"Another Reid?" JJ asks, handing Garcia a coffee. She had come down to discuss the new agent. She knew the tech would have the latest scoop. She had to admit she was curious. She had always liked Reid. They had a certain chemistry that she never wanted to act on, but she could tell that he had been in love—at least puppy love—before she married Will, divorced him, and then found love with Emily.

"Looks like it." Garcia's fingers danced across her keyboard, pulling up flashing screens. It was all the new girl's records. "Two PhDs." She tilted her head to the side, making her usual rapid-fire judgment. "That's one less than our Reid, but hers is in Biomedicine and Psychology. She's technically a doctor-doctor—like, the kind that does medicine, but with an MD and no residency. She moved around quite a bit, to various academic institutions, from a seriously early age. She started Oxford at 12 for her bachelor's and first PhD, then went to the Sorbonne for a quick master's, Harvard for another one, and University of Costa Rica for the final PhD/MD for some reason. Not sure why—"

"What are you two doing?" Emily's voice cuts through the room as she steps in, eyes narrowed. Penelope doesn't look the least bit sheepish. JJ, on the other hand, blushes at getting caught. Emily crosses her arms, her authoritative tone barely masking her annoyance. "I thought we talked about this this morning. You know, giving the newbie a chance?"

"Hey, it's my job to make sure the team dynamic isn't messed up by some psych—"

"Penelope, it's definitely not your job." Emily interrupts again, firm but teasing. "Remember how you didn't like me much at first? Or how about when I came back from Interpol? You weren't so kind to Alex either."

Garcia sighs, looking slightly repentant but still clearly holding onto that "I need to know" look in her eyes. "You know, she might be your type…"

"Excuse me?" Emily raises an eyebrow, her tone slipping into mock disbelief.

Garcia's smirk grows. "Come on, a drunk Emily is a sharing Emily. Don't pretend I don't know about those clubs you two visit."

JJ grins at the mortified look on Emily's face. The way her eyebrows scrunch up in frustration makes her want to kiss her wife right there. Emily rubs her face, groaning. "We keep it anonymous. No names, no connections outside those walls."

"And the twins at the bar?" Garcia pipes up with a teasing grin.

JJ swats Garcia on the arm. "That was... special circumstances."

"And the waitress in Louisiana?" Garcia's grin grows wider as she brings up the memory. JJ could still recall how much whiskey had been consumed before Emily, in her tipsy glory, had bragged about that particular encounter. Morgan had been there, too, grinning like an idiot. Thankfully, no one else from the team was around to hear about the "waitress who squirted buckets," as Emily so eloquently put it.

"Okay, okay." Emily interjects before Garcia can continue. "We never gave out our real names. That has to count for something." She shoots JJ a look, half-amused, half-exasperated.

JJ decides it's time to intervene fully, seeing the vein pulsing in Emily's temple. "It's not like we've ever looked for a third. We're perfectly happy with what we have."

Garcia smirks. "Well, you know, if you ever did look for a third, maybe your newbie could be—"

" Garcia. " Emily's tone is firm, though a slight smile tugs at the corner of her lips.

Later

Your stomach is in knots. You don't think you've eaten properly in two days, surviving on nothing but Diet Dr. Pepper. Coffee has never been your thing, a holdover from your teenage years as a prodigy. Your overly religious mother insisted coffee would stunt your growth. You hadn't touched the stuff, but still ended up shorter than both your parents—not that you see them much these days. You haven't even told them about today. When the time comes for your annual Christmas phone call, you'll fill them in about joining the BAU— if you make it through.

Imposter syndrome hits hard as you sit at your new desk. The team's reputation precedes them, and you can't help but feel like you don't belong. You've always been a little socially awkward, an Asperger-adjacent genius who struggles to fit in. People have told you they used to have someone like that—Spencer Reid—but he's with the Las Vegas FBI now, closer to his mother.

You met him once. You thought he was weird. But you're weird, too, so it worked. You both found comfort in rambling about your overlapping interests—chess, space, biomedicine's application to neurological disorders.

Maybe you should have stayed studying those things, but you're here now, having worked for the Bureau for a little over three years. You started out in the Laboratory Division but found yourself in counterterrorism. Somehow, you're not really sure how, your name ended up on Erin Strauss's desk. You didn't question it. Your name ended up on a lot of people's desks. A lot of people had approached you about different divisions, you're good at putting pieces together. Between your psychology and medical background and your master's in artificial intelligence, you have a lot to offer.

You hate that about yourself. Jack of all trades, master of none , as your ex used to say. You think it was the eighth or ninth woman you dated, you can't remember. You can remember facts when they don't involve your dating life. Most of that is a black blur. You like to pretend it's just a coincidence you can't remember, but you know you aren't very good at dating. Your therapist—maybe the eleventh or twelfth you had—said it was a trauma response to not remember. You ignored them and got a new therapist.

"Hey, you're the new kid," a tall dark, muscular agent greets you with a wide grin, immediately breaking your thoughts. You manage a small smile, nudging the box of donuts on your desk toward him. You find people are nicer if you try to buy their affection early. "I'm Derek Morgan." He sticks out his hand. "Oh, you brought donuts?"

