Why do I do this to myself?
I hate this morning. At 8:00, the door bell rings. The door bell never rings, I still don't have enough friends in this country to drop unannounced. So I didn't open the door (the fact that I was still half-asleep might also be a valid reason ._.)
Anyways, on today's To-Do List is work on materials' physics (the exam is in two days after all), work on my Hodges fic (the second chapter of which should have been written three weeks ago: it just doesn't want to come out of my head), work on some icons and...Introduce you to the first time this *points downwards* happens to me.
Title: Willful Considerations
Author: scary_sushi
Fandom: Criminal Minds
Rating: G
Summary: Garcia’s thoughts on her, Morgan, her life, and Reid. (written after the 1st season.)
Word count: 3, 692
I've never before been compelled to write, and especially not in a fandom I have just started to watch. But this... this wouldn't leave me alone. I mean... I opened Word three days ago (I had to write up my report and I wanted to work on Hodges' fic) but I knew, I just knew that I was going to go totally off-script (would you believe I wrote half of that on Sunday instead of working?). And I don't know what spurred this, but I was halfway through it before even realizing I had been typing.
This scares me: fandom controls me now. I think I'm it's bitch *freaks out*.
Reid hovers uncomfortably over Garcia’s shoulder; he’s working their latest case right from her computer-bunker, the extra earpiece he snatched from Garcia’s drawer nestled in his right ear. He’s looking at some maps right now, trying to connect the dots: as Garcia’s hands fly over three keyboards almost simultaneously, windows popping on the multiple screens, bringing up DMV records and rap sheets, he can’t help but think that, for all the work all of his team does, they would never get anywhere without her working her magic.
Reid, you’re still with me?
Snapping out of his musings, Reid invades the plump woman’s personal space even more, his eyes focusing on the screen, his mind already drawing complex figures, trying to join their victims’ locations. He doesn’t register Garcia’s sharp intake of breath, the way her hands seem to still on the keyboard, or the fact that he’s close enough to inhale her shampoo. It suddenly clicks, and he can see the Star of David -missing a corner, though. As he starts babbling in his earpiece to Hotch about religious significance and where the next dump site may very well be, he’s struck by a soft sigh. A womanly sigh, something he has only heard after his few-and-in-between college kisses -and Lila’s kisses. So he carefully leans back as his eyes widen and he realizes his position: after all, Garcia’s cleavage is in plain view. And this patterned spaghetti-strap tank top does nothing to hide it.
Evidently, Garcia has come to the same conclusion. And while Reid is the one who’s now blushing like there’s no tomorrow, Garcia’s hand comes to rest on her breasts as she coyly looks up at him and says next time I’ll have your hide if you don’t ask for permission. Reid sputters and stammers as he tries to explain himself, get the words out that he really hadn’t been looking, and he realizes how this must look. And he thinks no awkward moment he has ever known can compare to now, and how will I ever work with Garcia again? She’ll think I’m a closeted pervert, a peeping Tom, a...
As Garcia’s hand settles on his forearm, Reid manages to raise his eyes to her face.
She’s smiling.
People will really start talking now, Reid, and she chuckles and squeezes his arm firmly, unfazed, as she returns to her endless searches.
Reid manages to lose his flush half-an-hour later. He still wonders how she turned this seriously uncomfortable moment into one of his fondest memories.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Garcia has settled on the couch, a steaming mug of hot chocolate on the coffee table in front of her. As she extends her legs and wraps herself up even more tightly in the colored plaid her mother sent her last year, she idly flips through the television channels, trying to find something interesting.
What can you find at two am apart from porn, she wonders with a shrug.
It’s been a long day, and an even longer night before that. As cliché as it sounds, field agents aren’t the only ones that eat, breathe and live at work. Her job takes up most of her days and even more of her nights: as soon as Gideon and his team get called on a case, you can bet she’s the next one on the list, and it’s usually three hours later. She smiles as she sips her beverage: chocolate, in all its shapes and forms, always rhymes with comfort, and boy, is she in need of comfort right now. They managed to catch the unsub after tracking him down for the past week (Garcia hasn’t seen her apartment in three days: a change of clothes at work and a new toothbrush are definitely in order), which explains why she’s wearing her softest pajamas and fluffy socks on a Friday night. She puts some soft music on, lies back, and enjoys the calm: she really needs more time to herself. As of three days ago, it’s the first time -since God knows how long- that she hasn’t cared about her appearance. Usually, Garcia always tries to make an effort because she knows she’s not something to look at. She doesn’t kid herself in thinking she’s as striking as Elle -the slimness, for one, is a dead giveaway, or as appealing as J.J -although she is blonde. She has curves -more than she likes- and wears glasses because contacts and multiple computer screens? Not a good idea. But to think only twisted sociopaths would find her type attractive (and not in a good way) frightens her. This case... It hit too close too home. She found out the case files had arrived after more than five murders: obviously the local county hadn’t deemed it important to connect five murders with the same M.O and the same victim type. The women were all in their late thirties.
