Author's Note: Alright, so this is just an experimental piece to see if you guys like the sound of it. Because I'm kinky and weird (Ha! Kidding...unless it involves Brad Paisley ;)), I came up with this storyline. Sounds really weird and obsessive because of the prologue, and yeah, it's kind of going to be that way, but I swear it's not going to be as creepy as it sounds. I thought it'd be fun to write, and something fun for the readers, too. If this sounds too weird or uninteresting, lemme know. But if you think it deserves a story, once I get caught up with my other unfinished stories (I say 'caught up' as in, post new chapters, not finish the stories altogether) I'll post a chapter for this. Let me know. Thanks.
This is rated M because I'm going to be getting down in the nitty-gritty with this one. Oh yeah, sexual and suggestive content, drug/alcohol abuse (alright, maybe I threw that one in there with false pretenses) and language. Interested?
She bit her lip. Watching him has became like an obsession; but if you were to ask her, she'd minimize it, call it something more like an infatuation, which in some sense, is a sugarcoated way of saying she was hooked. Needing her next fix like a junkie hard on its presumably life-preserving drugs, she knelt deeper into the corner of his house, adjusting the binoculars to just the right angle; the images blurred and cleared in front of her dark eyes in seconds, his life displayed out like a fancy painting hitched up over a mantel. At first she only came around once or twice a week, but the harder Strauss stepped on her back to get her to dig deeper, the more intrigued she really became. She liked the way he often spent his nights pacing, when his son was already gone up to bed. The way he got dressed in his pajamas and brushed his teeth, making sure all of the appliances and lights were turned off before spitting in the kitchen sink; never the bathroom one. The way his gray sleepshirt fell loosely over his surprisingly tight torso. Or the way his baggy blue pajama bottoms hung at the waistline admirably but around the legs, they fell like ruffled curtains over a window. She had yet to ever be spotted, or even come close to getting caught, but there were times she felt disgusting. Like tonight. Peeping into a window like a stalker, who thrived on watching people go about their daily habits and probably pleasing themselves upon viewing. Emily never did that, of course.
Tonight was genuinely an innocent night. Hotch wasn't doing anything wrong, and what he did when he got home, although depressing and extremely lonely, was never anything she didn't come to expect of him. After a while; and I mean after a long while, of crouching around bushes and peeping into side windows, when her hamstrings and leg muscles would start to burn and tear with objection, she'd kind of wish he would do something out of the ordinary, just so she could stop yawning incessantly, not to feed it back to Strauss like a toddler tattling on their older sibling.
But her cue had come up, and the sight of Hotch retreating back to the darker hallway, toothbrush in one hand, flicking the light switch so the kitchen and dining room darkened immensely, was her only indication it was time to head home. She lowered the binoculars, stuffing them in her black messenger bag and stood up. Her legs wobbled, turning to jello in an instant, hardly being able to stand upright without them shaking and waddling in each direction. She felt the urge to drop down and crawl her way to the car, but she fought her way there, tired and strained. And like every night prior to this one, she was saying, indistinguishably in her head, "You are done with this bullshit, Emily. Not again. You're not coming back." but she knew that tomorrow, just like tonight, she'd be outside of his house, watching with suppressed interest and even taunting desire. What would he do next?