It was a humid summer in Boston.
With Them it was always sunny and blisteringly hot, even in the dead of winter, it seemed. In Detroit, Louisville, New Orleans, Denver - they all were different. Different from There, different from each other. She loved it though, even if the sticky heat of the East Coast wasn't exactly welcome. But she chose Boston. She chose.
Even if it kinda felt like Boston didn't choose her.
"Excuse me, miss?" A man's voice sounded from her side, and she barely turned to face him.
"What?" She half-snaps, too tired to deal with someone trying to pick her up.
"You can't go in there," The man - a beat cop in uniform - held out an arm before she walked right into a strand of caution tape. "This is an active crime scene."
Jane knew that these days white dudes were being killed, and everyone at the clinic was going on about safety measures and mace - but Jane didn't give a shit.
Until now. Until it interfered with her sleep.
"Since when?" She scanned the section of sidewalk. It was wet from the early morning fog, and the tape extended into the alley behind and part of the street ahead. It didn't make sense.
"Why would the crime scene still be active?" She asked, eyeing the pool of blood and the contaminated evidence left and right. "Those stains are at least 6 hours old, and you should've processed everything by now. This is a busy street."
"Because it's part of that serial killer's spree," The officer smiles with a sliver of 'official' pride. So he was flirting with her, ish. "They're keeping the scene clean until then."
"The evidence is all contaminated by the fog," Her eyebrows draw together, irritation rising. "And that tape is way too far out. The scene is mostly contained to the alley and part of the walkway. This is unnecessarily obstructive, especially with everyone coming back from their graveyard shifts or headed out for their early morning coffee. This is a major street for commuters."
"It's all to protect the people from the killer," The officer shoots back, dropping the flirtatious edge - not liking her tone. "You would think that stopping this psycho from killing again would be more important than a cup of joe."
"This isn't even the same guy!" She snapped back, fed up and done playing nice. "Look, those footprints? The bloodied ones? They're either a men's twelve or fourteen - and, lemme guess? Your victim was a white man? Blonde, I'd bet?"
"How did you -"
"The victims of the serial killer - who, by the way, is not on a spree - were all brunettes. Caucasian, yes, but their photos were leaked yesterday. All brown or black hair. Now, by that time any copy cat who was planning to kill a white dude would've already been too far into their planning to want to let it go. So they kill Blondie anyway and stage the scene so that the connection would be assumed."
The cop's jaw muscles flexed with is anger. "You don't know what you're talking about," He practically hisses, aware of the attention they were gathering.
"The shoe sizes," She shoots right back, throwing her hands up. "I can see them from here - no matter how contaminated they are. Twelve or Fourteen, men's. All the other victims were hit in alleys, but never head on and never in the early mornings. If the killer killed Blondie six hours ago then he did it around one A.M. All the other bodies were found at one A.M. - and by bartenders or transients or whoever the hell was in those alleys, all of which were south of here by at least five blocks."
They were getting a lot of stares at this point.
"And his shoe sizes says that he's big, and if he's big then that means that he's strong or at least build enough for it not to matter. There's no struggle - no disturbance other than the blood from your victim, so that means that he went down and he went down fast. Messily, but quickly. So either your killer suddenly lost the appeal of beating the shit out of his victims before stabbing them like 20 times, or this was a calculated kill made to look like it was another serial."
"What does his size have to do with anything?" A nearby officer - a woman, probably a detective - asked. A serious looking older guy next to her was watching the argument intently.
"The news said that the other victims tried to put up a struggle," Jane sighed, annoyed and tired and not in the mood for 20 questions. "Tried means that they couldn't. They weren't small dudes, so if they tried to put up a fight but couldn't do it properly then the killer -"
"Unsub," The older guy interrupts her, but she shrugs it off.
"Unsub was blitzing them. Probably head trauma and probably with a found object from the alleys," Jane rolled her eyes at the expressions on the detective's and officer's faces. "No reason to do that if you're a big guy unless you're insecure - but this guy has been flaunting himself and his kills, gaining confidence: more beating before the stabbing, more stabbing when he's done with the beating."
"But this unsub, at this scene, was big enough that blitzing wasn't necessary," The older guy finished her thought. "Good work."
"Oh, no," Jane shakes her head, frowning. "I am not working. I am trying to get back to my apartment to sleep, but these bozos tried to tell me that they had to block of all of this."
She gestures wildly at the whole setup, and the crowd that was staring at her.
"Can I go sleep now?" She asked acerbically, practically spitting at the cop still blocking her way.
"Sure, absolutely," The helpful man gestures to the tape. "But first, could I ask for one more thing?"
"What?"
"Your name," He smiles in a way that would almost be charming, if he wasn't also picking her apart with his sharp gaze.
"They call me Jane."
And she ducks under the tape, cutting across the crime scene, and belined straight for her apartment building - less than fifty feet from where she was held up.
