The newer something is, the more it feels familiar. Routine is foreign to me. It is rare that I stay in a place long enough to establish patterns. Though I have been living in Washington D.C. for the last two years, I've just moved into a new flat. This way, while the cold snow of November is familiar, the route I take to the J. Edgar Hoover building is new. As such, I wasn't quite prepared for how frigid I would get while waiting for the bus, nor walking between the bus and the subway.

At least, I'm glad it isn't the summer. The weather here gets humid, and I'm not keen on risking frizzy hair. Even though it's cold, I don't wear a toque. My head may be cold, but a hair full of static won't leave a good impression on my new coworkers. I feel put together, even if my trench coat is too thin to keep me warm. The profilers are going to be able to pick me apart better than any other people I could possibly meet.

After the forty-minute commute to work, I stare up at the outside of the building. It's a textbook example of the brutalist style of architecture, and I hate the way it looks. I miss the old lecture buildings of my most recent university. Later, I want to research the lead architect on the J. Edgar Hoover building to find out who exactly hurt him so much that he thought this building was anything short of ugly and intimidating.

I make sure to walk into the proper entrance, rather than going through the one meant for visitors. There, I flash my badge. Security pulls me aside and riffles through the large purse I brought with me to work. It adds an extra three minutes to my morning, in part because they make me walk through the metal detectors twice, but then I am inside. All I can hope for is that I don't end up late.

I enter the lobby, peering around. Most people are not standing static, but there is a woman off to one side. We met, in the third interview. She introduced herself, her name a flash in my memory amidst the panel of six people. She was the notetaker, not asking a question, but I remember her name. Janet Hillier. She catches my eye and heads over. I hug my purse against me, debating if I should preemptively apologize for my slightly late arrival. The work culture of the FBI is strange.

"It's nice to see you again," she offers, sticking out her hand. "In case you've forgotten, I'm Janet Hillier, the senior administrative assistant for the BAU."

I shake her hand, making sure to practice the firm grip that my father taught me. Academics don't really care about shaking hands the way I imagine the FBI does, "Bouchard. That is, Cole Bouchard."

"Not Colette?" she blinks.

"Cole is fine," I tell her because Colette is certainly not appropriate.

No one has called me Colette in years. In fact, I'm almost surprised to hear my full name. I should have suspected that she would know my name though because she knew to look for me. I wonder how much of my file she has seen.

"Cole, then," she flashes part of a smile. "Most of the others in our unit will probably call you Bouchard anyway. Here, I'll show you the way to our unit."

I wonder if she screens Agent Hotchner's calls and answers his emails, or if she helps Erin Strauss. If she is the senior administrative assistant, I imagine she supervises the other assistants who help others. I don't imagine that I will have an administrative assistant to support me. How many administrative assistants are employed in the BAU? The special agents do not seem like the type to have the time necessary to schedule their days. After all, they do not have time to run SPSS and other analytics on their collected data.

Hence, my job.

We get into an elevator with a few other agents. The administrative assistant is fairly quiet, which at least gives me time to think. I'm sure the elevator is faster than it feels; every second inside the metal box is another where I can feel my heart approaching my throat. We also stop on every floor to let out the agents, and after several minutes, only Janet and I are left in the elevator. Then, it stops. The doors take an agonizingly long time to open.

Janet heads out and I follow her. The room is large, with windows along one wall and several desks in the middle together. She heads up a set of stairs, and before I can trail after her, I spot Agent Hotchner on the upper level.

"Ahh, Cole," he makes his way down to me. I get to practice shaking my hand once more. "The team is waiting for you."

Janet has already disappeared into an office. I'm sure it is one which acts as the office for several administrative assistants. Together, he leads me back up the stairs. We walk down to the end of the short hall. I focus on the offices up here, rather than paying attention to the bullpen just below us. We pass by a room that must be his office. There is also a break room. A room with a door closed. Finally, we get to the end of the hallway, where several people sit around a round table.

There isn't enough time to scan their faces before Agent Hotchner begins talking, "everyone, this is SA Colette Bouchard. Cole, here is SSA Jason Gideon, and SAs Emily Prentiss, Jennifer Jareau, Derek Morgan, and Dr. Spencer Reid. Finally, we have Technical Analyst Penelope Garcia."

The team all stands up and gives quick hellos while I shake all of their hands. The last one in the group, Dr. Spencer Reid, offers me a wave when I offer him my hand. I return the gesture, both because shaking hands is tedious and because I don't mind rolling with the punches. Hopefully, the others notice that I can be accommodating.

"It's nice to meet you all," I say, looking from the team to Agent Hotchner. "Cole is fine."

In my early days of being a teaching assistant, my supervising professor told me that there is no such thing as being bad with names. Either you care enough to learn a name, or you don't. Back then, I believed it was rubbish. I ran three tutorials, each with thirty students so names were hard. However, I never forgot the names of those ninety, and I haven't forgotten a name since. I look around at the six members of the BAU whom I've just met, repeating their names in my hand. At my desk, I'll check emails and compile a list.