"Yeah." You resist the urge to fidget, aware of the fact that special agents notice everything. You know profilers will notice even more. "Please, take as many as you want. I wasn't sure what everyone liked, so I bought two of everything they had."

Morgan raises an eyebrow in surprise. You glance down, noticing his eyes flick to the two large bags on the floor next to your desk. By his expression, you realize you've done something wrong, but you aren't sure what. You just didn't want anyone to feel left out. You know what that feels like.

"You expect us to eat all of those?" he asks, sounding more amused than annoyed.

"No…" Your brain, sharp in most areas, still struggles with these kinds of social interactions. "You're more than welcome to take some home to your families, or maybe the other departments can enjoy them."

Morgan looks like he's about to say something, but a voice cuts him off.

"Did someone say donuts?"

You turn toward the newcomer and freeze. Miss . Your face flushes, and you know your emotions are written plainly across your features, but you can't seem to stop it. Damn it . You're in a room full of profilers, and you're already giving yourself away.

"Doc?" the blonde agent says, eyes widening as she takes you in. Her tone is uncertain, her expression mirroring the shock you feel. It's not exactly horror, but it's close. Like someone who's just realized they're about to be in a massive car crash and there's nothing they can do about it.

"Doc?" The blonde with glasses, chimes in, her head whipping back and forth between you and the two women next to her. Her eyes are wide as if she's piecing together some monumental secret. "Doc, as in the one you two play with on the regular?"

Your stomach churns at her choice of words. You hate that term— play . It makes it sound flippant, casual, like a two year olds play date. Your brain detaches from the stressful situation, pulling you into a memory.

Mistress and Miss J had been doing this for a while, and by a while, that means long before they became a couple—at least, as far as you know. You never asked too many questions. That wasn't the nature of your arrangement.

"Have you been a good girl?" Mistress's voice, low and commanding, whispered in your ear one night.

You shivered under her touch, your body reacting to the power in her tone. You hadn't been good—not in the way she expected—but admitting that out loud was still something you hesitated over. You didn't know these women outside the club, and they didn't know you. You preferred it that way. The anonymity was part of the appeal. No names, no ties.

No getting hurt when things became complicated. No need to run to an entirely different country to escape feelings that made your heart feel like it was on the outside of your chest, exposed and raw.

You could tell they did something that involved law enforcement for work. Maybe FBI, judging by way they carried themselves and the hints they dropped between scenes. They traveled a lot—sometimes mentioning which state they had been during aftercare. It was the kind of thing you'd notice in passing but never pried into. It intrigued you, but you resisted the urge to investigate further. Curiosity was second nature for you, but this was the one area of your life where you tried to draw a line.

You often don't see them at the club for weeks or more because they are traveling or you are. If they aren't traveling, they are at the club every Tuesday, Thursday, and Sunday nights. You've clocked their MO.

You're not always there either, and they find someone else to play with. Just like you do. But when you all are both there, you always find each other, and always play together. It is invariable.

Once, early on, Mistress had asked if you wanted to grab something to eat after a particularly intense scene. You had refused—so quickly, so adamantly—that she never asked again. The separation of fantasy and reality was crucial for you. No strings. No complications.

This was the longest relationship you had ever had. Even though it wasn't 'real'. You didn't want anything to ruin it, and knowing each other was a sure fire way to disrupt everything. You tried your best to learn as little as possible about them, but you couldn't help it. Sometimes you can't turn your brain off even during scenes.

You'd noticed that Miss J—though in impeccable shape—had the subtle physical signs of having had a child. You didn't know much about her life outside of these moments, but your medical background clued you into things others might not catch. Her body, toned and fit, gave little away, but you could see it: a slight scar near her perineum, the remnants of an episiotomy. It was the kind of detail that lingered in your mind, not in a voyeuristic way, but as part of the puzzle that made up who they were outside these walls.

But that was the extent of your knowledge. Mistress and Miss J were enigmas, and that suited you just fine.

"I have been a very bad girl, Mistress."

This answer seems to please the older woman more than it should. "Good, then we get to punish you. Miss J, get the cuffs and the crop."

You come out of your thoughts with Mistress calling you "Doc" and shaking your shoulder gently. You flinch visibly, finally responding to her, and she steps back immediately. You hadn't flinched because of the touch itself but rather the name—Doc was your scene name. Hearing it in this context, outside the club, was jarring. It pulled you right out of your memories and back into the harsh reality of the moment.

"Umm..." Your throat feels dry, scratchy. You glance at your desk and see the half-empty can of Diet Dr. Pepper sitting there. You reach for it, taking a sip to buy yourself a moment, but it does little to ease the panic swirling in your chest. The two women standing before you aren't giving you much time to gather your thoughts.

"What are you doing here?" Miss J asks - you still don't know her name - her voice sharp with confusion, as if the answer isn't completely obvious.

