I apologize for not getting this out sooner! Life is always a wild thing and the past month has been no exception for me.

songs: buzzcut season by lorde, begin again (taylor's version) by taylor swift, and wasteland, baby! by hozier

j u n i p e r

I sleep until noon. As soon as I'd gotten off the phone with Spencer, I fell asleep. I didn't even bother taking my thick, fuzzy socks off, I was so tired. I feel guilty for keeping Spencer up all night, but he didn't seem to mind at all. I hope he got some amount of time to rest his eyes, even if it was only an hour.

I text him as soon as I finish brushing my teeth and washing my face. "Hey, just woke up. How much sleep did you get, if any?" My text reads.

I set my phone down on the kitchen counter as I begin to go through my pantry, writing down a list of things I need to grab from the store. I'd finally perfected my penne alla vodka recipe and had effectively used the entire small vodka bottle I'd bought for it, so I'd need to get more from the store if I planned to make that. Or I could break into Uncle David's while he's at work and take one of his bottles.

I put wet cat food at the top of my list, underlining it in red. I will not be returning home with it today.

As I go through writing my list, I think back to the previous night. I was stupid for saying what I did. Who says that? I would not talk to someone like I do you if I had a boyfriend or a serious contender lined up. Am I truly that stupid? Spencer is bringing down my IQ and I cannot stand by and let him.

I'm borderline talking myself down from the ledge of blocking his phone number and never returning to work, when my phone buzzes on the counter. Luna, the most curious of all my cats, jumps on the counter and sniffs my phone cautiously.

"Oh, Luna," I giggle, taking the phone from under her. It's a text from Spencer.

I got called into work right after we got off the phone. I'm on a case. I'm in Rhode Island. Super close to Maine, thinking about you.

Rhode Island. Such a small state. I've never actually been there, so I wouldn't know where anything is, much less exactly how far it is from Cape Elizabeth.

My heart squeezes painfully at the thought of that damned place. Spencer mentioned the Rylie Clark case last night. I wonder how much he actually knows about it. If he knows that I'm Rylie Clark. I know that my FBI file says I had a name change, but it also says I was adopted, all of which is true. Does it mention WITSEC? Where does my file say I was born? Does my file say anything about my kidnapping? That I was trafficked?

My thoughts begin to spiral and my vision clouds like TV static as I clutch my chest, attempting to get a breath in. I'm terrified. My hands are numb and my eyes are open, but I see nothing.

I gasp, coming to on the kitchen floor. I reach for my phone, anxious to see how long I was out for. Eleven minutes.

I reply to Spencer's text. "Rhode Island? That sounds interesting. Is it a murder case or a kidnapping? Be safe."

I'm not stupid enough to deny that I have feelings for Spencer. Twenty-eight days since we'd first met and I can say with one-hundred percent certainty, I have a crush on him. He's intelligent and a good listener. He's sweet and caring, plus, he's very attractive. I love the color of his eyes—absolutely stunning. He's pretty in general, but his eyes are absolutely captivating.

The eyes are commonly referred to as the windows to the soul. His eyes are very telling of who he is and what he's feeling, but I can also see the gears turning in his head, that he's always thinking about something far away in the distance.

I get ready for the day painfully slowly due to my on and off texting with Spencer. He doesn't tell me much about the case, just that they're getting close.

My errands are easy, completed in about an hour. The cats are angry with me when I get home, so I give them each a third of a wet food can. A small before-dinner snack.

The drive to the airport is boring. I listen to music and tap my fingers to the rhythm. Taylor Swift is hard to listen to, but not for any real reason. I just can't help the wide, aching smile that spreads across my face. Spencer's presence has warmed my heart and given me a sense of peace I haven't felt in a long time.

Mom and Dad are quick coming out of the airport. They hop into my car eagerly with Mom in the front seat. Dad's taking up the whole backseat, as usual.

"How's work, sweetheart?" Dad asks, leaning forward, wrapping his arms around Mom from the backseat.

I can't help the smile that comes. "It's good." I say simply.

"Good? What is it? You're smiling ear to ear," Mom says. "What's happened at work? Promotion? Transfer to a better unit?"

I laugh. "It's nothing. No promotions, no transfers. Just me."

"Just you?" Mom says, her tone in disbelief. "Fine then. Is there a boy? Have you met someone?" Again, I can't help the smile. I want to suppress it, but I'm just too easy for her to read. "You have!"

Dad groans. "Who is he? He better be good. I'll have your uncle look into him."

