It's taken me longer than I'd like to write a new fic - blame it on my house move. Now that my internet's up and running and I'm slightly more sane (lol, not by much) I've decided to jump on the 'Hotch meets Emily while working for her mother' bandwagon, and I regret nothing. I have half a mind to make this a two-shot, but I'm not entirely sure yet. (This always happens.)
IMPORTANT: Emily speaks Spanish in this. Translations are as follows:
Joder, que coño te pasa, hijo de la gran puta! - For fuck's sake, what is wrong with you, you son of a bitch!
Ni se te ocurra! - Don't even think about it!
Gillipollas - Asshole
(I chose Spanish because I am a native speaker, and I fully intend to write a Hotchniss fic centered around Emily's ability to speak multiple languages in the near future. Watch this space.)
The first time he meets her - three weeks, six days and (approximately) thirteen hours into his posting as head of security for her mother - she's just clambered through a window, destroying an ornate bathtub in the process.
Emily likes to climb things.
Elisabeth Prentiss had warned him about this upon his arrival. He'd barely had time to dump his bags at his lodgings - one of the many rooms designated for security detail - before being called to meet her. She'd greeted him in her office, tiny frame poised and powerful as she shook his hand firmly and offered him a seat across from her, and had lulled him in to a false sense of security with a carefully practiced smile that hinted at warmth but revealed next to nothing; the perfect politician.
They'd made small talk, her eyes twinkling with something close to mirth. She'd brought up the subject of her daughter and all of a sudden he'd got the distinct feeling that it was some sort of test.
'Emily likes to climb things.'
He'd blinked, not understanding why this information was relevant. She'd elaborated.
'She'll be in and out, no doubt. Summer before her last year of college - you know how it is. Just don't expect her to be alone. Or to use the front door, necessarily.'
For the first time in the thirty minutes he'd spent with his new boss, he registered a look of exasperation momentarily flash across her face, her perfect composure faltering. 'She can be… contrary,' she'd continued carefully, with a wave of her hand that was meant to seem reassuring. 'But she shouldn't cause too much disruption. You probably won't even notice she's here.'
Disruption. He'd found it a little sad, the fact she talked about her own daughter as anyone else would discuss inconvenient street traffic - but wasn't in a position to judge. So as she made to leave, excusing herself for lunch with old friends, he'd flashed her a dazzling smile, thanked her for the warm welcome, stepped out of her office and had promptly forgotten all about Emily Prentiss.
Until the crash. Three weeks, six days and (again, approximately) thirteen hours later.
There are many reasons why he should not have heard it. What he should have done is sort out medication for the insomnia he'd known he was going to experience during the first few weeks in a new room - in a new bed. He should have remembered that when he finally did drift of to sleep - as the first hint of daylight creeped in through the slats of his blinds - that he'd wake up groggy. Should have remembered, dammit, that caffeine was not a substitute for breakfast and lunch.
Instead, on this particular night, he'd found himself grabbing a torch, pulling on a t-shirt and wandering out into the hallway, leaving the warmth of his bedroom behind as he padded out of the east wing and down the stairs toward the kitchen in search of extra sustenance.
Aaron had instantly loved the kitchen upon walking in for lunch on his first day. Although the rest of the main house was tastefully decorated and didn't lack personality, he felt distinctly out of place among the reading rooms - with their abstract artworks, impossibly old tomes and elaborate fireplaces - and the vast, high-ceilinged dining hall. Sequestered at the back of the house, the kitchen was quaint and rustic - and, like him, a little out of place in the grandiose manor. Even at two in the morning, he's greeted by that familiar, faint scent of baked bread lingering in the air. Poking around, he lifts the edge of a bread bin with one finger and discovers the remainder of a batch of plump bread rolls.
He's in front of the fridge - plate in hand and reaching for the cheese - when he hears it; the unmistakeable sound of breaking glass, some rustling and then… a muffled thunk. The blood turns to ice in his veins as he realizes his gun is tucked away in the bedroom safe on the other side of the house. Shit. Fucking shit. Someone was breaking into the ambassador's house during his first month of his first posting. Fucking great.
A desperate sort of scrabbling starts up directly above him. He weighs his options for a fraction of a second before launching himself out of the kitchen and up the stairs, hoping to catch the (preferably weaponless) intruder in flagrante. Turning off the torch as he nears the top of the stairs, he ducks into a corner, checking for signs of life along the corridor. The persistent scraping sound grows louder, and he zeroes in on the only closed door in the wing. A light jiggle of the doorknob reveals it to be locked from the inside, and he grits his teeth, heart hammering in his chest.
