You don’t work for the FBI, you’re not an agent, and you don’t even have a badge. You’re just a consultant the BAU consults when they hit a dead end. Somehow, you managed to convince them you were a sort of psychic, and now here you are, living out a bizarre dream since you saw The Mentalist as a kid.

You could do whatever you wanted, knowing the FBI had your back. They’d defend you if you messed up, which was a comforting thought. For this case, you chose to pose as a writer-psychic working for a magazine that had previously published a review by an acclaimed restaurant critic who had been murdered a few days ago.

“Hey, buddy,” you greeted Derek from your desk in the bullpen, casually playing with a Rubik’s Cube. You were hired as an 'astrological forecaster,' tasked with crafting daily horoscopes. Derek, with an eyebrow raised, was scrutinizing the magazine in front of him, specifically the horoscope section. “You read my horoscope?”

“Yes,” Derek said with a frown, setting the magazine down on the desk. “It’s awful. Horoscopes are supposed to be vague so people can interpret them in different ways, but yours are way too specific.”

“Well, I wrote it with specific people in mind,” you said with a sly smile, just as Spencer walked into the bullpen. He was holding the same magazine, and you knew he was checking out the horoscope because you had deliberately hidden every other book and magazine he might be interested in.

“Libra: your true love will show up wearing sneakers and an Apple Jacks t-shirt,” Spencer read aloud, his brow furrowing as he approached Derek and you. You couldn’t help but find his reaction amusing, knowing how much he detested this sort of thing. Just as he was about to continue, he looked up and saw you wearing a green Apple Jacks t-shirt and sneakers, exactly as his “horoscope” had predicted. “Is that shirt new? Did you buy it today?”