Author's note, which you should read:
Awhile back, Tumblr user agentssa made a brilliant gifset with the following prompt:
AU | now we've got problems
i married a hired gun wanted by multiple agencies and was presumed dead + you were supposed to be a cover and hiding in plain sight was a good idea (plus you're an FBI agent) but these feelings are very much real
After seeing it several times, I decided to write it, in part because I was inspired by the Zombie's song, "She's Not There," from which I took the title.
A few parameters for this story:
1. I'm calling this a "ten by ten" format. There are ten gif frames that comprise the original gifset, and each will serve as a prompt for a chapter, in the original order. Each chapter will be one thousand words because I like symmetry and themes and stuff.
2. It's not quite a Rashomon approach, because the POVs won't necessarily conflict, but each chapter will be split in half (500 words each) between the two main characters (Hotch and Prentiss).
3. I am trying to mirror the established canon as much as possible, which should be fairly obvious. Some things, like Jack's existence, just can't fit into the story. Ages are fairly ambiguous, here, because there's no set timeline. Obviously Sergio exists, because Sergio is the best.
4. There will be some minor tweaks to the original AU prompt/summary which will become obvious, because there are aspects of the characters that I feel are integral to who they are.
5. I like reviews. Constructive criticism is good. Character/ship bashing is not. Seriously, you do not want to get into a flame war with me. You will not be triumphant.
If you want to see the original giftset prompt, you can find it reblogged on my Tumblr under the tag "now we've got problems."
She's Not There
She's beyond pissed. Being the only woman in this operation is a monumental pain in the ass, because she's their only option if they want to get inside without triggering complete mayhem.
Her dress is just this side of classy and she doesn't need to ask if it'll work because Clyde's eyes are glued to her cleavage the moment he picks her and stay there until she threatens to put her stiletto through his forehead.
And he knows she would, too.
He opens the door when they pull up with a lecherous little grin and she knows he's doing it because if she knocked him on his ass right here, it would draw a little more focus than they're going for. Instead, she lowers her voice and smiles as she tells him sotto voce to fuck off before leaving him to hunt down the nearest bar where some poor, unsuspecting woman's going to fall for his accent.
She spots her mark the moment they pull up, waiting on his valet receipt, fiddling with his cufflinks in a way that screams discomfort.
"Let me guess. You froze up when you got the invite and couldn't come up with a good excuse." He turns and there's the slightest arch of his eyebrow. She offers a wry smile. "Or am I projecting?"
He doesn't say anything, but he holds her gaze. She moves in for the kill, laying a hand on his bicep. "I didn't mean - I apologize." She conjures a nervous laugh. "I'm just going to close my mouth and go drown myself in the fountain."
"I wouldn't recommend that. Dave's not very good about cleaning it, and his dogs like to use it as a wading pool."
"Well, I appreciate the warning…" She looks up at him.
There's a beat, a moment on which she knows everything hinges. "Aaron. Hotchner." He extends a hand.
"Emily." She slips her hand into his and squeezes it as the valet returns with a slip of paper. "Walk me inside, Aaron?"
"Not the fountain?"
She smiles shyly. "Maybe later. I've heard some good things about the wine. I'd hate to miss out."
By the time she's searching her purse for a nonexistent invitation, she has him. He rests a palm on her back and tells the rent-a-bouncer that she's with him. Soon, they're sipping cocktails and laughing as he tells her about some of David Rossi's exploits that didn't make it into his books.
An hour later, she's gotten the exclusive tour, met and charmed the fêted author, and technically, she's done. Except when she leaves Aaron and Dave (as he's insisted she call him) to call Clyde and tell him to put on some pants and come pick her up, she catches sight of Aaron in a mirror, his eyes still on her and a conspiratorial smirk on Dave's face.
The feeling that hits her square in the chest leaves her breathless, because it's been so long since she's felt a genuine emotion.
"Who is she?" Dave sprawls on the sofa like a Mafioso crossed with Merlin, rakish and relaxed.
The elation rises before he can fend it off, and he tries to suppress his smile. "Honest to god, I have no idea. I'm not sure she was even invited."
They've been friends long enough that the rest goes unspoken. Hotch doesn't have to defend himself. He trusts his instincts. Something compelled him to stay close to her. And Dave knows damn well how rarely he lets himself be guided by instinct alone.
"I'd be worried about a crazed fan if she hadn't been glued to you all night. Are you wearing some kind of new cologne? DARPA for men?"
"I've decided not to question it."
"'Atta boy." Dave drains his Scotch. "I wouldn't either. Even if she did turn out to be a crazed fan, I'm not sure I'd mind." He stands and pats Hotch on the shoulder. "I have to go mingle before Rita hunts me down and threatens to take away my Scotch."
"You're a Fed, Dave."
"And she's a publicist. Of whom I am terrified. I will not be made to feel like less of a man for that."
Hotch just shakes his head, gazing at his glass. As a rule, he doesn't take dating advice from anyone with three ex-wives, but on this, he can't argue. His last relationship spanned twenty years, and in the end, he knows it was about a decade too long, because neither he nor Haley were willing to make the concessions necessary to make it work.
He's known Emily an hour and it doesn't take a profiler to see there's something there. Whatever it is, it's something he hasn't felt in a long time, not since he first met Haley.
The feeling is only emphasized when he sees her coming towards him, and he feels a nervous twinge in his stomach like he's back in a high school auditorium, gathering his nerve.
"Hi again." She holds out a wine glass to him. There's a trace of a smile playing on her lips and he finds himself wondering what it'll be like to kiss them.
He doesn't have to wonder if he will. It's been a foregone conclusion since the moment he met her.
He takes a sip of wine, surprised to find that while he's the profiler, she's the one who managed to guess that he likes Sangiovese.
She grins at the surprise on his face, and he's mesmerized by the way it reaches her eyes, catching the light. "Dave told me."
He laughs. "Right."
She tilts her head to one side, looking up at him through sable strands of hair. "So…when exactly did you to realize I was crashing?"
He cocks an eyebrow.
"Why'd you go along?"
He licks his lips, stalling, ultimately opting for the truth. "Something told me I'd regret it if I didn't."
It turns out he doesn't have to wonder anymore what it'll be like to kiss her.