That's an early trick to name retention. If I have a list of names, I can almost always tell who on the list has which name. I'm sure that if I was idler, I could meet someone I haven't seen since high school and remember their name, even if our faces have moulded in the past ten or so years.

"Cole is going to be our resident statistician now that Agent Kieffer has retired," Agent Hotchner tells the others. "She's going to be working more closely with the people in ViCAP, but she'll be housed here. She'll be your go to for updates on research or the most recent statistics related to violent crime and victimization. Any questions?"

"I've got plenty, but I'm sure they can wait," Agent Morgan says. He winks at me.

All I can do is blink. Although I haven't had really any jobs outside of academia, I certainly wasn't expecting flirting on the first day. Professors are usually more socially awkward. Perhaps the entire world is like this.

Penelope looks at Agent Morgan, mock surprise, "I'm right here, mon cher. You're going to flirt with this hussy in front of me?"

"That must be a new record for sexual harassment," Agent Jareau crosses her arms over her chest. She looks to Dr. Reid.

"The previous record was Elle, and they managed to last half an hour before-"

"Garcia will show you how our software works," Agent Hotchner interrupts, turning to me. "Your desk is in the bullpen along with the other agents. If you need a private office, there is one down the hall near reception that is used by floaters, but it will put you further away from the team."

Now, I think it's best that I stay with the team. I want to come across as someone they can actually rely on. All I do is nod. If it comes up later, I'll deny the room properly.

Garcia waves at me, as if I had forgotten who she was. She is the only one who isn't a special agent, but I guess they also call her by her last name. Agent Hotchner has been calling me Cole, which I hope sticks.

"Thanks,' I say, and eave to the group as I head out of the door. "It's lovely to meet you all."

Garcia and I head down the hall. I expect us to go into the bullpen, but instead, she pulls me into her office. It's a dark room, with several monitors. She begins to turn them on.

"Welcome to my abode," she asks. She sits down in her chair and spins around to face me. "This is where all the magic happens."

"Your setup is impressive," I say, looking around at the giant computer she has plugged into her monitors. "This thing must have insane processing power."

"It does," she agrees, leaning over to massage it. "You need a beast to keep up with me. Now, how familiar are you with statistical analysis?"

"Pretty familiar," I say. "When I was interviewed, I had to show them my skills in SPSS. I'm assuming that is the software you use."

"Yes," Garcia says. "I've buffed up the system though to help prevent hacking. We use multi-factor authentication, among some other security software. I can get you set up on all of that software if you can pass me your phone."

I reach into my purse and dig out my phone. She examines it and then shakes her head.

"You're going to want to get a BlackBerry," Garcia says. "They are more secure and have password protection. I don't know what data you had access to before coming here, but there are very few organizations that take confidentiality as seriously as we do. You know, it would take me seconds to hack into this."

"I bet," I try to smile. "How long would it take if I had a BlackBerry?"

She shrugs, continuing to type on my phone's keyboard. My phone is only two years old. It kind of seems crazy to replace it so quickly.

"Ten minutes," she guesses. "If I was the one who set up the security though, and I was someone with my skill level, an hour. Three if I wanted to get in without immediately notifying the FBI. For anyone else, it would take a few weeks of dedicated work, but I'd notice even if they were trying to be discreet."

I nod my head. She passes me my phone and begins to walk me through the system. While it is a bit more complicated than most other versions of SPSS that I've encountered, SPSS is so familiar to me, I would recognize it anywhere. Then, she moves on to the Universal Crime Report which I am familiar with but only theoretically. The National Crime Victimization Survey is even stranger. Walking through those statistics is a bit more of a nightmare. It takes just over an hour for her to cover everything that I need to know, and she talks quickly.

"So, go set up at your desk before I keep you hostage all day," Garcia says, barely glancing at me while she watches her screen. "Also, you're in luck because we're going to a bar as a team tonight. None of those profilers are going to be hounding you with questions until after hours, and then they'll be dividing their attention between you and Prentiss anyway. She's new too."

"Thanks," is all I manage to say.

No part of me wants to go, but I can be accommodating. Perhaps I could say I'm going out of town this weekend and I'm leaving tonight, but Monday will be here soon after that. A weekend free but then a week of Hell. Mondays in the working world aren't all that great.

"Now skedaddle," she shoos me away absentmindedly.

So, I head out the door. There is only one desk in the bullpen that isn't occupied, so I assume it is mine. It's in the corner, next to Agent Morgan and across from Dr. Reid. At least they don't look up at me when I sit down to work.

Hopefully, this job won't be as much trouble as it feels like it will be.

~~~~~

The stakes are set. I'm actually quite excited for the next chapter. Already, there will be some fun drama! As always, let me know what you think. Any predictions for how Cole and Reid will first properly interact?