All of them were overweight.
As she pulled their records, she remembers thinking it could’ve been her. And that it was she that could’ve lain there in the dirt for days before being discovered, she that would have been a nameless file in a box before some enlightened mind thought to relate the killings. She nurses her drink, swirling her finger in its sweetness, before she thinks of how Morgan called her his Tracking Goddess with his warm hand in her shoulder. She chortles but remembers Reid and his flush and her cleavage and she starts to laugh and laugh and she doesn’t know when it turns almost hysterical and she is sobbing convulsively.
You can get rattled from the computer-bunker after all.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
On Monday morning, Garcia steps into her kingdom, looking extra-nice: even Theresa, the receptionist, has complimented her on the way up. She’s still thinking of Friday and how Reid stared. At some point, anyhow: she is sure the poor boy hadn’t even realized it at that time. And while Garcia’s banter with Morgan is much more evocative, Morgan knows never to cross boundaries -work hard and play hard, but don’t ever mix both. That’s his motto, and Garcia understands: she doubts she’s his type anyways, she thinks darkly. She saw him once with a tall redhead who looked like a Victoria’s Secret model. And another time with a well-groomed brunette that could have posed for Calvin Klein’s boxers and briefs line because he met the six-pack requirement.
That hadn’t surprised her much. She senses those things. Maybe that’s why she feels like she can go as far as she wants with words and Morgan. He’s a ladies’ man (yes, wannabe male models addicted to the gym are classified as ladies in her book), only she doesn’t think he really sees her as a lady. She settles on her desk and clears her thoughts: she has never been so maudlin. Usually she doesn’t think about boyfriends twice because she can get a date as much as the next person, thank you very much. But as her mother insists, you can always shed those pounds, sweetheart, and you won’t have to overcompensate with this make-up... This must be why she doesn’t speak with her mother much.
As Garcia’s thoughts wonder, a new case has her ears and hands occupied: but this time, it isn’t Reid doing the hovering. Reid is in the field, and as much as she enjoys having company, Hotch is undeniably not the one she wants perched atop her shoulder egging her for results. It’s probably because Hotch, like Gideon, sees her more like a simple mean to their ends: in order to catch/track/trace... the unsub, Garcia is needed. And while Garcia understands both of them care for Morgan, Reid and Elle -she has seen Gideon and Hotch enquire about their charges’ mental health after a rough case quite a few times- she also respects that she’s not part of the group. She isn’t supposed to understand or feel what the profilers feel: they think because she doesn’t do the field, she cannot grasp the horror.
But she does. And as Hotch lingers for twenty hours straight in front of her computer screens waiting for answers, she works her magic all the while thinking she should get another job.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
The first time she notices it is a gloomy Wednesday of November.
Morgan -as always-, walks in oozing a sex-sated glow after a rough case, but he doesn’t look fulfilled. Garcia taps her finger against her lip, picks at her fruity red lipstick, and wonders. Last time it happened was four years ago, and he ended up proposing with ‘her’ running off four days later, never to be found again. Garcia snickers as she recognizes it for what it really is: one serious attraction that’s rapidly escalating. She breaches the subject lightly when he comes in for some banter.
It’s the first time she’s seen him clam up so quickly. Not even the nightmares had elicited that reaction: Garcia knows of the nightmares because she’s the one that convinced Morgan to accept Gideon’s help. It’s true she hasn’t seen the field, but she’s not as blind as everyone else thinks. It pays to have eyes that can tap into cameras anywhere in the world, and she’s caught a glimpse of how human Gideon behaves with distressed agents. As Morgan locks her out and gets his ‘You’re-the-suspect-and-I’m-not-the-one-answering-questions-here’ look, Garcia knows. She feels it in her gut: it’s a workplace romance. Misplaced attraction and misplaced lust are perfectly understandable for people such as him. While the F.B.I training gives him control over these urges, it also encourages their exorcism, undoubtedly why Morgan has different women or different men every night, she ponders. And obviously, release isn’t enough for our little friend here, she chuckles. As she covers his hand with her own, he looks at her, a hard look in his eyes. He’s staring her down, but she refuses to budge. She is as stubborn as he is, and she frowns as she says I’m not the enemy, Derek, you can trust me.