"I was your new profiler." You emphasize the word was , because there's no way you're staying now. The minute you saw them, every plan for your future at the BAU had gone up in flames. You're already mentally preparing to run, your mind going to where your housekeeper put your passport. You have enough medical friends in the area to sign something saying you are ill and need a week or two to recover. It would be enough time for the transfer paperwork to go through and you to find a new division. Hell , you have enough anxiety raging through your chest, you might not even stay with the FBI. Find another university and get another degree there. Preferably somewhere foreign and far far away from this awkward situation.

You hate confrontation. And this is definitely confrontation, or at least you would call it such. Anything that makes you feel itchy like this and involves those tones is definitely confrontation.

"Did you… did you join because of us?" The dark haired agent— Mistress —asks, her tone far more worried than before. Miss J looks equally perplexed.

You can't blame them. If the situation were reversed, and they had shown up in your world, you'd probably be just as shaken. You remind yourself of the psychological framework: fear, disbelief, anxiety, and panic—classic responses when someone loses control and their worlds collide. An unsub might lash out violently under similar circumstances, but you don't see that happening with these two women. Still, their discomfort is palpable.

"I don't even know your names," you whisper, feeling the flush creep up your neck. Your skin, prone to betraying every hint of emotion, is no doubt bright red by now. The embarrassment isn't solely about Mistress and Miss J. It's also about the audience you now have for this awkward collision of worlds. Even though there are only four people—three of them agents and the other one likely part of the team, though you suspect the huskier blonde might be a tech—it feels like the entire building is watching you. When you feel out of place, which is often, your response is to ramble, spouting off facts to fill the silence. Most of the time, you hope people aren't paying attention.

"Statistically speaking," you begin, falling into your habit of using data to escape the emotional tension, "the FBI has approximately 14,000 special agents and over 20,000 professional staff, but that is worldwide, and the DC-metropolitan area has over 5.5 million people, which would give you a 0.62% chance of being FBI. Given your..." you pause, trying to find the right word, " mannerisms , one would assume you work in law enforcement. That would narrow down the options to the FBI, Secret Service, CIA, military, pentagon, or local agencies."

You see Miss J's brow furrow, but you can't stop now.

"But you go to that particular club in Woodbridge," you continue, knowing you're over-explaining. "Perhaps there's a reason besides distance that draws you there, but considering how much you travel, that seems unlikely. So, geographically, that would place you closer to Norfolk-"

"Yo, Doc, calm down." Morgan's voice cuts through your rambling, grounding you, though the use of your scene name sends another uncomfortable wave of realization through you. You want to flinch, but instead, you freeze, retreating into your mental "if I don't move, the dinosaurs can't see me" mode. Unfortunately, that never seems to work on humans.

"So you are Emily and JJ's Doc," the blonde with glasses speaks again, her gaze sweeping over you like she's trying to piece together everything she's heard. Her eyes sparkle with curiosity, like she's about to unravel some grand mystery. When your eyes meet hers, something you've always found uncomfortable, you can't help but feel like a specimen under a microscope.

"I've heard so much about you," she adds, almost gleefully.

"I've heard literally nothing about anyone or anything," you respond, your tone flat, your words defensive. You're not sure why you feel the need to say it like that, but maybe it's your way of trying to detach from this sudden overwhelming situation.

Garcia squeals. Actually squeals. "Then let me show you everything!"

Before you can protest, she grabs your arm. Her size advantage and your general lack of coordination make it easy for her to pull you along, her excitement palpable. You're barely listening as she begins pointing out things around the bullpen, giving you an impromptu tour, but your brain is too foggy with panic to process much. Your mind keeps circling back to the earlier moment— Emily and Jennifer . So that's their names.

As the blonde with glasses continues to drag you away, you miss the concerned glances exchanged between the three agents you left behind.

Morgan's usual easy smile has vanished. He turns to Emily and JJ, his expression serious now. "Is this going to be a problem? You two... her?"

Emily lets out a slow breath, running a hand through her hair. "I don't know," she admits. Her voice, usually so steady and authoritative, wavers slightly. The vulnerability in her tone is rare—something Morgan doesn't often hear from her.

JJ crosses her arms, her brow furrowed in deep thought. "We didn't know," she says softly, almost to herself. "We had no idea she'd end up here."

Morgan studies them both for a long moment. "Well, now she's here. If this is going to be an issue—"

"It won't be," JJ interjects quickly, though there's a hint of uncertainty in her voice.

Emily nods, but she doesn't look entirely convinced. "We'll handle it. Professionally."

Morgan raises an eyebrow, clearly skeptical but choosing not to push. He's been around both of them long enough to know when something isn't as simple as they try to make it seem.

"I hope so," he says finally, his voice dropping a little lower. "Because if this thing—whatever it is—affects the team dynamic, you know it'll come back to bite all of us. Strauss won't hesitate to pull the trigger on a transfer or suspension."

JJ winces slightly at the mention of Strauss, knowing all too well how right Morgan is. "We'll make sure it doesn't," she promises.

Emily stays silent, her gaze fixed on the direction you were dragged off in by Garcia. Something unreadable passes across her face, but she quickly wipes it away, straightening her shoulders and slipping back into her usual composed self. "Let's focus on the case Hotch sent us this morning," she says firmly, trying to steer the conversation back to work.