Gideon watched as the young woman left.
Young, probably in her early twenties. Dark clothing, threadbare, and boots falling apart with use. A bag over her shoulder, less a purse and more a craft specific kit. Based off how she spoke, something related to criminal investigation or the justice system. Unlikely to be on the prosecution side, more likely a CSI, ME, or investigator.
But she didn't act like a cop, and she didn't seem to recognize any of the police at the scene, nor them her.
And she was smart. With good instincts.
"Do you know her?" Gideon turned to the detective he was consulting for … McLarson. "Seen her around at all?"
"No," The woman shook her head, eyeing the building that she had crossed to. "Was she right?"
"Spot on, and she got it quicker than expected of a stranger on the street," Gideon took note of the address. "Much quicker."
When the case is resolved, he comes back.
As luck would have it, Rossi was in town for a book signing and their paths crossed. (Jason suspected that Dave had called in a favor to track him down, but that was beside the point.) So Gideon, returning plenty of favors involving similarly hairbrained schemes, dragged him along.
"Why are we here?" His old friend huffed as he pulled open the front door into the lobby. "When I saw you I was hoping for some nice wine and a de-stressing chat about divorce lawyers. Not some apartment hunt in the worst part of Boston."
"I'm not hunting for an apartment, I'm hunting for a person," Jason corrected him quietly as he approached the pitiful reception desk. "Hello, I'm looking for a friend of mine - only I don't know her apartment number. Jane?"
"Jane has friends?" The scruffy young man snorted rudely. "602."
"Appreciate it," Gideon nodded to him, headed for the elevator.
"Sorry pal, it's out of order," The clerk calls at their backs, stopping them dead in their tracks. "You'll have to take the stairs."
The moment she saw who was on the other side of the door, she slammed it shut.
And put in earbuds. Billy Joel would drown them out.
Half an hour passed, though, and the album ended. She warily went to the peephole.
"Why the hell are you still here?" Jane deadpanned when she opened the door again, staring down the man she had talked to at the crime scene a few days ago and another well dressed guy.
"I would like to speak to you," He answered, calm in the face of her irritation.
"And him?" She nodded to the other man, who she was sure she'd never seen before. "Why is he here?"
"Because I'm curious what kind of woman my good friend here would wait half an hour outside the door of."
"The kind of woman that isn't interested in talking to cops," She snarls, going to close the door again.
The badge held up right in her line of sight stopped her.
Damn. She knew that she didn't give a crap about cops. She didn't know how she felt about federal agents yet.
She left the door open for them, crossing her shithole apartment. A small part of her was self conscious of the peeling paint and water stains.
"Nice place you got here," The bearded man, the one she hadn't seen before, commented dryly. Yeah, like she didn't already know it was barely worth the rent, thank you.
"Your name is Jane?" The first man asked rhetorically.
"How'd you find me?" Jane idly started sorting through her pile of bills, keeping her hands busy.
"Your doorman seems to think that you don't have many friends," He doesn't answer. "I would suggest some place with better security."
"I get the security I pay for," She dismisses, bracing her hands against her kitchenette's tiny island. "And a place like this doesn't exactly break the bank."
"You're smart," He jumps to a different topic, studying her … like They did. But … kinder. Interested, not expecting. "The way you broke down that scene says so. And it says you've got CSI training, even some hands-on experience. So why are you working and living out of the worst part of Boston?"
"I don't think that's any of your business."
"You should use the skills you have," The second man snorts, and the judgment on his face is enough that she wants to smack him. "Not let yourself rot away in some seedy apartment."
"Is there a point to all of this?" She almost-growls, fingers flexing under the counter edge as her gaze flicks between the two men. "Because there really should be a point to all this."
"The point is that you glanced at the scene and immediately made observations that officers who had been on the force for years couldn't make. Didn't make. All while you were irritated and dead on your feet, I should add. " He was still studying her, "And because of that we caught two killers."
"You caught the same details," She dismissed his reasoning. "I didn't do anything that would'nt've already been done."
"What's your name?" He ignores her point, changing topics.
"They call me Jane," She answered on reflex.
"Jane …?" He let his question trail.
"You have one of my names -" (not even her name, a whisper in the back of her head corrects) "- and I have none of yours."
"Jason Gideon." He extended a finger to his companion, "This is David Rossi."
"Well Jay, Davie," She pasted a curled snarl onto her lips. "It was nice to meet you. Get out."
"We're FBI agents," Davie tries to step in, frowning at her diminutization of his name. "We -"
"Have no reason to be here because I am not a criminal," She cut him off, pointing at the door. "Out."
"I think that you are miserable here, even if you don't fully realize it," Jay bulldozes through. "And I think that you could do a lot more good with the Bureau than you could here -"
"I'm a doctor," She cut him off, offended. "I'm a damn good one too. I do plenty of good here."