I laugh again, uncontrollably. They give me weird looks. "I'm sorry," I say through my laughter. "Promise me, and I mean it, that you won't say anything to anyone. Not even Uncle David." They nod. "I like this guy. He's an agent. He doesn't work in my unit."

Mom smiles too. "How did you meet him? What is this agent's name?"

"Yes, I'd like to meet this agent. Agent No-Good-For-My-Daughter." Dad says sternly, but I know he's joking.

I reach an arm back, grabbing his hand and squeezing it. "This is where the promise comes in. He actually works with Uncle David. In the BAU. And his title isn't agent. His name is Dr. Spencer Reid. He's the really smart one in the group. I got called in to consult on a case and that's when we met. A month ago." I take my hand back, turning onto the highway.

"Does he know? About your family history? Your . . . Your drug addiction history?" Mom asks quietly.

I glance over at her. "Yeah. I told him. We talk a lot. He's learning Russian. Sometimes, he calls me just to tell me the new things he's learned. I send him articles I think he'd find interesting. Like I saw this study on psychopathic behavior being possibly linked to teratogens and obviously I just had to send it to him. Our jobs can be so similar. He hunts the people I interrogate after they go to prison. Some much of his analysis contributes to how I approach my interviews." I take another glance over at my parents. "What?"

"Nothing, sweetheart. Do you talk to him a lot?"

I hum. "Almost everyday." I almost mention last night, but I don't. Dad would throw a fit and I don't particularly like fighting with him. Mom and Dad couldn't have kids and they spent ages trying to adopt before I turned up. Uncle David had already left the BAU by the time I was found and he helped me go into the WITSEC program. Mom and Dad were able to adopt me under the pretense that Uncle David would be the one to watch over me—similarly to how a US Marshall would.

Uncle David was good at keeping an eye on me. He would visit me every weekend before I went off to college. After I started college, he moved to live within a half hour from me. I was really only alone when I moved to Woodbridge, Virginia. I got into the FBI and both my parents and Uncle David felt that I was alright to experience something that could come somewhat close to a normal experience. College was hardly normal—especially when I spent a great deal of time battling a drug addiction, getting back on track for my degrees, and trying to manage keeping up with studying all my many languages.

Not many twenty-year-olds could say they knew more than two languages, not many twenty-three-year-olds could say they knew as much as I do. Not many people were in WITSEC and the FBI.

I hate the way my life is going sometimes. I'm June, but I am not June. I was Rylie, but I was never Rylie. Annika was part of my history, but I have never known her. I had brothers, but I am an only child. My parents are alive, but they are dead. I am filled with so many contradictions.

And it makes me want to cry.

꧁ ꧂

I love my job, I really, really do, but sometimes, I wish I could stab my colleagues. One particular colleague, actually. Stabbing someone goes against my moral code completely, but for Marcus Grahams, I might just make an exception. Grahams is one of the most arrogant people I have ever met. He's just so annoying and always has an attitude towards anyone with any interest in the BAU, and is more than willing to openly talk about the BAU in a negative light.

Grahams has been nothing but a pain in my ass since I came back from my mini-vacation. All he does is complain about my uncle's unit and it's starting to really piss me off.

"I mean, come on," he complains from his desk. He's so loud, not even my closed office door can keep out the sound of his voice. I want to stab him. "They get to do all the cool work and get all the glory, while people like us don't get any recognition and we have to get to know their suspects and convicts while they're in prison. It's absolutely ridiculous."

After half an hour of his complaining, I finally couldn't take it anymore. As much as I'd like to look calm and unbothered, I know my eyes tell of fury and I probably look murderous. Storming out of my office, I make my way to Grahams, my eyes meeting Bears' as she walks idly from her office doorway. "Agent Grahams," I say, a coldness in my tone that I had so rarely heard outside of prison interviews.

"Ah, Agent Williams." He returns the tone. "Is there something you need to speak with me about?"

"Is it your jealousy of the BAU's success that torments you? Or is it the failed unit transfer from six months ago?" I ask, crossing my arms over my chest. "Or maybe, it's because your wife just served you divorce papers, so you wish that your job was more successful than it already is." He doesn't say anything, just staring back at me blankly. "Am I wrong, Agent Grahams?"

"I saw a certain file run through for a mental health check recently. And then again, just yesterday, I saw that same file requesting additional training. What was it? Profiler classes? How was your rejection from the BAU, Williams? Still think they might want you? Like your real parents?"

"My parents, regardless of whether or not they are related to me, wanted me. My adoption has nothing to do with being rejected. Additionally, Grahams, it is none of your concern if I decide that I want more training." A quick glance around the room tells me that the argument between us has gathered more attention from the surrounding agents. I don't want to draw any more attention, but I can't help showing Grahams that I am one of his supervisors and he will not speak to me this way. "Have you finished working on the case I gave you? The Linez file?"