This Wednesday sees him take off in a huff, and their exchange is laced with tension for the rest of the day, all of which pisses Gideon off because neither he nor she is giving it their all. Thursday she almost doesn’t talk to him: it always seems Hotch is in charge of dealing with her and the information they want. She delves into the case, and it isn’t until she goes to fetch a steaming cup of coffee that she becomes conscious of no one talking to her today apart from Hotch and Reid. And they talked to her alright: over the phone. It’s sad, really: she used to have friends when she worked on the second floor: now she’s not in a cubicle but in a bunker with no windows and no more human contact if she doesn’t venture out voluntarily. A Penelope! shout surprises her, and she sees a petite woman sprinting towards her. Marie coordinates all of Narcotics’ databases, and I tried to call you Penelope, after you moved up here, Marie chuckles. What, did they hole you up? No one can seem to get a hold of you anymore: I called you at home a few times, but... And Garcia blushes and says she changed her number and Marie and her walk for a bit as they exchange phone numbers again and they promise to meet up next weekend. Garcia returns to her kingdom feeling giddy.
Friday is a repeat of all the other days, but now Garcia has weekend plans to look forward to. While last Saturday and Sunday where sleep heaven (she didn’t set a toe outside for two days straight), now she has a Saturday lunch to look forward to. And it turns out to be just as funny as she remembers any time with Marie being: she doesn’t know how, but the woman manages to makes her spill her guts out in record time. Too bad she isn’t the one in charge of making drug dealers confess, she’d be scarily good at it. The sun shines in the cold November afternoon, and she’s sitting there with Marie in front of some chicken curry, talking about Morgan, the ‘overweight-women’ case still disturbing her, and which 24 episode she’s at. It feels so good to see someone else, someone who isn’t connected to their little circle of work freaks. She asks if anything is new in your life, Marie, what are you up to now? The other woman looks away, and her cheeks turn pink as she smiles her dimple smile. He’s three cubicles ahead of me, she wryly states, and of course Garcia wants to know everything there is to know about him, and she’s all excited for Marie and distantly wishes for a man that would make her voice waver and her hands tremble like that.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Next week Morgan comes back to normal: Garcia isn’t pushing. She knows he’ll talk eventually -he always does- , but she breaks a coffee mug on Thursday when she sees Reid’s hands shaking slightly as he’s emptying sugar in his coffee and Morgan walks in. Coffee splashes everywhere and her cream blouse is ruined -but then it’s cotton anyways- and her eyes flicker rapidly between the two men in front of her. Reid rushes to see if she’s okay, not to worry Reid, I’m just not really awake yet, it’s been a rough night, and she kneels to clean up the shards. Morgan scoots down beside her and helps, not uttering a sound. When he sighs Do you want to grab a beer on Friday, O Queen of the Screens? she wants to hug him but only replies that sure, she’d be delighted.
Eventually (two weeks later), they have that beer. And Morgan spills his story. That he doesn’t know when it began, and he feels so guilty he can’t seem to work properly. Oh, he can still profile, but each time Reid comes up with another one of his whacked up plans where he seems to put himself willingly into peril, Morgan’s heart tightens and it feels like Gideon can see right through him. And he’s scared, and why am I telling you all of this, Penelope, I don’t want to burden you, it’s none of your concern. She smacks him lightly over the head and says, but what am I here for Derek? That’s what friends do: they listen. And she smiles, all the while thinking love blossoms under the strangest circumstances. She keeps thinking Morgan was the first one who hadn’t wanted Reid on the team, said he was too young and inexperienced. That intellect wasn’t a key to profiling. But then Gideon bent him, like he always manages to do. And Reid got on the team. After three years, she dares to say he’s comfortable. Comfortable enough to start feeling.
And evidently -well, evidently for her, anyways- it seems Reid’s hands betray him and this isn’t one-sided after all. She keeps quiet though while Morgan continues talking: it isn’t her secret to tell. Who would’ve thought? She muses darkly while staring at her Pina Colada. It’s a refreshing drink and eases the weight on her chest: Morgan is still muttering under his breath, shaking his head, and obviously feeling miserable. He looks up at her and she sees his eyes shine, but of course she must be imagining things, and he says he can’t even vent the pent-up tension anymore, not since some obscure night when Reid asked him how he did it, how he managed to have a different woman every night. Garcia raises her eyebrow at that but says nothing, because it would be just like Reid to ask that question out of the blue. And she surmises from Morgan’s desiccated speech that now he feels so guilty, so empty when he tries to take a woman out. I can’t even enjoy plain sex anymore, Garcia, I don’t know what’s happening to me. She just pats him on the back of the hand and commiserates: after all, it’s Friday night and he’s sharing a beer with her in a badly lit bar.
