The show must go on
word count: 2.6 k Summary: It’s your first undercover assignment, and of all people, you’re paired with your Unit Chief Emily Prentiss. If you’d known a simple game of pool would leave you this affected, you might’ve said no. Or maybe not. tags: Unit Chief Prentiss, age gap, youngerbau!reader, slow burn, no mention of y/n, mutual pining, kind of fake dating, undercover mission, mention of a case, emotional tension, is it all just an act?
Masterlist
“Holy shit,” you whisper as Emily walks into the room and completely steals your ability to speak with what she’s wearing. You’ve never seen her dressed like this: revealing and elegant at the same time. She’s wearing her gray hair down, curls softening her features. The tight, purple T-shirt hugs her figure, and despite yourself, your eyes betray you, drifting before you can stop them. The V-neck is daring, more than you can comfortably handle.
You bite down hard on your tongue to stop yourself from saying something out loud that you’d regret later. The mic in your hair burns against the back of your neck like fire, reminding you to watch what you say. So far, she hasn’t spared you a single glance, too busy with Penelope, who presses a tracker into her hand.
“You can’t lose this,” you hear her say, and Emily nods dutifully.
“I know, Penelope,” she says dryly. “You’ve told me ten times. I know the procedure.”
“That may be true,” Penelope shoots back sweetly, tugging at Emily’s slightly crooked shirt, “but it’s been a while since your last undercover op, Em—Chief.”
You suppress a grin at their exchange, amused by their back-and-forth. It’s your first mission where you actually get to participate. Your first time not just tagging along with a team that already runs like a well-oiled machine, but actually being part of it. Of course you know how long and how well most of them know each other, but moments like this really make it obvious.
“That’s how it always goes,” Alvez murmurs, handing you a file. “One last run-through?”
“Sure.” You take it, even though you already know it by heart, and flip it open. “Thanks.”
“You’ve got this. Don’t overthink it,” he encourages, clapping your shoulder a little too hard.
You don’t react, just give him a grateful smile. Hours earlier, Luke had already tried to calm you down, prepping you for this, doing everything he could to ease your nerves. Still, you’re on edge, the uncertainty creeping in despite knowing the plan inside out. You’ve gone over every scenario, every possible reaction.
You’ve spent years preparing for this job, but an undercover op isn’t something you can treat like routine. Not yet. You’re still too new to the BAU. And the fact that your first mission is with your boss doesn’t exactly help. At least not for you. Maybe your little crush plays a role too, but you shove that thought aside.
You go over everything again in your head, reminding yourself why you’re here, why this operation matters. The unsub kills couples—same-sex and heterosexual—with noticeable age gaps. Month after month he’s escalating, more brutal, faster, more efficient. So it didn’t take long to decide who would play bait: Emily and you. You fit the profile perfectly, even if Luke couldn’t resist joking that you should go undercover with Rossi instead, a single look from Emily shutting him up immediately.
You saw the faint smile on her lips when she made the call, and you nearly sank under the table from sheer nerves, your thoughts spiraling, one question after another. Why you two? It made sense, sure, but doubt lingered. What if she’d figured you out? Noticed your little crush? But would she really pick you as her partner if she had?
You shake the thought off, refusing to dwell on how detailed your discussions about your fake relationship had been, how alive her ideas had sounded, as if she enjoyed the way you squirmed under her gaze.
And now you’re here: shaky legs, racing heart, thoughts running wild. Because preparing is one thing. Actually doing it is something else entirely.
Luke clears his throat when you don’t respond to your name for the third time. “Here’s your tracker. Better keep it safe before Garcia gives you a lecture too.”
“Right.” You take the small black device and slip it into your purse, about to say something else when Emily turns toward you, and freezes mid-step.
Emily Prentiss has always been hard to read. At least for you. Her reactions toward you are often ambiguous, making it difficult to tell whether certain looks are positive or not. When her dark, burning eyes trail over your body, you instinctively tug at your dress, your fingers trembling slightly as they smooth over the black fabric, pulling it down a little, it’s definitely too short. You’re acutely aware of how you must look to your boss. She’s never seen you like this, and you don’t know what to make of the way she’s looking at you now.
She walks toward you slowly, the corner of her mouth twitching as you adjust the strap that’s slipped off your shoulder. Her gaze burns into your skin, leaving heat, wreckage, a pounding heart and a growing desire pooling low in your body. Thank God you chose to wear underwear, even if Garcia had complained that visible lines would ruin the look.