"You're a doctor and you're just sitting here, doing nothing with your life?" Davie scoffs, spreading his arms wide at her place. "Do you even -"
"Get out or I'll call the cops."
"There's not need -" Jay tries to calm them down.
"You're just wasting away -" Davie gets in her face, eyes alight.
She punched him in the nose.
"I said: get out."
They finally left.
The next morning, as she left for her shift, she found a business card placed deliberately outside her door.
She didn't know why, but she stuck it in her satchel.
Months later, she was on the steps of the Boston Public Library and - well ...
She was fingering the same business card between her fingers as they went numb in the late autumn air. Her breath fogged and crystallized in the light of the streetlamp.
She pulled out her phone. She couldn't dial.
She'd looked them up. Just … out of curiosity. Profilier. Good, really good. Founding members of the modern Behavioral Analysis Unit.
The moon went behind a cloud. The temperature dropped even further.
She punched in the number. Didn't call. Couldn't call.
What was she afraid of?
She didn't know if she liked -
No. She knew.
She wanted to matter. Because to Them she didn't mean a thing.
She hit dial. Pressed the phone to her ear, barely feeling it with how numb they'd gone.
"Jason Gideon," He answered, and her voice went dry.
"Hi," She finally got out, swallowing dryly - the cold stinging her throat. "I'm - well, I'm -"
"I'm sorry, I'm on a plane at the moment," He apologized - Gideon - and she had a second to gather herself. "I can't hear you very well."
"I'm Jane," She finally goes with. Easy. Straightforward. Simple.
"Jane …?" He repeats, before he seems to get it. "Oh. Jane Doe."
Her breath caught. She screwed her eyes shut, digging her palm into her eye.
"Hart," She corrects him, drawing in a shaky breath. She forced herself to sit up, push it all back. "Dr. Jane Hart. That job offer still up?"
"Yes," He confirms, and she thought he might be smiling. "Are you interested?"
Deep breath.
"Where do I sign?"
Jane looked up through the rain at the building in front of her, crumpling the piece of paper with the address in her hand.
Fuck her. She was gonna hate this.
She pushed through the doors, eyeing the hustle and bustle of the lobby. She could stay and check in …
Well, she didn't know if she liked to follow government protocol, yet. Best find that out sooner rather than later, with this job on the table.
(Plus she really wanted to see if she could get past their security. She had learned last month that she liked sneaking around.)
She adjusts her posture, cool casual confidence replacing her earlier annoyance as she adjusted her bag and walked straight through. Deadpan expression and deliberate, clear purpose will get you in anywhere - she learned that even when she was There.
For a federal building, their security kinda sucked.
She makes it to the elevator, then drops the posture. If anyone who cared saw her as out of place this far into the building then they would assume that she was meant to be there. Ah, the wonders of the human mind. People missed stupid shit like that because they trust each other.
Cute.
The directory on the elevator's panel said that the BAU was on 6, meaning that she was most likely to find Gideon there. Find Gideon, and she never has to go back to Boston or … There … ever again. Game plan.
She can do this. Just … get there. Gideon will do the rest, he said he would.
The elevator dings open on two, and a well built man with perfectly coiffed blonde hair steps in. He's taller than her (everyone is taller than her) and he sends her a look that is half questioning and half assessing.
"You also headed to six?" The man asks her after he goes to press the button and sees it lit. "I haven't seen you around before."
His smile is half flirtatious, but Jane knows that if he's headed to six then he knows how to spot the edge of the hell she's gone through poking out behind her mask.
Or ... maybe he doesn't, she considers as he continued to chatter inanely.
Somehow that's worse.
"You wouldn't've," She replies shortly, and steps out before him when the elevator dings open.
She gives a quick scan of the half-open area just down the hall; she sees a number of desks in the middle of the room and a handful of offices along the elevated walkway. Blondie walks past her to a desk, where he's joined by an arrogant looking redhead with a loosened tie and the top few buttons of his shirt undone. He practically screamed 'arrogant dickhead'.
Just what she needed.
The light in the office labeled 'SSA Jason Gideon' is out, and the door locked when she checks, but there's an empty desk with an equally empty chair that she decides to kip out at in the main bullpen. She has some paperwork for her shoebox of an apartment to finish up anyway.
She gets through maybe a page and a half of legal bullshit before she gets interrupted by Carrot-Douche and his Goldilocks friend.
"Hey there, lovely," Red swaggers up to her. "What might your name be?"
"They call me Jane," She goes with, still after all of these months forgetting in that one split second her new name. Hart, Hart.
She missed being Doe. Jane Doe didn't sound like some trashy romance novel heroine, like Hart did.
(God did she hate Them.)
"- if you need anything," Carrot-Douche is still speaking, and she blinks herself out of her thoughts to level a deadpan look at him.