She knows he won’t ever make the first move.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Time never stops and all the days blend and merge into a whirlwind of juvenile records and maps and drivers’ licenses, and Garcia can’t keep herself from noticing Reid’s trembling fingers each time he steps in her kingdom with Morgan. Morgan, for himself, has been acting a lot more relaxed -she has now been promoted to Empress of the Much Needed and Desired Hard Drives- but she feels like she’s watching one of her mother’s soap operas. The tension’s building up and only she can see it: Morgan and Reid? They’re two oblivious little bunnies, she tells Marie (of course not naming her co-workers: she just happens to call them Warren and Will) and she wants to do something about it, but what? Do you have any ideas, any ideas at all? Marie rolls her eyes and advices her to talk to Will, since Warren already told her (albeit unrelentingly) and he isn’t going to do anything about it. But Penelope, how on earth are you going to manage? He sounds so anal and you say he can’t even crack a joke!
But Garcia lets the events unfold. She understands how Reid’s mind works (well, at least empirically -she’s seen the way he behaves with people and she’s quite a good judge of character, if she does say so herself) so she waits. And waits. And she keeps seeing the hands shiver, and at some point during the next four months, goosebumps start appearing as well. And finally, with Reid breathing heavily over her shoulder in his earpiece, giving Morgan directions, exactly like a year ago, she feels his hand come up on her arm and squeeze. She looks up and he has hung up and is looking away, his eyes lost and his breathing ragged and he whispers I have a confession to make. And his tone is soft, softer than anything else she has ever heard coming out of Reid. For once, he sounds his age and he reminds her that she isn’t getting any younger and, for that matter, neither is he. Garcia, I. He’s stalling now, and his grip on her arm is painful and he’s still staring somewhere. So she grabs his hand firmly, and looks at him, really looks at him. She extends her own hand and grips his chin, forcing him to look at her. To see her. I know, Reid. You don’t have to tell me, I know. The poor boy looks panic stricken but she doesn’t let go of him, even though he struggles. She can see him break, his defenses coming crashing down. His eyes flicker fretfully, trying to rest anywhere but on her, and then he’s shaking and saying I don’t know what I was thinking, Garcia, I’m so sorry! I’ve never felt this, and it’s not going away, and I don’t know what to do, and he’s yours and it’s killing me and I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry...
She doesn’t know it but she’s crying and hugging him and thinking God, you’ve made him so strong it’s been more than a year, how did he make it? Because obviously this is more than just an infatuation. This is stronger than anything else she has ever seen: it grows more powerful in the face of adversity. Morgan had tried -is still trying- to crush it, while Reid wanted to -no, wants to asphyxiate it in the bud but both are being suffocated by it, both are drowning in it. And she knows she has to break this stalemate because for the past three months, Morgan has been changing. He’s been spending most of his time with her but his smile is sad. She doesn’t know when she started cataloging his smiles, when she actually started recognizing the fake ones and counting them, but the point is this has gone for far too long. She spends her time with a man that’s slowly breaking over another who has already shattered. So she hugs Reid: he’s shaking and hiccupping and his sobs are only a dignity away and she soothes him with lazy circles on his back and waits until he calms down to put both her hands on his shoulders and look at him in the eye and say He has never been mine, sweetie. As much as I would have wanted, I’m not the one that has his heart. She can hear him say But he spends all his time with you now, so she shushes him by placing her index on his lips and carefully putting a stray strand of his hair behind his ear. Spence, his heart isn’t mine. Now I’m going to tell you something: his heart does belong to someone. But you have to promise me you’ll talk to him about it. Promise me you’ll do something about this, ok? She sees his eyes go wide, and she frowns as she adds that he has to ask Morgan now: not in three weeks or five months or even eight years, but now, before this destroys him. And before it destroys Morgan. Don’t be so afraid of his answer, Spence, and she smiles sadly to the terribly young man and caresses his cheek as she leans in and kisses him on the lips. Just a brief contact, but he has her blessing. Dazed, Reid doesn’t look blank for the first time in months. He shifts towards her and rests his head on her shoulder: he’s falling, falling, falling but she catches him and he feels her hands on his shoulders, trying to chase away the cold that’s settled in his bones sometime in the past six months. He’s hopeful, although he doesn’t know why: it probably has to do with this weight that’s disappeared off his chest. He hadn’t even realized it was there. So he inhales deeply, breathing in air and Garcia’s shampoo, and he decides maybe he’ll talk to Derek tonight. Yes, tonight might be a good idea.
