For all her previous fire and vitriol, Dr. Hart was an incredibly quiet person.
Once she got settled – which, Hotch couldn't help but notice, took only a single satchel and an exchange of paperwork – she was eerily silent. Dr. Hart's work, so far, was primarily forms and reports to get her into the flow of things; she had yet to ask a single question, yet to utter a single complaint – or greeting or statement or anything of the sort.
Dr. Hart did not draw attention to herself, ever, and the flat expressions and the dark clothing she wore allowed her to fade into the background almost completely.
Hotch didn't like it. It was clearly learned behavior, and he was very interested in who might have impressed habits so damaging into the newest of his team.
He, of course, didn't bring it up with Gideon because that would be stating the obvious and Gideon would just give him that look. And, as much as it pained him, it wasn't his business. The deal that he made with Dr. Hart was to get her to stay, because he could see the damage she was causing herself without help, but there was no requirement or allowance for him to provide her treatment.
His hands were tied, and Dr. Hart didn't seem inclined to cut the rope.
Gideon couldn't help but find her fascinating.
Truly, it was remarkable that she was even still alive. Clearly, she hadn't gotten a lick of treatment for the obvious trauma she had endured. She had merely dusted herself off and moved on, unhealthy coping mechanisms and all.
Horribly disturbing and heart wrenching, of course, but fascinating all the same.
She was incredibly strong, to have made it as far as she had on her own.
But it was clear that Jane was unable or unwilling to seek help. Whatever environment had shaped her, forced her to be unable to see herself as either worthy or capable of getting help, still carried its marks on her today. Which meant that anything they could give her would need to be spoon fed.
"Dr. Hart," He smiled at her as he entered her office, as he did every day. "How are you this morning?"
And, like every morning, she stiffened, smiled tightly – and artificially – at him, and gave a curt nod.
It was perhaps the height of irony, that he – a rather mum person himself – was the one who needed to provide the conversation in such instances. Every day he could, he stopped by and talked to her. About cases and birds, about the absurdity of some of the more foolish agents in the Bureau, about how Rossi was taking retirement. Anything and everything.
Because if it was anyone else, Gideon would treat her with silence. Counting on how the day would come that she would feel the need to fill the void, break the air. But with Jane, Jason could tell that that wouldn't work. That she first needed to know that words were welcome – appreciated – before she could provide her own.
He was counting on how one day, after he ran out of things to say, she would take up the slack.
Jane … didn't know how to feel about working for the BAU.
Working for the FBI, she felt fine about. It was work, and work was good. She was helping, getting paid, and she was so close to getting her debts paid off.
She could taste it.
But working for the BAU was different. Strange. Because when Gideon came into her office every morning, gabbing at her about sand peppered breasted whatevers, or going on about how Davie Dear was getting on with his book writing, there was this layer. Like how he didn't expect anything of her now, but he would.
And it was strange.
And working with Hotchner was strange too, because where Gideon would fill the space Hotchner would bask in the solitude. He would make no conversation, expect nothing of her – and that was forigen, too, because everyone always wanted something from her. That's how people worked.
But not Gideon. And not Hotchner.
There were other agents on the team, though it was limited to three, and though she knew their names and their charts by heart they were …
Well, they weren't Hotchner or Gideon.
The only reason she knew that Agent O'Keefe transferred out, even, was because the paperwork. The agent hadn't bothered to say goodbye, not that Jane expected her to.
The new agent was … well …
Jane didn't know if she had words that weren't cliche and overly poetic. He was a tall, buff football player of a man with skin a shade darker than hers and closely cropped hair. His smile was genuine, but he was always coiled and ready.
Ready for what? She didn't know.
He was like a dashing hero out of a story or a fairy tale.
According to his file, his name was Derek Morgan, and he was 35. He was a Chicago native, went to college as a star football player, then became a beat cop. Promoted to detective, brief stint on the bomb squad, then went to the Academy and gained his agent status at 33. Certified as a profiler at 34.
A knee injury ended his football career, and he'd been caught in a handful of nasty bombs. Childhood case of pneumonia nearly knocked him off, but he recovered after a week or two. Shoulder injury pre-academy, hasn't had any checkups for it since.
For the most part: a healthy agent.
But there was something there, well hidden and secreted away, that she recognized. The way he reacted to people too close to him, the way he stared down people comparable to him in size and ability. How he grimaced when someone he couldn't see jarred him.
