Hi everyone, I'm rather nervous as this is my first fanfiction piece so please be kind with your reviews. I am a dedicated Hotch/Prentiss shipper and proud of it :D This is a story of their meeting and is set after "Lauren". I have written it as if Hotch was unaware that Emily had actually survived as I am not convinced having watched the JJ/Hotch scene at the hospital numerous times that she told him the truth. This piece is rated M for sexually explicit situations in later chapters so be warned. Thanks so much to my lovely beta REIDFANATIC and my great friend S.C. for help with French. Any mistakes are mine alone. Please let me know what you think!
Disclaimer: I do not own anything Criminal Minds related and no infringement is intended.
The rain drummed down on the roof of the taxi, streaming down the windshield in rivulets, obscuring Hotch's first view of inner city Paris. He craned his neck as the taxi passed the Arc de Triomphe in the distance, trying to get a better look. He vaguely remembered the fact that the arch was commissioned by Napoleon to celebrate his victories, but ironically, had not been completed before he had been ousted. He couldn't recall any other facts about this significant tourist attraction despite having just read the article on it during the plane ride over.
He must be more tired than he thought. Hotch knew his memory was nowhere near Reid's eidetic one, but his recall was usually more than sufficient for his needs. In fact, he had not even had to study that hard for his bar exam as a result of his excellent memory.
You mean your once excellent memory, he reminded himself. The bar exam was almost two decades ago now. Tiredness was just an excuse, really. He was getting old. Hotch sighed, leaning back against the headrest. Some days the thought even crossed his mind that maybe he should take early retirement. It wasn't just physical or mental exhaustion he was experiencing. He was now constantly feeling this heaviness in his chest that was draining any energy he had left and was taking a huge toll on his performance at work.
It had started with Emily's death eight months ago. The initial shock and horror the whole team had felt when JJ had told them that Emily had not survived her injuries had, for Hotch, slowly morphed into anger; anger that he had been powerless to protect her. His team was not just his colleagues, or even just friends, they were his family. He had failed to protect a member of his family. She was his responsibility, his alone and he had done nothing.
His failure cut into him like the tip of a dull knife, no longer searing and intense, but painful nonetheless, over time coalescing into a heavy mass that, lately, seemed to weigh him down all the time. Even when he was hanging out with Jack it remained present when, in the past, Jack had always managed to dissipate whatever demons he felt haunting him, remnants of the cases he had been involved in.
It was funny. While she was alive, she had always been Prentiss to him, but since her death he could only ever think of her as Emily. Emily had not just been a gifted profiler and a valuable member of their team. She had been the life and soul of their little family. She was Derek's confidante, Garcia's closest girlfriend after JJ, Reid's sister and Dave's daughter. She had a light in her that was indescribable, warming all those who came in contact with her. Children especially seemed to sense it immediately, which was why she was always his first choice for contact with a child, whether it was for comfort or for the purpose of interviews.
Before Emily's death, Hotch never would have thought he would miss her this much. Oh, he knew everyone in the team missed her, but he had not realized how much he depended on her opinion, not just her analysis about an unsub's profile. He would frequently ask for her thoughts about things like whether Reid would be suitable for a particular task, how he should bring something up with their section chief or what he should get Jack for his birthday.
In fact, thinking back, he had depended heavily on Emily's help regarding his relationship with Jack and the issue of being an almost absentee father. Jack looked forward to her rare visits with almost the same level of anticipation as Christmas, which embarrassed Hotch. He knew that she would have been happy to visit much more often, but was sensitive to the fact that, as it was, Hotch had little time with Jack and she did not want to intrude on their precious father-son time.
He was suddenly jolted out of his reverie by the taxi driver.
"Monsieur, zis ees the 'otel Sofitel de Fauvant. Ve had arrived, if you pleeze."
"Yes, of course." Hotch gave the taxi driver his Bureau charge card and waited for the payment to go through before collecting his luggage and walking into the hotel.
He glanced around the foyer as he waited to check in. The hotel was much more luxurious than what he was usually accustomed to. Even without the recent budget cuts, the Bureau would never have put an agent up in a five star hotel. He and his team should really be "frequent stayer" members of Motel 6, seeing they stayed in the motel whenever it was available in the location they were called to for assistance in an investigation.
He was only staying here because the Police Nationale, one of the three national law enforcement agencies in France, had invited him, all expenses paid, to make a presentation at their annual conference of complex criminal cases. Section Chief Strauss had been happy to give him leave to attend. Not only did the FBI not need to expend any money, it was always beneficial to maintain good relations with international law agencies. You never know when you need a favour, was what she said to him before he left.
Dave persuaded him to take an extra two days off after the conference, having noticed the state of mental and emotional exhaustion he was in. Hotch had initially said no to the idea. He hated asking Jessica to babysit Jack more than necessary. She was still young and should have a life, not be tied down with taking care of his son especially when he was technically available. And there was the ever present guilt as a parent that he should be with his son every spare minute he had. He had only relented when Garcia and JJ said that they would be more than happy to take turns babysitting Jack for the weekend.
After checking in, Hotch decided he would take a shower to refresh himself after the eight hour flight from Washington DC and stepped into one of the four elevators in the lobby. He watched as the number of the floors in the elevator slowly ticked over as it approached the eighteenth floor. He was hoping to do some sightseeing before dinner. The conference was not scheduled to begin until 2 p.m. the next day and his presentation was not due until the following morning, so he still had plenty of time to revise his notes.