Anyways, on today's To-Do List is work on materials' physics (the exam is in two days after all), work on my Hodges fic (the second chapter of which should have been written three weeks ago: it just doesn't want to come out of my head), work on some icons and...Introduce you to the first time this *points downwards* happens to me.
Title: Willful Considerations
Author: scary_sushi
Fandom: Criminal Minds
Rating: G
Summary: Garcia’s thoughts on her, Morgan, her life, and Reid. (written after the 1st season.)
Word count: 3, 692
I've never before been compelled to write, and especially not in a fandom I have just started to watch. But this... this wouldn't leave me alone. I mean... I opened Word three days ago (I had to write up my report and I wanted to work on Hodges' fic) but I knew, I just knew that I was going to go totally off-script (would you believe I wrote half of that on Sunday instead of working?). And I don't know what spurred this, but I was halfway through it before even realizing I had been typing.
This scares me: fandom controls me now. I think I'm it's bitch *freaks out*.
Reid hovers uncomfortably over Garcia’s shoulder; he’s working their latest case right from her computer-bunker, the extra earpiece he snatched from Garcia’s drawer nestled in his right ear. He’s looking at some maps right now, trying to connect the dots: as Garcia’s hands fly over three keyboards almost simultaneously, windows popping on the multiple screens, bringing up DMV records and rap sheets, he can’t help but think that, for all the work all of his team does, they would never get anywhere without her working her magic.
Reid, you’re still with me?
Snapping out of his musings, Reid invades the plump woman’s personal space even more, his eyes focusing on the screen, his mind already drawing complex figures, trying to join their victims’ locations. He doesn’t register Garcia’s sharp intake of breath, the way her hands seem to still on the keyboard, or the fact that he’s close enough to inhale her shampoo. It suddenly clicks, and he can see the Star of David -missing a corner, though. As he starts babbling in his earpiece to Hotch about religious significance and where the next dump site may very well be, he’s struck by a soft sigh. A womanly sigh, something he has only heard after his few-and-in-between college kisses -and Lila’s kisses. So he carefully leans back as his eyes widen and he realizes his position: after all, Garcia’s cleavage is in plain view. And this patterned spaghetti-strap tank top does nothing to hide it.
Evidently, Garcia has come to the same conclusion. And while Reid is the one who’s now blushing like there’s no tomorrow, Garcia’s hand comes to rest on her breasts as she coyly looks up at him and says next time I’ll have your hide if you don’t ask for permission. Reid sputters and stammers as he tries to explain himself, get the words out that he really hadn’t been looking, and he realizes how this must look. And he thinks no awkward moment he has ever known can compare to now, and how will I ever work with Garcia again? She’ll think I’m a closeted pervert, a peeping Tom, a...
As Garcia’s hand settles on his forearm, Reid manages to raise his eyes to her face.
She’s smiling.
People will really start talking now, Reid, and she chuckles and squeezes his arm firmly, unfazed, as she returns to her endless searches.
Reid manages to lose his flush half-an-hour later. He still wonders how she turned this seriously uncomfortable moment into one of his fondest memories.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Garcia has settled on the couch, a steaming mug of hot chocolate on the coffee table in front of her. As she extends her legs and wraps herself up even more tightly in the colored plaid her mother sent her last year, she idly flips through the television channels, trying to find something interesting.
What can you find at two am apart from porn, she wonders with a shrug.
It’s been a long day, and an even longer night before that. As cliché as it sounds, field agents aren’t the only ones that eat, breathe and live at work. Her job takes up most of her days and even more of her nights: as soon as Gideon and his team get called on a case, you can bet she’s the next one on the list, and it’s usually three hours later. She smiles as she sips her beverage: chocolate, in all its shapes and forms, always rhymes with comfort, and boy, is she in need of comfort right now. They managed to catch the unsub after tracking him down for the past week (Garcia hasn’t seen her apartment in three days: a change of clothes at work and a new toothbrush are definitely in order), which explains why she’s wearing her softest pajamas and fluffy socks on a Friday night. She puts some soft music on, lies back, and enjoys the calm: she really needs more time to herself. As of three days ago, it’s the first time -since God knows how long- that she hasn’t cared about her appearance. Usually, Garcia always tries to make an effort because she knows she’s not something to look at. She doesn’t kid herself in thinking she’s as striking as Elle -the slimness, for one, is a dead giveaway, or as appealing as J.J -although she is blonde. She has curves -more than she likes- and wears glasses because contacts and multiple computer screens? Not a good idea. But to think only twisted sociopaths would find her type attractive (and not in a good way) frightens her. This case... It hit too close too home. She found out the case files had arrived after more than five murders: obviously the local county hadn’t deemed it important to connect five murders with the same M.O and the same victim type. The women were all in their late thirties.