Start praying they aren't armed, you idiot.
'You have five seconds to open the door and come out with your hands up, or I'm gonna break the door down and you'll be staring down the barrel of a gun while I call this in,' he calls out, gritting his teeth at the lie, praying it pays off. 'Your choice.'
The scrabbling stops momentarily. He hears a woman's voice whisper a slew of 'shits' and 'motherfuckers' before the noise returns, more frantic than ever.
Aw, fuck. With one smooth motion, he shifts his weight back onto his right foot and slams his left down on the door, which snaps off its hinges and sways precariously before crashing inside the room.
It takes his brain a second to comprehend what he's walked in on.
The standing bathtub is more than slightly askew, one leg broken clean off. Water seeps from somewhere under its belly, a puddle forming on the checkered tiles below. The faucet - gold, like the legs - is at his feet, just a few centimeters away from the splintered remains of what he can only suspect was once a large string instrument. His biggest concern, though, is the young woman half-draped inside the tub. She'd begun hissing expletives at him as soon as the door had come down; at least, he thinks she does - it's quite hard to tell when they're interspersed with a torrent of foreign words.
'Joder, que coño te pasa, hijo de la gran puta! What the fuck do you think you're doing?' she stares at him as if he's gone completely insane. Her eyes are ringed with smudged kohl and her hair is damp, thick dark tresses clinging to her cheeks and chest. The black slip dress she's in is equally soaked and she hurriedly pulls on the lapels of her oversized leather jacket, wrapping it around her protectively. He registers her slightly flushed face, a dribble of red trickling down her chin. Without thinking, he shifts forward toward her to see if she's alright.
In one smooth movement, she slides all the way back into the bathtub and simultaneously wraps her hand around one of the clunky boots she's wearing, removing the item and promptly lobbing it in the direction of his head. 'Ni se te ocurra! Who the fuck are you and what are you doing in my bathroom?'
The penny drops.
'Em-Emily? Prentiss?'
'Who's asking?' she sniffs, wiping at the blood on her chin.
'I work here. For your mother. Are you hurt?'
'Split lip. I did faceplant into the faucet, you know.' The flicker of realization in her eyes turns to fear as she looks down at his feet. Following her gaze, he grimaces when he sees the water lapping over his bare toes, seeping into the edges of his sweats. 'Oh shit,' she hisses, whipping around and twisting her torso up and over the side of the tub, leaving him with a (not entirely unpleasant, but focus, Aaron, Jesus) view of her impossibly long legs.
The scrabbling noise returns, and he suspects she's trying to fix the damaged pipe, no doubt wrenched out of position by whatever the hell had transpired when she'd all but crash-landed through the window. He picks up the faucet, still processing the scene in front of him.
'Well hell, G-man. Don't just stand there staring. Help me, goddamnit.' She turns back around and stands in the tub, removing her other boot and making a move to clamber out. He snaps out of his confused daze, springing into action when he realizes the tiles are littered with shards of glass from the broken window. 'Wait, wait,' he holds up his hand. 'Just…stay there a minute. You'll cut yourself.'
'And wait for this to become the Pacific Ocean while you stand there gawping, gillipollas?' she scoffs, hooking one leg over the tub and reaching out to him for balance. 'My mum is gonna have a cow if she finds out…'
He grabs her wrist, the charms of her bracelets digging into his fingers as he half-pushes her back into the tub. 'I don't think it's a question of if,' he smirks. 'But stay here a second. I'm going to turn off the water supply to this wing. Then we can…' he gestures vaguely at the room. 'Sort this out.'
She huffs, squares her shoulders, and scrutinizes him, her expression unreadable but no longer radiating strong distain. A small win. 'Alright.'
He's barely made it past the doorframe when she calls out.
'Hey, G-man?'
He sighs, running a hand over his face before turning around. She's taken off her jacket, the silk of her dress clinging to every curve as she perches, catlike, on the rim of the tub.
'Didn't catch your name.'
'Aaron Hotchner. Security detail.'
'Aaron Hotchner,' she repeats slowly. Her lips curl around his name as if taking possession of it, and he tries to ignore the low thrum of excitement in the pit of his stomach. 'That's a bit of a mouthful,' she continues, voice perfectly clipped. 'You'll need a nickname.'
He grins despite himself. 'I'm sure you'll come up with something.' Turning on his heel, he heads out of the bathroom on his mission to find the water supply. His grin widens at what she calls out next, her eloquent lilt echoing in the hallway.
'How about Hotch?'
Kind words and feedback most welcome!