Hotch had planned to attend the conference in its entirety for the sake of politeness, despite the fact that his level of comprehension of French was pretty much limited to "please", "thank you", "how are you" and "how much". Why didn't he think of bringing Emily along to translate? The male members of the French police and gendarmerie would have been completely enchanted by her. It took a split second before he realised what he had been thinking. Hotch closed his eyes briefly at the surge of almost physical pain at the reminder of the loss.
He shook his head as if the motion would dispel his thoughts of Emily. As he walked down the corridor to his room, he wondered why he was suddenly thinking about her so much; perhaps the fact that he was in Paris and she had spent many summers in France visiting her grandfather. Who knew what strange connections his brain was making at the moment, linking Emily to his current experiences?
Even though her death had affected him deeply, too deeply, he had worked hard to put all thoughts of her out of his mind and to be honest, it hadn't been hard. There were always the all consuming cases, the consultations, the paperwork and, when he was home, Jack. He couldn't afford to think or feel too much. So he pushed all his feelings into 'the box', where everything else went which he didn't want or couldn't deal with. A box that had existed since he was four, the first time his stepfather had... No, he wouldn't go there, not now, not ever. He checked the number of the room on his left, relieved to see that he had, at last, reached his room.
Hotch opened the door to his room and raised his eyebrows in surprise when he realized that the free upgrade he had been given when he checked in meant that he was actually going to be staying in a suite. The sitting room more than lived up to his expectations, plush cream carpet, an antique writing desk in the corner next to the window with a red and gold couch in another corner. The duvet on the bed in the next room was an arresting red velour, the gold trim around the edges picking up the gold in the wallpaper and the gold accents in the cream curtains. The bathroom was completely modern though, with marbled floor and counters, a spa bath large enough for two and a separate shower stall with a rainwater shower head which he thoroughly enjoyed; more than enjoyed actually, revelled in, for ten whole minutes. He couldn't remember the last time he had taken more than two minutes in the shower. But then again, he was nothing if not efficient.
Hotch knew exactly where he planned to go upon stepping out of the hotel. He had used part of the time on the flight over looking at a map which Reid had printed out for him, outlining the route he should take to see some of the significant tourist spots. Reid had also helpfully marked on the map a handful of bistros and restaurants nearby so that Hotch would have a chance to experience "every day French cuisine" as Reid put it, after which he gave a spiel about how it was that the French had surprisingly low cholesterol levels and much lower incidences of heart attacks than the US population. Hotch had to stop him when his discourse moved onto his analysis of "French Women Don't Get Fat" by Mirielle Guiliano. Actually, Hotch was surprised that Reid had even read the book, seeing as the last book he read was titled "American Empire: Roosevelt's Geographer and the Prelude to Globalization".
It was almost dusk when Hotch finally left the magnificence of the Notre Dame Cathedral. After getting on the Metro, he decided to get off two stops before the one closest to his hotel to buy a coffee to tide him over until dinner. He walked down the main street for a few minutes, enjoying the sights and sounds of the city, and then decided to take a detour down one of the smaller streets on his left. It was an alley, really, narrow and quite dark. He almost turned back as soon as he walked in as there didn't appear to be many shops down that direction, but then decided to walk to the end of the street to see what was there.
To his pleasant surprise, the street that he came upon was well lit and quite busy with a rather large crowd. More importantly, there on the corner stood a shop that looked like a bistro. Reid had informed him that the bistros generally served most kinds of drinks, including coffee and light alcohol.
Hotch went in and walked up to the counter where an attractive young blonde girl was serving.
"Bonjour monsieur, vous desirez?" She gave him a smile that seemed, well, flirty. Surely not, thought Hotch. She was young enough to be his daughter. He cleared his throat rather nervously, hoping he wouldn't need to put her down gently, as he had absolutely no idea how to do so in French.
"Uh, une cafe, s'il vous plait," said Hotch, with a slight hesitation. He cringed inwardly at his atrocious accent. That sounded much better in my head than spoken out loud, he thought grimly.
Luckily, the girl didn't laugh, but simply replied, "Ca fait trois euros cinquante." That will be €3.50.
She must be used to tourists, thought Hotch with some relief as he handed over some euros. He was about to tell her to keep the change but realised he had no idea how to say it in French, so kept his mouth shut and accepted the coins she handed to him. He was even more relieved to see that she made no further attempt at smiling or giving him suggestive looks. At least that was what she seemed to be doing a bit earlier. It had been twenty years since he had dated, so what did he know, really. Give him a serial killer to interact with, anytime.
He took his coffee and stood next to the counter, wanting to take a few sips before leaving. As he did so, he glanced around, curious to see what the locals were eating. He was looking at a particularly succulent looking piece of steak at the table to his left when he felt his right arm being nudged hard. Luckily, it wasn't the one carrying the coffee, or it would definitely have spilled.
"Oh! Pardon!" A very apologetic feminine voice sounded next to him.
Every cell in his body froze. He felt the blood drain from his face and he swore that his heart stopped right then and there in his chest.
For the voice sounded exactly like Emily Prentiss'.
Please review if you have a moment. I would love some feedback!