She wouldn't say anything. It wasn't her job to. She just made a mental note of it, and let him be – expecting him to do the same. Expecting him to be just like the others.
But he wasn't.
He dropped by her office the second week he was on the job.
The team had gone off on a kidnapping case that hadn't needed her consultation. She had kept up on her paperwork and was finished, playing with the idea of calling Vine like she'd promised to do … three months ago.
And then suddenly Agent Morgan was there.
"Hey, I thought I'd just pop in," He smiled, dazzling. "I'm Agent Derek Morgan –" He extended his hand " – and I just transferred in."
Jane had to look at her hand for a moment before she remembered that she was supposed to shake it and not take it's pulse. She stood slowly, extending her hand and trying to ignore how small she felt when her hand was dwarfed by his giant one.
She shook it once.
"Dr. Hart," She responded after a moment, trying to remember what They taught her about manners. "They call me Jane."
"Well, Jane," Morgan was still smiling, but in a studying way. "Carson and Phlaster were going to take me out for drinks tonight, show me around for some good watering holes."
He waited expectantly, and Jane couldn't figure out exactly what he was asking her. Was she supposed to sign off? Congratulate him?
"... Did you want to come?"
Oh. Oh.
"No," She shook her head, once, sharply. "Enjoy."
Going out drinking …
Not without Vine.
Morgan looked like he was at the corner of bewildered and confused, but managed to shake it off as she returned to her paperwork.
"Well, if you change your mind …" He coughed awkwardly, clearing his throat. "Well if you change your mind, you're welcome to come."
She watched him turn to leave through her lashes, and couldn't stop the words from tumbling out by the time he'd reached the door.
"Try Every Night."
"What?" He stopped, turned.
She swallowed back the dryness in her throat.
"Every Night," She repeated, keeping her nerves out of her tone. "It's near that bar and grill on 13th. If you're looking for a good place to drink with some buddies, that's the place to go."
Diving back into her paperwork, she pretended not to notice the knowing grin he flashed her before he finally left her office.
When she came into work that day, she skirted around anyone who knew her and belined straight for her office, making sure the door was closed firmly behind her. The only windows she had were outward facing, at least, so light could still stream in as she pulled off her satchel and removed a small mirror from one of the inner pockets.
Sitting down exhaustedly in one of her office's guest chairs, wincing at a pain in her hip, she examined the blood on her lip and the bruising on her chin. It looked as though one of her teeth dug in and split her lower lip, but nothing felt loose and she'd never really bruised easily, so the discoloration was mild. Bit of concealer and she'd be fine.
But hiding a split lip with makeup was pointless.
After dabbing away at the blood, Jane gave it up as a bad job. She sighed, folding her mirror and returning it to her bag. No point worrying about it, when there was nothing that she could do.
Instead she went about finishing her report on Phlaster, sure that the man was no longer field capable. That car accident that he got into a year ago was still hindering him today, and he was too reckless with his health. She wasn't going to have anyone die on her watch, and she recommended a transfer to Strauss and Hotchner accordingly.
She finished the report in under an hour, then completed some other paperwork for another three. She was getting hungry by then, and figured the best use of her time was to just drop the paperwork off directly with Hotchner, then to run out and get some lunch.
Jane knocked at his door, but seeing that he was on the phone slipped in quietly and made her way to his desk. He clearly knew that she was there – and she didn't much care for boundaries that she didn't erect and stoically enforce herself – so she felt no guilt by unceremoniously dropping the pile of folders on his desk.
He glanced up in acknowledgement, still talking, and all emotion slipped from his voice the moment he looked up. In an instant his hand was on her wrist, shackling her in place.
Her heart rate jumped and she muffled a gasp, trying to pull away, but his grip was firm and he was ending his call before she could do more than pry uselessly at his fingers.
Her voice had dried up, and she was gritting her jaw so much it was straining her teeth, but Hotchner wouldn't let go.
He wouldn't let go.
Hotchner hung up and redialed, punching in an extension in an instant.
"Gideon," Hotchner was saying, and Jane was just trying to focus on slowing her heart rate – cursing leaving her satchel and therefore her pepper spray in her office. "Would you come into my office?"
She gulped.
What had she done? Was it coming in when he didn't say to? Was it because she was recommending a transfer? No, Hotchner was likely to agree with that. Did she break a rule she didn't know? Did she offend him because she interrupted? But he hung up –
"Yes?"
