Okay, I don't own anything to do with the perfection that is CM or any of its affiliations. I do, however, have the pleasure of owning my OC, Charlotte. Hope you enjoy the story - and have a great day!

Charlotte POV

After they had dropped me off home after we had gone to get something to eat from the Taco Bell down the street, Cade had mentioned that I started working for the BAU on the following Monday, bearing in mind that it was Saturday night by the time I got home.

This hadn't truly settled in my mind until I had been lying in bed, later that night, and I had had time to truly think about what he had meant by 'work', and I realised that I didn't know what I was being employed to do at the headquarters. For all I knew, I could have been the new coffee girl, handing out fresh cups of Joe to the Agents during the day. I knew that that scenario was highly unlikely, but still, it stands.

Without a glance at the glaring alarm clock on my new bedside table, I called up the last number I had called, which I already knew would be Cade. The phone rang a few times, before the very tired, groggy and gravely voice of Jacob sounded through the speakers, and he said, simply, "You better have a damn good reason for wakin' me up so early, Charl, or I swear.."

I chuckled, nervously, suddenly apprehensive and regretting my decision to call him without thinking about the consequences. I rubbed the back of my neck lightly, and at the prompt of his half-way intimidating growl, I hastily replied, "Well- Ah.. Wow, I thought, you know, because you work with the FBI and all, you could, maybe, you kn-"

Jacob cut in, and snarled, "Get to the point, or I swear to God, I'm hangin' up," his Texan accent buzzing through his tone in his sudden surge of annoyance, as well as prolonged lethargy.

I smiled, despite myself, and carried on, "Well, I wanted to know what would be deemed appropriate to wear to one's first day of working with the FBI. Please, Jake?"

He sighed, heavily, and it sounded like he rolled over onto his side of something, and tiredly finished, "Something comfortable. You don't have to wear suits, that's more for the top dogs, you can literally wear anything. I mean, your new team, there's Garcia, who wears colours that clash so harshly, my eyes literally feel like bleeding, and nobody cares. Seriously, as long as it's clean, proper and fuckin' ironed, you should be fine."

I chuckled at his profanity, and made a mental note of everything he said, and finally assured, "Thanks, Jake, I was going crazy over here, I didn't know what I was gonna do."

I almost heard his smile through the receiver, and smarmily, he preached, "Isn't it past your bedtime, Charl? Shouldn't you be gettin' to sleep?"

I snorted, then glanced at the alarm clock, gasping when I read '00:49'. I sniggered out, "Shit, it really is getting late. I should get to sleep if I want to wake up early tomorrow and go for a run in the morning. I'll see you Monday, right, Jake?"

He gruffly exhaled, and responded, "Yeah, yeah, you will. And don't call me Jake, it's Agent Cade when everyone else is around, okay?"

I pouted but nevertheless, relented, and joked, "Sure sure. G'night, Agent."

He chortled, and countered, "Night, Agent," and hung up the phone. I seated the handset back into its cradle and quickly fell asleep, the nervousness in my stomach quelling greatly, and I was finally able to rest, and I fell asleep, dreaming of happier times.

Sunday swept through and left fairly swiftly, and before I knew it, I was tossing and turning in bed once more, but this time, the morning would bring something far more frightening. A new job. A new life. A new me, I guess. I needed to make a good impression on these guys, I wanted to come across as at least a bit professional, even though, well, they had seen me at my worst, and their still asking me to come and work for them. I mean, why wouldn't I feel a little intimidated? Who wouldn't? I mean, shit, it's the FBI, for God's sake.

I rolled on my one side, and flicked off the bedside lamp, curling into my side and wrapped my arms around my middle, feeling a sudden chill make its way down my spine, and I clenched my eyes shut, willing away the negative feelings.

I didn't want to think poorly of myself, I really didn't. It wasn't "productive" to my psychological recovery, apparently, according to Mortimer Bird, and I agreed completely. It wasn't going to do me any good if I was half-dead and down-right tired on my first day - how bad would that look on my record?

I started breathing periodically, deep and heavy, and felt my pulse slow down, thankfully. I was able to almost tip-toe to the edge of sleep, only to feel myself being drawn back at the last moment, as my hearing was on hyper alert, ever since the incident with Adams.

It had made me increasingly paranoid and, frankly, quite frightened of the outside world and just how badly it can harm you, emotionally and physically. The mere thought of being attacked again would have sent me into a hysterical fit of tears, back when I first attended Bird's sessions, but by the end, I felt stronger, more firm and sure in myself and my abilities. I was better than Adams. He was dead, and I was alive. I lived. I survived. I made it. And I should be proud.

And with that rather peaceful and content thought, I drifted off to sleep, my grip on my duvet relaxing and a faint smile making its way up onto my face.