"I heard none of that," She tells him flatly, turning back to her papers.
"No need to be rude," Carrot-Douche changes his tune, his attitude taking a complete 180. "You shouldn't even be working at this desk, anyway. It's reserved for the new doctor that we're hiring for Hotchner's team."
Which made it sound as if he wasn't on said team. Excellent.
She continues to ignore him.
"How'd you even get in here?" Carrot-Douche tries another angle. "You're soaking wet and dripping water everywhere - and your boots are filthy. What, did you just come off the street?"
Jane sees red. There's nothing wrong with living on the street. She lived better on the street for nearly a year than she did during all of her time with Them and -
"Back. Off." She hissed, suddenly in his face even though he has nearly a foot on her. "You arrogant, entitled, son of a -"
"That's enough."
Jane recognizes the voice, standing her ground all the same as Carrot-Douche stumbles away from her. She smirks a satisfied twitch of her lips at him, then turns to face her new maybe-boss.
"Gideon," Jane greets him flatly. "If I have to work with Carrot-Douche over here, I'm quitting before you can even hire me."
Carrot-Douche and his friend both make sounds that are a mix between offended (Carrot) and amused (Blondie). Then they process the rest of what she's said and are and suddenly very, very worried.
Guess they connected the dots.
"Neither Agents Cole nor Goldrosen are on my team, no," Gideon raised his eyebrows at her. "But name calling is certainly uncalled for."
"So is harassment, sir," She bites back, anger remounting. "And if FBI agents don't know how to leave someone alone then why should I work here?"
"You should meet our Unit Chief," Gideon changes the subject instead of answering her question.
He actually grasps her elbow to steer her into an upper office, and she pushed back her flinch at his touch - but she sees him notice the suppressed action. Luckily he doesn't comment.
Once inside she ignores the startled inhabitant long enough to throw a last dirty look at Carrot-Douche - before Gideon deliberately shut the door, cutting off her line of glare. She turns to stare him down instead.
"Gideon, who is this?" The agent behind the desk breaks the silence after a long moment, and Gideon looks away first.
"This is Dr. Jane Hart, the woman I told you about," Gideon introduces as she begins to investigate the office idly. "Dr. Hart, this is SSA Aaron Hotchner, Unit Chief."
"Nice to meet you," She glances his way, not accepting his extended hand. Calm down. Calm down. Don't flip out even further on your first day. Get out of Boston, that's your goal.
Agent Hotchner eventually retracts his arm, his face smoothed over. She catches him exchanging meaningful looks with Gideon.
"So is this a job interview or an orientation day?" Jane finally asks, turning away from the mediocre view from the window. Hotchner was wearing a silver tie.
"A little bit of both," Hotchner answers with a tilt of his head. "You already have the job, but what exactly that job is defined as has yet to be determined, as a position like the one we are proposing has never existed before. Additionally, your file is very slim - we need to discuss what you are most qualified for."
"I'm a practicing and licensed medical doctor, forensic pathologist, and medical examiner," Jane provides as she studies the slight sheen of the ID clipped to his suit jacket. "I take care of you, the team, the victims, and the dead bodies."
Agent Hotchner is again silent, and the itch is there. The itch she gets whenever someone is picking her apart (profiling her - now that she's met Gideon and has a word for it). They gave her that itch, all the time. But apparently, for the most part, Agent Hotchner is more subtle.
The three of them go through the motions. She signs some forms. She gradually calms down, and Gideon pulls up a chair.
"I have a proposition for you," Agent Hotchner spoke after the signatures were done. "I'll even make it official with paperwork."
Jane tilted her head, seeing Gideon straighten up - just slightly. Not planned, then.
"I know that where you come from was hell," Hotchner begins, and she has to squash down the desire to bolt to the door. "That you were there and it hurt you, and it hurt you badly."
"That is none of your business," Jane fights to keep her voice level. She has experience.
"It is if you work with us," Gideon tilts an eyebrow and her, and she wants to slap it off his face.
"I'll make you a deal," Hotchner brings them back on topic. "You care about people."
He paused, and she bristled at the sliver of perceived accusation. With a glower she gave a short, sharp nod.
"Then I'll make you a deal," He repeated. "If you join this team, if you accept our help, then I'll guarantee that there will never be a time that we won't accept yours.'"
A pause. He doesn't elaborate.
"How?" She finally broke the silence.
"I'll give you the authority to pull anyone from the field on medical grounds - including Gideon and me," Hotchner's lips turn up. "You'll have access to everyone's complete medical files and information. You'll have final say on anything regarding an agent or victims health."
Jane swallowed. It was tempting.
And she really didn't want to go back to Boston.
"Deal."
She turned to face him fully, and in the process caught sight of Carrot-Douche and Goldilocks through the window.
"But I want my own desk - and as far away from them as I can get."