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It was time for the BAU team to depart from NYPD and fly back to Virginia, and surprise, surprise, I was their acting liaison. Not that I was complaining of course, I was one half of the duo that escorted half of the team members to their private jet, departing from New York Airport in little over half an hour. The traffic stalling our journey on the way there was making it very difficult to keep to the schedule Stephenson had specifically set on me.

See, the thing is, I could drive. I mean, it's simple mathematics and engineering - both of which I'm particularly spectacular at - however I just chose not to purchase a vehicle of my own. It was nearly 16,000 dollars more expensive to own a car, in New York City, while holding a steady 9-5, than it was to order a monthly bus-and-train pass and pay it up front. I mean, if you count in the gas money, car pools, late nights and early mornings, plus detours, traffic and congestion - it truly was a nasty business to get involved with.

I tapped my thumb against the outside of the car window along with the rhythmic sounds of the music blaring from the radio right in front of me. For some reason, it was a little warmer than normal, and the air conditioning had been switched on, but only on a low wave as it wasn't that hot. Rossi was in the passenger seat, Hotch and Jennifer Jareau in the backseats, and having Detective Dunham drive Reid, Prentiss and Morgan in his car.

The radio station switched from a very calm, soothing melody into a Hispanic Latina-infused Shakira number, of which I knew all of the words. I tried to keep it to a low murmur as I sang along with the Spanish music. I knew I had caught the eye of Rossi, who was surveying me in the corner of his eye.

"You speak Spanish?"

I nodded, a little bashfully, and kept my eyes on the road. There was no way I was going to get into a collision whilst they were in the car with me due to carelessness on my behalf.

"What exactly is your ethnicity? You look Spanish, but I see something else in there."

I laughed, out loud at that, and cheerily replied, "Spanish? Che diavolo. Half Italian, half Greek. But yes, I can speak Spanish. It was something I just picked up as a kid."

A light flickered in his eyes at the mention of my being Italian, and I assumed he was Italian also.

"Ay, guardare il vostro, bambino bocca. So, your ma or pa is Italian?"

I chuckled at the first part, who's the kid here? I'm 23; I'll have you know, Senor Rossi. I replied fairly matter-of-factly, as I did with anything related to my parents, "My mom was Italian, my dad is Greek. Yourself?"

He nodded, and retorted, "100% Italian, I was born there, moved here was I was no older than 6. I miss it sometimes, you ever visited?"

I scoffed, jokingly, and playfully mocked, "Of course, I lived there for a few months when I was younger, but my dad wanted me back, so I was carted back to New Orleans."

I could see surprise flicked across Agent Jareau's face, and she joined in the conversation with, "You lived in New Orleans?"

I nodded in the mirror, and she continued, "My husband used to live there. You probably don't know him - Will LaMontagne?"

Scrunching my forehead in light concentration for a moment and when nothing came of it, I sighed out, "Nope, I don't know a LaMontagne, sorry Agent Jareau."

She waved a hand in front of herself, and vehemently said, "No, no, friend's call me JJ - you can too."

I smiled, and although a little awkwardly at first, I repeated and said, "Okay.. JJ."

I went back to driving, and the car remained rather quiet, bar the odd phone call or comment made, mostly by Rossi. It was a strange thing to notice, but the dynamic of the team was far closer than any other I had witnessed before this. They were like a family, which baffled me to the point of almost complete confusion.

"Wait, if you're Greek, on your father's side, why is your last name Lewis? It's not a very Greek surname."

I felt a frown mar my features, and a pregnant pause broke out in the car. I think Hotch was too afraid to break the painfully awkward silence just in case he made it worse by trying to defend me. I decided that I might as well give them the real answer, as I supposed it would be on my record anyway - and as proven earlier, Hotch had already read my files.

I took in a deep breath before carefully responded, "Lewis is my foster parents name, I took it on when I was a kid. My dad.. He wasn't the best of people. No, that would be putting it lightly wouldn't it, Hotch?," I hesitated for a second, "My father, he was a killer. More than that, actually. He used to kill for the fun of it. He's the reason I joined the police force. He's serving his 16 life sentences in prison. He's been out of my life ever since I was 14 and I've been alone ever since then. It's weird, because it went on for years; not a single person knew until he got sloppy. He got cocky, and thought he was getting away with it. 48 women and 23 men over a 20 year period. He had started before I had even been born; before he had met my mother. So, yeah, Lewis isn't my real name, but it's the only name I wish to be recognised for."