He's silent for a moment, then he finally opens his stupid-ass mouth. "What's it matter to you?"

"Grahams!" Bears finally cuts in. "My office. Now."

Grahams, like a dog with his tail tucked between his legs, slinks over to Bears' office. Despite his shameful walk to Bears' office, he manages to throw me a glare from over his shoulder.

I want to stab him.

Truthfully, when I put in the request yesterday for additional training, it was an impulsive decision. Uncle David convinced me it was a good idea and it wouldn't hurt. Now, I'm convinced that I need to get the hell out of this unit otherwise I may be heading to prison in a couple weeks. I'd go with a first-degree murder charge, which I would plead guilty to, and receive 5 lifetime sentences.

I would be no better than the inmates I study.

I hate Marcus Grahams. I truly hate him.

My lunch break couldn't come sooner. The BAU is away on another case, which is frustrating for many reasons. However, despite this, I dial Penelope Garcia's office phone and patiently wait as it rings.

It picks up on the other side of the line, but before I can say anything, Garcia speaks. "You've reached the most glorious office of Penelope Garcia, the most fantastic technical analyst of all time. What can I do for you, my beloved?"

Surprised, I say, "Um, hi, it's SSA Juniper Williams. I was just wondering if I could stop by your office? It's my lunch break. I have extras, and I have fresh baked cookies, if you're interested?"

"Oh! Oh! Yes! Yes, please, come hang out with me!" She says excitedly.

I smile, happy that I have someone to spend lunch with outside of my unit. I truly cannot stand to look at anyone from my own unit or the walls of my office. It's the fastest I've ever walked anywhere, and I've been late to work and rushing plenty before. Garcia's office, which I've never been to before, takes a little bit of wandering before I actually stumble across her office. It's exactly as Spencer described it. She decorates as much as she can for the seasons and she's even wearing a Santa hat.

"Hi!" Garcia says, springing up from her desk and embracing me before I can protest. "Please, take a seat!"

She pulls at a swivel chair next to hers and we sit together. "Thanks for letting me come here, Garcia."

"Call me 'Penelope' or 'Penny,'" she says as I start taking things out from my lunch.

I smile as she accepts the extra portion of butter chicken and naan that I brought with me. Initially I was going to put it in my mini fridge for tomorrow, but having lunch with Penelope seems way better than being anywhere close to Grahams. "You can call me 'June' or 'Juniper,' whichever you prefer. They close on the case?"

"Not really. We had a lead, but that was a dead end and it wasn't the right guy. So, we're trying to re-evaluate the case, but even that is proving to be hard." Garcia seems bummed. "Anyway, because I can only take so much tragedy and violence, tell me about your job."

She gives me a pointed look when I don't respond immediately. I laugh, the rage of my interaction earlier with Grahams bubbling over me. "Trouble in the unit," is my response. "Certain colleagues just don't know how to conduct themselves and I can be . . . combative, to say the least." Penelope's eyebrows furrow and she opens her mouth, but I speak before she can get a word out. "Can I pray real quick? I'm sorry, I try to pray as much as possible at meal times."

"Oh! Yes! Absolutely! Do you want me to pray with you? Or not? I can, if you want. Do you pray out loud or in your head?"

Her words bring a smile to my face. "You don't have to pray if you don't want to. I usually just recite my prayers in my head, keep my eyes closed, and clasp my hands together." My hands are already clasped in my lap.

"Could you pray out loud? If you don't mind?" Penelope asks. I smile, nodding as she clasps her own hands together. "You'll lead?"

"Yeah. Ready?" She nods and I close my eyes, bowing my head. "Lord, thank You for this food. I am grateful for all of Your many blessings, and ask that You bless this food and protect the mouths who will eat this food. I ask that You continue to keep our friends and family safe and healthy. I ask that You protect those who need it and help those in need. Thank You, in Jesus Christ's name, Amen."

"Amen." Penelope says. "So you're Christian?" She asks as we begin eating lunch.

"Yeah, non-denominational. My parents weren't the super claws-in, strict, shove it down your throat type of Christians, so they let me choose faith and let me choose baptism. I was fourteen when I decided I wanted to be baptized and it was such an amazing experience. I loved it. My parents let me host a dinner party at our house with my youth group. My uncle and my mom did most of the cooking, but they were gracious enough to let me help." My smile can't be contained.