“Ready?” Emily stops in front of you, her voice low and smoky.
A shiver slips down your spine before you can stop it, your skin breaking into goosebumps along your arms.
Her eyes flick down to them, of course she noticed. And worse, you’re pretty sure she knows why. There’s that subtle hint of a smirk, barely there, but familiar.
You nod, eyes dropping, because holding her gaze for even a second too long feels like a mistake. Not now. Not here. You’ll have to play that role long enough at the bar, and convincingly.
“You okay?” She steps closer, prompting Luke to leave you alone, a brief nod from her going unnoticed by you.
“I’m okay,” you echo, though it doesn’t sound convincing, even to you.
“Hm.” She exhales softly, her breath brushing your face, making you finally look up. “I need to know you’re ready. I have to be able to rely on you, same as you rely on me. We trust each other. Tonight, we’re a couple. I need to know you can do that. I know you can. You just have to believe it.”
The gentleness in her voice, edged with firmness, doesn’t escape you. You wet your lips, trying to respond, but the small dimple on her cheek completely throws you off.
She smiles, lifting her hand to rest it lightly on your bare shoulder. “I believe in you. It’s time you believe in yourself. You’re not here by accident, I hired you. Remember?”
“I know,” you say quietly, hyper-aware of her hand on your bare shoulder. Still, you straighten, grounding yourself in your job, your skills, your role. “I’m ready.”
“Good.” She nods once, letting go and gesturing for you to follow. “Let’s go.”
Two hours later, the stale air in the bar is giving you a headache, Emily’s closeness making your stomach flutter, and the possible presence of the unsub keeping you on edge. Your senses are sharp, you’re ready, and Emily notices, catching it in the way you carry yourself. You catch the satisfied look in her eyes, feel it in the way she relaxes. You’re doing your job, even with everything hitting you all at once. You trained for this. Fought for this. This is where you belong.
You sip your soda when Emily’s thumb brushes over the back of your hand, pulling you closer, your body settling fully against her side as your hand finds her thigh like it belongs there. You exchange a look that lingers a second too long to be just for show. Her perfume surrounds you, warmer up close, nothing like the clean distance of the office.
“At ten o’clock,” she murmurs into your ear, and you laugh softly.
The music pounds through the room, but it doesn’t drown out your racing heart. The unsub is here, or at least someone who fits the profile. Emily’s hand slides through your hair, pulling you closer. Her lips barely brush your ear, and it’s enough to make your focus slip. Her breath is hot against your skin, sending a slow, involuntary shiver down your spine.
“Dark hair. Blue shirt. Brown cargo pants. Stubble. Glasses. He’s been watching us for a while.”
You’ve noticed him too. You press a soft kiss to her cheekbone, your finger tracing along her chin, and hear her exhale.
“I saw him,” you reply, playing with the bracelet on her wrist. “He’s heading to the pool tables.”
You let yourself linger on the gold chain, the delicate links catching your attention as a way to steady yourself, the pendant glinting in the light as you absentmindedly pinch it between your fingers, feeling the raised surface of the stone.
“Game of pool?” Emily leans back to look at you, brushing a strand of hair from your face before pulling you up with her.
“Sure,” you say, following her, your hand firmly in hers.
You pick a table that gives you a good view while keeping some distance.
“I’ll grab what we need,” she murmurs, giving your waist a gentle squeeze, your fingers tightening around your glass before you even realize it.
You can feel his eyes on you without turning around: piercing, invasive, unsettling. You glance toward Emily, who’s still leaning over the bar talking to the bartender, while you take a small step back until the edge of the table presses against you. Crossing your legs, you take a sip, and when she finally returns, you smile brightly.
“Ready to lose?” she teases, laughing freely, carefree, a few loose curls bouncing as she tilts her head, brushing them back absently as she looks at you.
“Never,” you shoot back, taking the cue she offers.
You’ve never played before, but you don’t let it show, you can’t, not when you’re supposed to be convincing and Emily would notice immediately if something feels off.
Emily takes the break, the cue ball cracking through the rack as one of the balls drops almost immediately. Another follows in quick succession, and you watch her move around the table with effortless precision, nerves tightening in your chest as she makes it look almost unfairly easy.
