard part is figuring out what the truth is."
"Speculate."
"You... want me to—" As he let his face betray his impatience, she stuck her hands in her pockets and jutted her chin out. "Okay. My records were sealed, and no-one found them when I applied to the Bureau. So how did you? Unless you didn't exactly go through the proper channels to get them. You hacked— No," she corrected herself, glancing at the stacks of paper, not computer equipment, covering his desk. "You got someone in your team to hack into the system. That's why you won't tell my supervisor."
"As speculation that's plausible," Hotch agreed neutrally. It was close to the truth, but not impressively so. In fact Garcia had sent the files unasked. From the UK: he did not want to know how she'd not only been tracking his search for a new profiler but also accessed sealed state Corrections records from overseas. "In any case—"
"But it's not the only thing you lied about," Swan pursued. "So what place does the BAU have for an agent with a criminal background, and why would you give them a chance and not me? You could hire a hacker as a technical analyst, but the lie was about an agent. So some other sealed juvie deal: you didn't know when you hired them and you didn't do anything when you found out because the team is family." Her eyes slipped there to his photo of Jack — noted the absence of a photo of his mother — didn't have the angle to confirm or deny a ring on Hotch's finger, but that had her taking a second look at him, from polished shoes to silk tie and perfectly impassive face. He saw a flash of recognition; turning wheels; a moment of calculation and then she plunged in: "Or maybe you didn't hire them at all. And their — your — parents were rich enough to keep it off the record in the first place."
Or worked in the prosecutor's office. Though yeah, informal diversion to boarding school certainly hadn't hurt. "So of those possibilities, what do my microexpressions tell you?"
She laughed, less at the question than in relief that he hadn't taken the accusation amiss, and shook her head. "That you've got one hell of a poker face. My superpower only works on lies. Otherwise I'm stuck investigating like anyone else — which you know I'm good at," she added in an impulsive segue to the hardsell. "You've got a case right now, and you're an agent down. Take me with you and I'll show you what I can do."
He studied her determined, desperately hopeful expression. Her record in Missing Persons was impressive. She had exceptional instincts, and more importantly recognised their limits. Prison record aside — and having served her time was perhaps a step further up the moral high ground than the rest of them — it was hard to think of any other reason not to let her prove herself. Besides, she was wrong about one thing: with Morgan as well as Garcia seeing Prentiss settled in the UK, they weren't one agent down, but two. "This is not an offer of employment, Swan."
A blinding smile broke across her face. "Absolutely. Trial period only."
He checked his watch. "Wheels up in sixteen minutes means you've got about twelve to be on the tarmac with your go-bag and your supervisor's blessing."
"I'll be there in eight," she said at once. Between foster care and life on the street, she'd probably had a go-bag to hand since the time she could walk. "You won't regret this, Agent Hotchner, trust me."
And with her face so much the open book, it was very hard not to.