The silence in the car was deafening in my ears, and I felt my pulse speed up. Rossi opened his mouth, probably to spew some consoling nonsense about how much it wasn't my fault, and I didn't ask for this - I had heard it a thousand times before this, and I really didn't need to hear it from him. Thank God we pulled into the parking lot of the airport, and a sudden halt to the car brought everyone back from where ever they had just been inside their minds.

I stepped out of the car first, indicating that the rest should do the same, and went straight for the trunk of the car, pulling out their suitcases and packing it onto the large metal trolley that would make carrying the luggage far easier. I pushed the cart ahead of the group, watching out of my peripherals that Dunham was doing the same with the second half of the team's belongings, only with less care and calm. They were going to eventually fall on the floor and scuff, but it was his own fault; he's a sexist pig - he deserved a little humiliation.

We walked through the automatic doors onto the pale white, marble, glaringly bright floors, and I had to squint and adjust my glasses on my face. The last time I had been on a airplane, I was far too young to remember much about it, so I was curious as to see what a jet would look like.

I could only hope that I got close enough that I could maybe sneak in a photo or two. I'm sure they wouldn't mind, would they? Well, I suppose - what with it being FBI property and all. Oh well, at least I get to help them out. Not many people get this opportunity.

I felt someone tap my shoulder, and I turned to see Hotch staring at me, in a very reproachful way.

My tone was jaded and distracted although I was paying him full attention when I whispered, "Do you think I'm going to break down or something, Hotch? Because, believe me, I won't. Over the years I've gotten through it, and I'm still standing. What can I say? I'm not that easily broken."

I added a small, cheerful wink at the end to lighten him up, and I think it worked, if the smile I got back said anything. It also helped that he ruffle my hair, mussing it up more that it already was, and out of habit rather than necessity, I tried to fix it back into place, although I knew it was hopeless.

I waited until every element of the BAU team gathered around, with a sweating and slightly out of breath Sinclair, to inform them of the plans that awaited them.

"Let's see, it says here that your flight is through Gate F and it takes off in 16 minutes, so we better hurry up. I'll take your luggage to the cock pit quickly, and it was a pleasure having you here in New York City, and if you ever need anything, we're waiting your call."

I went round the shake the hand of each member sturdily albeit a little clumsily, and went about pushing the trolley through the designated gateway and followed the corridors until it lead me to a silver, unmarked door with a monochrome handle. It was clear that this was the door that lead to the outside as the breeze was blowing through the cracks in the doorframe.

I slid the small card I had been given by Stephenson before we had left through a port, and the previous red light flickered green and a click resounded through the quiet corridor. I pulled open the door, and was attacked by a sudden rush of freezing wind.

My hair blew behind me, and I had to manually hold it in my hands to stop it from swirling uncontrollably around my face. I nudged the trolley with my abdomen and used my elbows to steer when I wasn't using my fingers, and eventually I got to the cockpit.

Two pilots - both around 6 foot and completely terrifying - were standing, waiting for me, and wordlessly, they picked up each suitcase and packed them onto the plane. As they had completed their tasks, they nodded once in my direction, of which I took as a minor thanks, and I was sent on my way.

I traced my steps back to the main waiting area, only to find the BAU team gone. Obviously they'd have left - they had a plane to catch. It didn't stop the sinking sensation rush to my stomach, though, and the sudden feeling of abandonment and neglect run through my veins. All of a sudden, I felt rather like a small child, and I wanted nothing more than to leave this place and cry.

Who was I trying to kid? I actually thought that I shared something special and unique with them, but why would they? Why would anyone want to get to know me? I'm just a know-it-all, pretentious little girl, and I could do nothing but fuck things up - for everyone included. I scuffed my shoes on my way out of the airport by taking my aggression out of the floor by repeatedly kicking it, trying to force out the bad sentiments that were swarming inside my body.

It was only when a cloth covered hand came crashing over my mouth and nose that my mind and body truly began working in sync, and by then, it was far too late - chloroform.

- 'Che Diavolo' is 'What the hell' in Italian

- 'Ay, guardare il vostro, bambino bocca' is 'Ay, watch your mouth, kid'