It was late June when I got baptized. Mom and Dad helped me make the dinner party invites. Mom's parents, Nonno Amadeo and Nonna Francesca, came and stayed with us. All the girls from my youth group came over to my house and we ate dinner together and went swimming in my backyard's pool.It was one of the best night's of my life.

"There's a technical analyst in my unit, too, you know? What's it like?" I ask.

Penelope lights up like a Christmas tree. "I love it when there's no dead animals, people, or gross, weird images on my computer screens! I feel like I'm this awe-inspiring, all-powerful, all-knowing witch! Wait, I'm sorry, is that offensive?" She covers her mouth with her hand, her eyes genuine in her concern.

I shake my head. "Oh, no. I'm not offended. I don't expect anyone to share the same beliefs as me, so why should I be offended? I'd be offended if you insulted my faith, though," I say, finishing my lunch.

"I tried looking into your file." Penelope says suddenly and casually. My heart drops. Does she know who I am? I can't afford to have another panic attack after the last one. "You're adopted?"

I want to sigh in relief, but I keep my body as still as possible, trying to act normal. I don't want to go down this rabbit hole. "Yeah, my uncle's sister, my mom, and her husband couldn't have kids biologically, so they adopted me."

"You know, it's not often that I can't find out information on people, but it's like you didn't exist before nineteen-ninety-nine." Her eyes are piercing my soul and I am afraid that I will confess everything or she already knows. I can't let her know. One more person to know could put me in danger. "Was your life threatened or something?"

"No, from what I know, it was a closed adoption. All the records of my life prior to my adoption by the Williams is strictly confidential and those files can only be accessed by super high-up Bureau agents." Almost entirely true.

When I came back from being gone for two years, my case file was sealed. Only members of the BAU who were agents at the time of my case being open could access my files. Agent Hotchner is the only agent still in the BAU who has complete access to my case file, of course other than my uncle. I couldn't even see the file, totally off limits to me.

I hope it says I submitted my dissertation. Well, two dissertations.

"I saw that you're going back to college for another degree. How many do you have?" She asks, but before I can answer her phone rings and she answers. "You have reached the office of supreme knowlegde. Penelope Garcia at your service, how may I help you?"

Spencer's voice is so easy to recognize. I fight back a shiver, my heart swelling. "Hey, Garcia. Could you compile a list of boys between the ages of fifteen and twenty in and around Jefferson county-Alabama?" Penelope starts typing away aggressively.

"Narrow that list down to Center Point High School students. Now see if any of those students had any thing weird in their files or if they knew a second language." Derek Morgan sounds so different from the times that I met him previously, and yet, he sounds exactly the same.

"Is there a specific langauge I'm looking for? A lot of the kids popping up speak English and Spanish."

Spencer again. "Not sure. Prentiss doesn't even know what language it is. We tried sending over a document to ITU, but their whole office seems to be down."

"Hey, I'm here with Garcia!" I jump in, internally kicking myself for interjecting. "Our office has been in and out of connection. Most of us are supposed to be at prisons today, but our unit cheif decided to shut down the unit as much as possible for safety reasons. What's the piece of evidence you tried sending over? Who did you try sending it to? I might be able to open my work email."

"I'll send you a picture personally."

My phone buzzes and I look over the image. It's a crumpled up piece of paper inside an evidence bag. I read over the paper a few times before answering. "It's Icelandic and a ransom note. Are either of you familar with the Jon Bonet Ramsey case?" I ask.

"Jon Bonet Ramsey? As in, that six year old that was found dead in her family's basement in Boulder, Colorado? Yeah, why?" Morgan asks slowly.

"The note is the Ramsey ransom note exactly, written in Icelandic. Send that over to my work email and I'll send back a direct translation. Additionally, I can start up a handwriting and linguistics analysis if you guys can find more hand written evidence."

"Does this look hand written to you?" Spencer asks.

"I can't say definitely without seeing the evidence in person, but from the looks of it, yes. I think so. There's a slight slant to some letters, but not the same letters, leading me to believe it's not printed. The writing doesn't line up in a straight line with the top of the paper either. The first and fourth lines are written sligthtly diagonally, with the top of the diagonal on the left side of the paper and the bottom on the right side. I would say the person who wrote this is left handed."

Penelope starts clacking away on her computer, inputting new information.

"Thank you, Williams," Spencer says.

"Thanks! Hey, Garcia, give me a call back when you find something," Morgan hangs up the phone before either Penelope or I could reply.

The blonde woman turns to me, a smile illuminating her face. "So? What do you have your degree in?"