Jane twisted around at the sound of Gideon's voice, pulling with all her might at Hotchner's grip. It had slackened at Gideon's entrance, and she managed to wrench free and push towards the door.
Unluckily for her, Gideon was still in the doorway, and though he was older he was bigger, too. He stepped in front of her, and she nearly hurtled into him before she managed to come to a stop.
"What's going on?" Gideon repeated, voice soft. He stepped forward – and she stepped back to keep distance – and closed the door, studying her face.
"Let me out," Jane forced the words out, cursing herself for quivering.
"Not until I understand what's going on here," He placates, raising his hands like she was an unsub or something. He turned to Hotchner. "What happened?"
"I was just going to find out."
What …?
The anger had leached from Hotchner's frame, and he was looking frustrated and … guilty?
"You grabbed me," Jane skirted away from them, her back to a wall and both of the men in her sights. "That's what happened. You grabbed me."
"I'm sorry," Hotchner apologized, and he was blatant with his sincerity – if it could be believed. "I didn't think, and I definitely didn't mean to scare you or hurt you. I just needed you to stay here while I got Gideon."
"Got Gideon for what?" She lashed out, rocking back on her heels – cursing not having her satchel.
"Jane," Gideon placated, tone slow and even. "What happened to your face?"
She swiped at her lip automatically, coming back bloody.
Oh.
"Nothing," She grimaced. "Can I go, please?"
"Jane, if someone is hurting you it's our responsibility to help you," Hotch comes out from behind his desk slowly – and if she hadn't seen how fast he could rush an unsub or pull his gun she might've even relaxed. "How did you split your lip?"
"I smacked myself with a door," She fibbed, swiping at her face again – her black glove coming back smeared with her cheap, dollar store concealer. Shit.
"Jane …" Gideon tried again, and she couldn't stand the look on his face. Like she was some skittish Deer that might bolt at any moment.
"It's nothing."
Gideon studied her again, and she felt her skin crawl as he continued to profile her.
"Jane –"
"Look, working here was a mistake, okay?" Jane lashed out, fists curling. "I'm clearly not a good fit. I can head back to Boston, or get a job in Virginia, or go to Philly –"
"No, no Jane, you're not in trouble," Hotchner cuts her off – and he's doing something with his body language. Curling in on himself, making himself smaller and less threatening.
She knew exactly what he was doing, and she was cursing herself for how much it was working.
"Jane, I know that relying on people is not something you've ever been able to do," Gideon speaks up, slowly stepping forward. "We both know that –" He gestures at Hotchner and himself "– but you need to understand that your job is to protect us, and ours is to protect you."
… It was?
She swallowed again, throat feeling dry, and by then Gideon was close enough that he gently, slowly took her elbow. Squeezed it reassuringly as Hotchner stepped closer.
"Jane, what happened to your lip?" Hotchner asks, and all of his anger is gone – or somewhere she can't see it.
Her tongue darts out to her lip, the taste of blood on the tip of it.
"My, uh, neighborhood," She pulls her elbow from Gideon's grip. "Not the nicest area."
"Did you get assaulted?" Hotchner pried gently. "Mugged?"
"They, uh," She cleared her throat, averting her eyes. "They wanted my wallet and … and my bracelet."
"Your bracelet?" Gideon repeated. She realized that they might not have known about it, she wore it under her shirt all the time.
"Just a plain band," Her lips twitched, corners pulling down. The dread at having lost it came back full force. "It was iron, but it was painted silver, that's all."
"Did you file a report?" Hotchner moved on, eyes darting to the pile of paperwork on his desk that she'd dropped off. "Call the police?"
She tilted her head, confused.
"Was I supposed to?"
Hotch could only control himself until Jane was back in his office before he growled, digging his knuckles into his temples.
"So it's worse than we realized," Gideon agreed, his voice low and even in the way that indicated how incredibly pissed he was. "Good to know."
"Was I supposed to?" Hotch quotes caustically, teeth gritted. "She didn't even know."
"Wherever she was, she was never taught to fight back," Gideon concurred, lips tight. "Looks like we're going to have to teach her."
"How?" Hotch dropped his hands. "She won't even call me 'Hotch' – how are we supposed to show her that she doesn't have to be perfect with us. That she can trust us."
"Maybe not grabbing her would help," Gideon commented mildly, and Hotch winced.
"I wasn't even thinking," He grimaced. "Dammit, I wasn't thinking. I just –"
"Saw one of your own with a split lip," Gideon finished for him. "And reacted."