All of them were overweight.
As she pulled their records, she remembers thinking it could’ve been her. And that it was she that could’ve lain there in the dirt for days before being discovered, she that would have been a nameless file in a box before some enlightened mind thought to relate the killings. She nurses her drink, swirling her finger in its sweetness, before she thinks of how Morgan called her his Tracking Goddess with his warm hand in her shoulder. She chortles but remembers Reid and his flush and her cleavage and she starts to laugh and laugh and she doesn’t know when it turns almost hysterical and she is sobbing convulsively.
You can get rattled from the computer-bunker after all.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
On Monday morning, Garcia steps into her kingdom, looking extra-nice: even Theresa, the receptionist, has complimented her on the way up. She’s still thinking of Friday and how Reid stared. At some point, anyhow: she is sure the poor boy hadn’t even realized it at that time. And while Garcia’s banter with Morgan is much more evocative, Morgan knows never to cross boundaries -work hard and play hard, but don’t ever mix both. That’s his motto, and Garcia understands: she doubts she’s his type anyways, she thinks darkly. She saw him once with a tall redhead who looked like a Victoria’s Secret model. And another time with a well-groomed brunette that could have posed for Calvin Klein’s boxers and briefs line because he met the six-pack requirement.
That hadn’t surprised her much. She senses those things. Maybe that’s why she feels like she can go as far as she wants with words and Morgan. He’s a ladies’ man (yes, wannabe male models addicted to the gym are classified as ladies in her book), only she doesn’t think he really sees her as a lady. She settles on her desk and clears her thoughts: she has never been so maudlin. Usually she doesn’t think about boyfriends twice because she can get a date as much as the next person, thank you very much. But as her mother insists, you can always shed those pounds, sweetheart, and you won’t have to overcompensate with this make-up... This must be why she doesn’t speak with her mother much.
As Garcia’s thoughts wonder, a new case has her ears and hands occupied: but this time, it isn’t Reid doing the hovering. Reid is in the field, and as much as she enjoys having company, Hotch is undeniably not the one she wants perched atop her shoulder egging her for results. It’s probably because Hotch, like Gideon, sees her more like a simple mean to their ends: in order to catch/track/trace... the unsub, Garcia is needed. And while Garcia understands both of them care for Morgan, Reid and Elle -she has seen Gideon and Hotch enquire about their charges’ mental health after a rough case quite a few times- she also respects that she’s not part of the group. She isn’t supposed to understand or feel what the profilers feel: they think because she doesn’t do the field, she cannot grasp the horror.
But she does. And as Hotch lingers for twenty hours straight in front of her computer screens waiting for answers, she works her magic all the while thinking she should get another job.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
The first time she notices it is a gloomy Wednesday of November.
Morgan -as always-, walks in oozing a sex-sated glow after a rough case, but he doesn’t look fulfilled. Garcia taps her finger against her lip, picks at her fruity red lipstick, and wonders. Last time it happened was four years ago, and he ended up proposing with ‘her’ running off four days later, never to be found again. Garcia snickers as she recognizes it for what it really is: one serious attraction that’s rapidly escalating. She breaches the subject lightly when he comes in for some banter.
It’s the first time she’s seen him clam up so quickly. Not even the nightmares had elicited that reaction: Garcia knows of the nightmares because she’s the one that convinced Morgan to accept Gideon’s help. It’s true she hasn’t seen the field, but she’s not as blind as everyone else thinks. It pays to have eyes that can tap into cameras anywhere in the world, and she’s caught a glimpse of how human Gideon behaves with distressed agents. As Morgan locks her out and gets his ‘You’re-the-suspect-and-I’m-not-the-one-answering-questions-here’ look, Garcia knows. She feels it in her gut: it’s a workplace romance. Misplaced attraction and misplaced lust are perfectly understandable for people such as him. While the F.B.I training gives him control over these urges, it also encourages their exorcism, undoubtedly why Morgan has different women or different men every night, she ponders. And obviously, release isn’t enough for our little friend here, she chuckles. As she covers his hand with her own, he looks at her, a hard look in his eyes. He’s staring her down, but she refuses to budge. She is as stubborn as he is, and she frowns as she says I’m not the enemy, Derek, you can trust me.