It isn’t until she finally misses, just barely, that the rhythm breaks, and she straightens, stepping back from the table with a brief glance in your direction, something almost challenging in her eyes. The table is yours now.
She watches as you step into position, and you pick a ball without really thinking it through because thinking through it would only make it worse. You lean in, cue hovering over the felt, and that’s when it hits you: you have no idea what you’re doing.
You glance at her, catching the smirk on her lips before your gaze drops as you lean in, the moment stretching just a fraction too long. For a second, her eyes dip to your neckline, and you catch it, that brief flicker of satisfaction, and your thoughts snag on it. Is it just part of the act?
You aim and miss, the cue ball rolling away with a quiet finality that only makes your nerves spike more.
“Out of practice?” she teases.
“A little,” you laugh, forcing it lighter than you feel. “Next one’s going in.”
“We’ll see.” She sinks another ball, then misses, straightening slowly as she glances up at you with a hint of challenge that lingers a beat too long. “Your turn.”
She steps in beside you, her warmth grounding you despite the noise around you, her hand brushing your lower back as she leans in slightly, pulling you back into focus without effort. “He seems interested.”
“Mmm,” you hum, leaning into her touch without thinking. “I know… I can feel his eyes on us.”
“Just a bit longer,” she murmurs, pressing a brief kiss to your temple, so quick it almost feels imagined. “The more we interact, the sooner he makes a move. Okay?”
“Okay.” You swallow, excitement and nerves twisting together as her fingers tap three times against your wrist, and just like that, the role clicks back into place, cutting clean through your thoughts.
You slip out of her arms and step up to the table, leaning forward slowly, fully aware of the angle, of the view you’re giving her, heat rising steadily up your neck as the room seems to narrow down to just the table and her presence behind you.
You don’t even have to look to know she’s watching, you feel it before she even touches you.
“You need to adjust your stance.” Her foot slides between yours, gently nudging them apart, her hips pressing in close like she’s not even trying to keep distance, erasing it instead of respecting it. And when she leans in, her hand covering yours on the cue, a shaky breath slips out, and you know she heard it, even if neither of you acknowledges it. For a second, you forget where you are, the noise, the bar, the case all fading into something distant and irrelevant.
Your hand trembles despite your effort to hide it. It’s too close, way too close, and you can’t focus on anything but her.
“Honey… am I making you nervous?” she murmurs, pressing closer.
The pause in her voice does something to you, your stomach twisting, your pulse spiking as you shake your head a little too quickly, breath catching slightly before you manage to steady it, not trusting your voice, not trusting anything right now.
“Higher,” she says softly.
Her fingers slide up your arm, slow and controlled, lifting your elbow into place, and you can feel the moment stretch as she lingers just a fraction too long.
“Here,” Emily murmurs. “Let me help.”
“Emily…” you breathe, and it comes out thinner than you intended, caught somewhere between protest and something else entirely.
“Better,” she says quietly, but still doesn’t move away.
You inhale too deep, her perfume already everywhere, closer now, clinging to you in a way that makes it harder to stay in the moment, like it’s pulling your attention away from everything else.
It takes effort to pull yourself back into focus. The cue steadies in your hand, but for a second, it’s not the game you’re thinking about. You aim, and the ball drops cleanly into the pocket. For a split second, everything stills.
“Good girl,” she murmurs, low enough that it’s just for you.
Her hand tightens briefly at your hip before she pulls you back against her, just enough to press a quick kiss to your cheek, gone too fast, but not fast enough.
Your body reacts before your thoughts can catch up. Heat hits you all at once, impossible to hide, and you step forward out of her hold more abruptly than intended, your legs pressing together without thinking.
“You’re a good teacher, Em,” you manage, voice steadier than you feel, glancing back at her through your lashes as you catch the way her gaze lingers, just for a second, but long enough. “Now you’re going to lose.”
You lean in again, taking your next shot, and don’t hesitate. The ball sinks, and in that exact moment, you catch movement from the corner of your eye.
Your unsub has moved closer. You have his attention, no doubt about it. You’re playing your roles well, maybe a little too well.
When you glance at Emily, if you didn’t know better, you’d swear her eyes have gone darker, her touch lingering, her lips hinting at something more. You force yourself to remember why you’re here, flipping your hair back and focusing on the present.
Because one thing’s certain: The show must go on.
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