I blush, embarrassed. I know I shouldn't feel this way, but I have more degrees than most others twice my age. Spencer has six degrees, I remind myself. My heart flutters at the thought of him and my palms grow sweaty. "I have three. All three are master's degrees. Linguistics, criminology, and psychology. I'm going back for a degree in sociology." She nods, prodding me on some more, like she already knows. "And I just submitted two dissertations. I've been trying to get my doctorate in linguistics for a few months now, and a month ago, I started working with a doctor and he's really helping me out."

"You mean, Spencer, right?"

My eyes go wide. "What? No, I've been working with a family friend at Georgetown. Dr. Thomas Hessan. My dissertations are for a doctorate in linguistics and psychology. I'm feeling lucky about the linguistics dissertations. My theory of language is that language developed due to a need to differentiate our species of humans from other species. This was thousands of years ago. It could explain why there's so much modern language, why certain languages are lost or dead. My other dissertation is a theory of schizophrenia triggers that may be directly tied to gender and genetic origin. My psychology dissertation was kind of a side project that I've had since I got my B.S. degree, but I didn't really think much of it until three weeks ago. Truthfully, I didn't sleep for four days as I worked on that one."

Penelope just stares at me with a wide smile.

"What?" I ask, afraid that I've spoken too much.

"I can see why Spencer likes you."

"Likes me?" I ask, surprised to hear her say that. My heart feels funny.

She shakes her head. "I mean, like he likes talking to you. He's mentioned articles you've sent him on a few cases. You're adding to his plethora of knowledge."

I merely hum in reply, unable to put together an acceptable response. I leave shortly after that, skulking back to my office. Bears is waiting for me, sitting in my chair when I enter the room.

"Williams, shut the door." She says calmly.

I do as she says. Is she angry with me? Grahams gets on everyone's nerves, but did I push her buttons today too? "I didn't know we were having a meeting today."

Her eyes are cold, distant. "You need an agent to . . . sponsor you in the profiler program. It cannot be Hotchner or Rossi. I will not approve your request until an agent from the BAU confirms with me on sponsorship."

It's late that night when Spencer calls me. "We're getting close, I know we are. You really helped us out today." He pauses. "I appreciate it."

"Of course," I say, smiling wide. Socks is laying on my chest, purring loudly.

"Which one is that?" He asks.

"You can hear that? It's Socks. She's my cuddliest. Hey, I . . . " I hesitate.

He hears the hesitation. Despite being states away and us unable to see one another, I know his eyebrows are furrowed. "Are you alright, June?"

"I don't want to be ITU anymore. I put in for a request of training. Profiler training. My supervisor says she'll only approve my training if I have a BAU sponsor."

"I'll do it." He sounds so sure.

I bite my lip. "Are you . . . You would do that for me?"

"Yes, of course. Do I need to do anything? To get this going?" He asks.

I sit up, pushing Socks onto my lap. I'm laying in my living room on the couch, my work laptop on the coffee table. "I'll send over the paperwork. I'll attach my supervisor's email address. Thank you, Spencer. I appreciate you."

He breathes out a laugh. I love when he does that. "I'll have this done within the hour. Do you think you'll be assigned to my unit after training? Or to a field office?"

If my situation was different, normal, I wouldn't know if I was going to stay at Quantico or go somewhere else. My situation isn't different though. Wherever my uncle is, I am. I'll be transferred into Spencer's unit, but he can't know that, so I say: "I don't know. I hope I stay here, though. My parents are considering moving down here in a year or two, so it'd be a shame if I had to move."

There's a knock on a door in the background on Spencer's side of the call. "Hey, I've got to go, but I promise, I will finish that paperwork. I'll text you when I get it done. Sleep well, okay?"

I smile. "Yeah, thank you. Stay safe, Spencer." He hangs up the phone and I sigh in relief. My heart is beating out of my chest and it is then that I realize something.

If Spencer is my sponsoring agent, I'll have to see him in person almost everyday. I'm not sure I can bite back smiles every moment of every day. I have certain cues that will give away my feelings. It is then that I feel extremely stupid. I should've spoken with my uncle or Hotch first. It doesn't matter anymore, though. What is done is done.

Spencer has agreed and now he will put in a request for a probationary agent, who is me. Hotch, with my uncle's guidance, will undoubtedly approve it and Bears will have to approve my training.

I dream of my kidnapping that night. Unable to keep asleep, the temptation to call my uncle or Spencer grasps me by shoulders, but instead, I sob in my bed. I can feel hands roaming over my body, hear voices calling prices, taste the distinct metallic taste of blood.

Sleep does not come for me tonight.