This Wednesday sees him take off in a huff, and their exchange is laced with tension for the rest of the day, all of which pisses Gideon off because neither he nor she is giving it their all. Thursday she almost doesn’t talk to him: it always seems Hotch is in charge of dealing with her and the information they want. She delves into the case, and it isn’t until she goes to fetch a steaming cup of coffee that she becomes conscious of no one talking to her today apart from Hotch and Reid. And they talked to her alright: over the phone. It’s sad, really: she used to have friends when she worked on the second floor: now she’s not in a cubicle but in a bunker with no windows and no more human contact if she doesn’t venture out voluntarily. A Penelope! shout surprises her, and she sees a petite woman sprinting towards her. Marie coordinates all of Narcotics’ databases, and I tried to call you Penelope, after you moved up here, Marie chuckles. What, did they hole you up? No one can seem to get a hold of you anymore: I called you at home a few times, but... And Garcia blushes and says she changed her number and Marie and her walk for a bit as they exchange phone numbers again and they promise to meet up next weekend. Garcia returns to her kingdom feeling giddy.
Friday is a repeat of all the other days, but now Garcia has weekend plans to look forward to. While last Saturday and Sunday where sleep heaven (she didn’t set a toe outside for two days straight), now she has a Saturday lunch to look forward to. And it turns out to be just as funny as she remembers any time with Marie being: she doesn’t know how, but the woman manages to makes her spill her guts out in record time. Too bad she isn’t the one in charge of making drug dealers confess, she’d be scarily good at it. The sun shines in the cold November afternoon, and she’s sitting there with Marie in front of some chicken curry, talking about Morgan, the ‘overweight-women’ case still disturbing her, and which 24 episode she’s at. It feels so good to see someone else, someone who isn’t connected to their little circle of work freaks. She asks if anything is new in your life, Marie, what are you up to now? The other woman looks away, and her cheeks turn pink as she smiles her dimple smile. He’s three cubicles ahead of me, she wryly states, and of course Garcia wants to know everything there is to know about him, and she’s all excited for Marie and distantly wishes for a man that would make her voice waver and her hands tremble like that.
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Next week Morgan comes back to normal: Garcia isn’t pushing. She knows he’ll talk eventually -he always does- , but she breaks a coffee mug on Thursday when she sees Reid’s hands shaking slightly as he’s emptying sugar in his coffee and Morgan walks in. Coffee splashes everywhere and her cream blouse is ruined -but then it’s cotton anyways- and her eyes flicker rapidly between the two men in front of her. Reid rushes to see if she’s okay, not to worry Reid, I’m just not really awake yet, it’s been a rough night, and she kneels to clean up the shards. Morgan scoots down beside her and helps, not uttering a sound. When he sighs Do you want to grab a beer on Friday, O Queen of the Screens? she wants to hug him but only replies that sure, she’d be delighted.
Eventually (two weeks later), they have that beer. And Morgan spills his story. That he doesn’t know when it began, and he feels so guilty he can’t seem to work properly. Oh, he can still profile, but each time Reid comes up with another one of his whacked up plans where he seems to put himself willingly into peril, Morgan’s heart tightens and it feels like Gideon can see right through him. And he’s scared, and why am I telling you all of this, Penelope, I don’t want to burden you, it’s none of your concern. She smacks him lightly over the head and says, but what am I here for Derek? That’s what friends do: they listen. And she smiles, all the while thinking love blossoms under the strangest circumstances. She keeps thinking Morgan was the first one who hadn’t wanted Reid on the team, said he was too young and inexperienced. That intellect wasn’t a key to profiling. But then Gideon bent him, like he always manages to do. And Reid got on the team. After three years, she dares to say he’s comfortable. Comfortable enough to start feeling.
And evidently -well, evidently for her, anyways- it seems Reid’s hands betray him and this isn’t one-sided after all. She keeps quiet though while Morgan continues talking: it isn’t her secret to tell. Who would’ve thought? She muses darkly while staring at her Pina Colada. It’s a refreshing drink and eases the weight on her chest: Morgan is still muttering under his breath, shaking his head, and obviously feeling miserable. He looks up at her and she sees his eyes shine, but of course she must be imagining things, and he says he can’t even vent the pent-up tension anymore, not since some obscure night when Reid asked him how he did it, how he managed to have a different woman every night. Garcia raises her eyebrow at that but says nothing, because it would be just like Reid to ask that question out of the blue. And she surmises from Morgan’s desiccated speech that now he feels so guilty, so empty when he tries to take a woman out. I can’t even enjoy plain sex anymore, Garcia, I don’t know what’s happening to me. She just pats him on the back of the hand and commiserates: after all, it’s Friday night and he’s sharing a beer with her in a badly lit bar.