"Yeah," He sat down heavily at his desk. "So what do we do?"
"We start taking her with us everywhere."
Hotch rolled that over in his mind. They hadn't really pulled her into the field unless she was really needed, she had enough work to do at Quantico … but –
"That might work," Hotch nodded, pensive. "We force her to work with people, rather than for. If she's in with us more …"
"Then the Mere Exposure Effect kicks in," Gideon nods, satisfied. "And she begins to see us as people, and as people that care for her as much as she cares for us."
Hotch nods, already thinking over what kind of paperwork he would need to file.
Gideon sends him one last loaded glance, before leaving his office.
There was pounding at her door.
"Doe!"
More pounding.
"Doe!"
"WHAT?!" She shouted back, not looking forward to the noise complaint that was surely going to be sent her way.
"Open the fucking door, Doe!"
She groaned, pushing herself off the floor where she had sprawled down – not moping, thank you. Stretching.
"The fuck you want, Vine?" She growled, throwing the door open to her friend's unimpressed face. "Seriously, what do you want? I told you, I'm not hitting the clubs tonight."
"Girl, the only reason you don't hit the clubs these days is if there's some kind of cosmic shift in your world," Vine pushed into the apartment past her as she spoke, bowling her over physically and verbally. "What happened?"
"Bad day," Jane sighs, knowing that Vine wasn't leaving without answers. "Got mugged, had a shit day at work, and my fridge is empty."
"Whoa, let's wind up and unpack that real quick, yeah?" Vine grabbed Jane before she could return to her nice piece of (dirty) floor. "You got mugged?"
"Yeah, and I liked that wallet," She whined, digging the heels of her palms into her eyes. "And that bracelet."
"Wait," Vine spoke up, voice very low and serious. "They took your bracelet? The silver c-band?"
"Iron, but yeah. And I liked it, too." She nodded, collapsing onto her shitty squeaky chair and kicking off her boots.
"The bracelet. The bracelet," Vine repeated, increasingly pissed. "The only thing of any value that you had when you ended up in that shithole?"
"Yeah, I guess," Jane shrugged, upset but not nearly as annoyed as Vine was. "What, it doesn't matter. It was just some stupid bracelet. It wasn't even actually silver."
"That's not –" Vine cut herself off, breathing in deeply. "Okay. Okay. I'm upset, but you're not. That's okay, don't worry about it. This is just one of those things that you don't get. Not yet. That's okay. You'll get there."
"O …. kay?" Jane looked at her a bit longer, but she was going through some breathing exercises or something. "Whatever. Why are you here?"
"Because you've been working at the FBI for weeks and I wanna know what it's like," Vine shook herself out of her stupor. "So: what's it like?"
"Weird," Jane decided on the word. "Very weird."
"Girl, everything's weird to you," Vine deadpanned, poking through her – empty, like she said – fridge. "I mean details. That Jay dude, how's working with him?"
"Weird," Jane repeats, still meaning it. "It's … it's just like they're looking for something. Expecting something. And I don't know what it is yet, but they won't stop."
Vine closed the fridge with a sigh, crossing her arms and propping herself up against Jane's lopsided cabinets.
"Doe, you gotta understand something," Vine knocked some mud off her boots. "You're intriguing. You can't help it, it's just how you are. You're idiosyncratic and a bundle of contradictions and you don't make sense. These guys are profilers? They trust you, Doe, but they don't understand you, not yet. You're not predictable, and they're probably getting all kinds of funky readings off of you."
"So?" Jane studied her nails, using her thumbnail to dig some dirt out from under her pointer. She didn't look at Vine, couldn't.
"So you need to see how they see you," Vine rolled her eyes. "You're a profiler's wet dream. The ultimate profile: finding out who you really are. Even you don't know the answer to that, so double whammy. But they're stuck, because you're not giving them anything, and they're respecting the boundaries you've put up. They're just cataloging what they can and waiting for the walls to fall."
Her throat felt dry.
"I don't know if I'll ever be able to do that," She admitted softly, fingers curling into fists. "I don't know if I can."
"That's okay, you don't have to." Vine smiled, pushing off against the wall. "But you do have to get dressed, because alcohol solves all problems and you are entirely too sober for a day that you got mugged."
Without meaning to, a smile bloomed across Jane's face, and with Vine here … well, the day just got a whole lot better.
Vine's laughter was infectious, and soon Jane was joining in..
Maybe it would work out, after all.
Just maybe.
