A/N: The title isn't mine; it's from the song "Alice" by Stevie Nicks, on her album of the same name (as the title, that is).

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It was a curious trick, she thought. Working with profilers was turning her into someone she couldn't see past. Her tears were soaking into the shoulder seams, searing her eyes as they were trapped and pooled in the fabric; her nails were lodged in the bunched material at the waist. She could feel the sobs choking their way out of lungs that were signaling the need to inhale. But that grief wasn't hers. That defeated little blonde thing shaking and sprawling on Aaron Hotchner's lapel – on her boss's office floor – she couldn't feel her anymore. She'd finally learned it, she thought incredulously. She'd unplugged herself. And it had been sudden, taken less than a second of open exposure. She'd finished everything, she'd shattered in front of the one person whom she'd taught to take her seriously.

And far more important now than the acidic ache that was mercifully snaking out into oblivion like a severed tow line, more important than the cradle of limbs twining around her shoulders and through her hair, was a jarring vacuum beating where the glow of certainty she'd come to rely on had torn itself away. Her tears now ran for the loss of it.

J.J. had never really cultivated Hotch's good opinion. She just wasn't the type, and he certainly wasn't the type to appreciate anyone trying to worm their way into his graces. She'd simply accepted her role as press liaison, cheerfully taking on any ownerless team obligations she could find. The victims deserved everyone making themselves useful at all times. And so she'd only had time and energy enough to establish any personal bridges with those who were eagerly receptive. Garcia, who was enthusiastically molding her into a custom gal pal, to J.J.'s constant amusement. Reid, who seemed happy to fluctuate in her eyes between the guises of a little brother, a wiggling puppy and an approval-seeking encyclopedia. And that was only after he'd progressed beyond his star-struck admirer phase. And Morgan... a big brother. The embodiment of 'high school jock' with whom J.J. had always been completely at ease. He tugged her ponytail, she swiped his little black book, and so on ad infinitum. Elle had never warmed to her, although once in a while Morgan had been able to serve as a conduit between them. Still, it was unnerving to lose her in such an inevitable way. Even in departure, Elle had managed to persevere in her habit of making J.J. feel extraneous. And here was Emily Prentiss, too new to fit into any of J.J.'s categories.

Which left only her senior officers. Gideon was impossible. She'd been forced to decide that right off. She'd barely finished shaking the man's hand when she'd simply given him up. There were walls a mile high in his eyes, tipped with barbed wire, she suspected. Guarded with a drawbridge plus moat. Only Hotch ever really made it inside, and he was telling no secrets. Which was probably the reason, J.J. reflected. She'd resolved to simply do her job, and if she caught some of Gideon's regard along the way, then so much the better. But waiting around for it was fatal.

And as much as she avoided thinking about it, Hotch was too much like his other half for his own good. Or anyone's. Unlike Gideon, he was quick with praise, concern or certain well-timed motivational tactics, but all without venturing beyond some invisible trench line of which only he could judge the dimensions. By focusing firmly on the job at hand, letting it define her waking hours, she'd managed to avoid striving to please him, but all the same she hadn't been able to prevent a small hope from creeping up that he'd notice her efforts. The friendships, the sanity-preserving jokes, the team dynamic, the satisfaction when they made it in time, the support when they were silenced by a gruesome defeat – somehow none of it could stamp out the sorrowful curiosity she felt about the inner workings of Hotch's mind.

And one day she'd looked around and realized she'd made it. She wasn't his unknown variable anymore. Whereas before he'd simply trusted her to do what she felt was needed in playing puppeteer to the press, he trusted her now to magically eradicate obstacles and accomplish whatever he wanted. The calm reliance in his gaze had systematically dissolved every last doubt. She had ceased to wonder about her place on the team because she knew she'd earned something most people didn't even know was there.

Today, as on all the days since, that certainty in her stomach was better than coffee. She'd made it in before anyone else, except for Gideon, and she could never be quite sure that he'd gone home at all. Two hours of relative normalcy followed: questions from news agencies about the BAU's efforts on their latest case, whether the second victim might have lived if they'd been just a little bit quicker, a little bit smarter. Only Morgan knew just how much of this badgering she dealt with on a daily, sometimes hourly, basis, how much it took out of her when her own mind finally began echoing the doubting voices on the other end of the line. And she'd only let it slip after practically drowning herself in beer. She didn't plan on getting plastered with any of the team ever again. She'd learned her lesson; inhibitions were non-negotiable, no matter how often Morgan flashed her that wheedling smile.

The profilers had enough to worry about. They didn't need this crap from people who didn't have a clue what it took just to get out of bed every day to face bloodied corpses, to try stone-facedly asking a mother questions about her murdered child, to comfort terrified little ones crying for the parents who would never hug them again. To fall asleep at all. To leave each case behind when it was done.

J.J. liked her office. It was warm, it was safe, and it was hers. Sometimes, when she stayed behind, she thought she caught a flash of envy, even resentment, in the eyes of a colleague or two when they dragged themselves in after a particularly soul-grinding assignment. She was alert, she was intact, and it was an insult. But the fact that she was part of the equation said everything.

So she tried to spare them the aftermath as best she could. This morning was no picnic; she was tiring rapidly. But all of a sudden there was one phone call that blared all the others out of existence. The only one she'd never thought would come, not like this… a lightning strike out of a blue sky.

"There wasn't anything to do for her," her aunt explained timidly. "She was gone in a second." Her voice grew frightened at the lack of response. "Jennifer, dear, you know her heart has always been bad. I'm sorry, sweetie, it just finally caught up with her."