She knows he won’t ever make the first move.
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Time never stops and all the days blend and merge into a whirlwind of juvenile records and maps and drivers’ licenses, and Garcia can’t keep herself from noticing Reid’s trembling fingers each time he steps in her kingdom with Morgan. Morgan, for himself, has been acting a lot more relaxed -she has now been promoted to Empress of the Much Needed and Desired Hard Drives- but she feels like she’s watching one of her mother’s soap operas. The tension’s building up and only she can see it: Morgan and Reid? They’re two oblivious little bunnies, she tells Marie (of course not naming her co-workers: she just happens to call them Warren and Will) and she wants to do something about it, but what? Do you have any ideas, any ideas at all? Marie rolls her eyes and advices her to talk to Will, since Warren already told her (albeit unrelentingly) and he isn’t going to do anything about it. But Penelope, how on earth are you going to manage? He sounds so anal and you say he can’t even crack a joke!
But Garcia lets the events unfold. She understands how Reid’s mind works (well, at least empirically -she’s seen the way he behaves with people and she’s quite a good judge of character, if she does say so herself) so she waits. And waits. And she keeps seeing the hands shiver, and at some point during the next four months, goosebumps start appearing as well. And finally, with Reid breathing heavily over her shoulder in his earpiece, giving Morgan directions, exactly like a year ago, she feels his hand come up on her arm and squeeze. She looks up and he has hung up and is looking away, his eyes lost and his breathing ragged and he whispers I have a confession to make. And his tone is soft, softer than anything else she has ever heard coming out of Reid. For once, he sounds his age and he reminds her that she isn’t getting any younger and, for that matter, neither is he. Garcia, I. He’s stalling now, and his grip on her arm is painful and he’s still staring somewhere. So she grabs his hand firmly, and looks at him, really looks at him. She extends her own hand and grips his chin, forcing him to look at her. To see her. I know, Reid. You don’t have to tell me, I know. The poor boy looks panic stricken but she doesn’t let go of him, even though he struggles. She can see him break, his defenses coming crashing down. His eyes flicker fretfully, trying to rest anywhere but on her, and then he’s shaking and saying I don’t know what I was thinking, Garcia, I’m so sorry! I’ve never felt this, and it’s not going away, and I don’t know what to do, and he’s yours and it’s killing me and I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry...
She doesn’t know it but she’s crying and hugging him and thinking God, you’ve made him so strong it’s been more than a year, how did he make it? Because obviously this is more than just an infatuation. This is stronger than anything else she has ever seen: it grows more powerful in the face of adversity. Morgan had tried -is still trying- to crush it, while Reid wanted to -no, wants to asphyxiate it in the bud but both are being suffocated by it, both are drowning in it. And she knows she has to break this stalemate because for the past three months, Morgan has been changing. He’s been spending most of his time with her but his smile is sad. She doesn’t know when she started cataloging his smiles, when she actually started recognizing the fake ones and counting them, but the point is this has gone for far too long. She spends her time with a man that’s slowly breaking over another who has already shattered. So she hugs Reid: he’s shaking and hiccupping and his sobs are only a dignity away and she soothes him with lazy circles on his back and waits until he calms down to put both her hands on his shoulders and look at him in the eye and say He has never been mine, sweetie. As much as I would have wanted, I’m not the one that has his heart. She can hear him say But he spends all his time with you now, so she shushes him by placing her index on his lips and carefully putting a stray strand of his hair behind his ear. Spence, his heart isn’t mine. Now I’m going to tell you something: his heart does belong to someone. But you have to promise me you’ll talk to him about it. Promise me you’ll do something about this, ok? She sees his eyes go wide, and she frowns as she adds that he has to ask Morgan now: not in three weeks or five months or even eight years, but now, before this destroys him. And before it destroys Morgan. Don’t be so afraid of his answer, Spence, and she smiles sadly to the terribly young man and caresses his cheek as she leans in and kisses him on the lips. Just a brief contact, but he has her blessing. Dazed, Reid doesn’t look blank for the first time in months. He shifts towards her and rests his head on her shoulder: he’s falling, falling, falling but she catches him and he feels her hands on his shoulders, trying to chase away the cold that’s settled in his bones sometime in the past six months. He’s hopeful, although he doesn’t know why: it probably has to do with this weight that’s disappeared off his chest. He hadn’t even realized it was there. So he inhales deeply, breathing in air and Garcia’s shampoo, and he decides maybe he’ll talk to Derek tonight. Yes, tonight might be a good idea.