Disclaimer: Don't own Criminal Minds. Based on the TV Prompt Challenge, Set #11, Who Watches the Watchers from Star Trek: TNG. Also, I don't own Mensa. I do own Petula, Elaine, and Trish.

Day 1: Employee Training

There are many things in my life that I am not. I'm not athletic. I'm not a particularly gifted singer or artist. And I sure as hell am never going to get a gold-leaf embellished invitation to join Mensa. All those honors belonged to my brilliant sister- Elaine, the girl with the full scholarship to Dartmouth, who had a seat reserved at Harvard Med and two journal articles published in Cell before even hitting her sophomore year of undergraduate studies.

Nope, I'm not brilliant. In all honesty, I was lucky to scrape by to my high school graduation. My parents blame it on my lack of effort. I blame it on chemistry.

Which is why, at 5:30 am, I am standing inside the Coffee Cabana- a holy grail of coffee, a veritable Mecca for java addicts. Community college isn't going to pay for itself, and my parents aren't offering to pay either. So for the next two years, I'll be rising at the crack of dawn and hauling my ass down here to serve some java-frapa-latte-chinos with a side of calorie-ridden baked goods before I head off to class.

"Hey Trish! Ready for the grand tour?"

Petula is the owner, and the woman I'm wholly indebted to for my current employment. She's about forty, but she doesn't look a day over twenty. Secretly I hope I look like her when I'm that old, though that's doubtful- Elaine had the good genes.

When I interviewed, I expected an intellectual looking woman. Was I ever wrong. Petula is one of those new-age hippie types, more likely to be practicing yoga than balancing her checkbook. Today she's dressed in a flowy shirt, rainbow in color, and bell bottom jeans that are frayed at the end. Long bedazzled earrings swing from her ears, and I'm pretty sure that next to her wedding band is a mood ring. All she needs are some pink tinted glasses and a couple of braids and the look will be complete.

"Recipes are over here," she says as we walk behind the counter, motioning to a thick black binder that makes my stomach queasy. How many different ways is there to make a cup of coffee? Scratch that- I don't think I want to know. She hands me the stores trademark red apron, and I tie it around my waist.

"Don't worry, kiddo, I won't leave you on your own. It'll be you and me running the morning shift, and it gets a little hectic. If the ship goes down, we're going down together!" She follows my gaze to the recipe book. "That bible over there contains the recipes from the last fifteen years. A lot of the holiday specials, some creative work from past employees. No need to freak out."

Too late.

The tour continues, and I learn how to work the coffee machine, the espresso machine, the cappuccino machine. Petula's just about to finish opening shop when I catch site of a woman outside slamming her car door and charging the entrance. Wearing a finely tailored gray suit, her brown hair impeccably groomed, she seems desperate for her early morning caffeine fix. She pulls at the door, then checks her watch, and her shoulders drop.

"Damnit!"

"Right on time!" Petula says enthusiastically, not even looking up from where she's unlocking the register. "Can you go open the door, Trish? That's one of our regulars! Ready for your first order?"

Not really, I think, but I open the door nonetheless. The woman smiles at me gratefully. I can see dark circles under her eyes that she tried to hide with makeup. An obvious chronic workaholic- I know the symptoms, my family is made up of them

With the exception of me, of course.

"Hey Petula, can I get the usual?" She drops her briefcase at her feet, and places her purse on the counter.

"Sure thing, Emily. No, put your wallet away. This one's on me. Looks like you had a rough case. Was it that serial killer out in Wisconsin? I read about it in the paper. Trish, are you watching?"

I am watching. As Petula mixes two shots of espresso with mint and chocolate flavoring, adding a dash of whipped cream, I'm torn between observing her technique and the woman at the counter. She doesn't seem the type to be working as a police officer or FBI agent, or any of the other half a dozen security and law enforcement officials you find in the DC metro area. She's too… well, pretty. There's the aura about her, of privilege and wealth and everything you don't expect to see in a cop.

"Yeah, that's the one."

"Brutal," Petula says shaking her head. "Do you read the news, Trish?"

I shrug my shoulders. "Not really. Too depressing."

She shakes her head. "You really should. Can't be a good citizen unless you know the issues. Right Emily?"

The woman jumps up. She'd been dozing on the counter as we prepared her drink. "Absolutely," she agrees, and it's clear she has no idea what she just agreed to. "I'll see you tomorrow?"

"We'll be here!"

Emily heads for the door, just as a man in a dark suit is about to enter. His face is drawn, his forehead has premature wrinkles, but when he sees her, his stern lips turn up just ever-so-slightly. "Prentiss." His voice is devoid of any enthusiasm or emotion. He's a bit like my dad, all business and no fun.

"Hotch," Emily's voice has a bit more vigor and life in it. "See you at the office?"

He nods and allows her to pass before he comes inside. Petula nudges me and smiles at him. "How are you Aaron?" There's a bit more tenderness to her voice as she speaks to him, and I wonder if my boss has feelings for the man called Hotch. I wonder what her husband would think.

"Fine thanks. The regular, please."

Petula nods. "Can you get me a Café Urbana, black?"

Simple enough. As I turn my back to the pair, I see Hotch reaching for his wallet and hear Petula say it's on the house.

"You can't do this every time we come back from a case," he argues. "Prentiss and I will run you out of business."

I fill the cup carefully, hoping to avoid any spills the first day, and wrap a jacket around the outside. As I pass him the cup of coffee, I see my boss smirk. "That's why we're so conveniently located near all the college campuses. It evens out. You two, and the rest of your team, you do a lot for all of us and get very little recognition. Consider it a thank you."

Hotch shakes his head as he accepts his coffee. Silently he leaves, without even a goodbye. Petula doesn't even seem fazed.

"They don't see the coffee house type," I wonder aloud.

"They don't, do they? But even the FBI can surprise you sometimes"

Before we can talk anymore, a hungover college girl stumbles through the door. She needs a coffee to help her get through the rest of her walk of shame. I'm tempted to suggest that her money would be better spent on a taxi.

Outside Hotch's car pulls away, and as I prepare a small regular with one cream and two sugars, I'm left to contemplate my first two customers and the strange lives they must lead up at Quantico.

So this was going to be a one shot for NCIS. Then I saw this prompt and the 100th episode, and suddenly this little idea turned into a bit idea involving Criminal Minds. This'll be a multichapter fic, and already it's much different than anything else I've ever written, so please bear with me. Ten tons of thanks to Kavi Leighanna and sienna27, who mediate the TV Prompt Challenge. Please leave a review and let me know what you think. Constructive criticism is always appreciated! There's a lot coming your way as soon as I have time to sit down and write it out (thank goodness Christmas break is write around the corner!)