A/N: written in response to CrimeLand's Challenge 9 (.) – no idea where this came from. Is it too whacky?
"I feel ridiculous," the (for now) redhead complained as she tugged down on the hem of a form-fitting black jersey.
Reid looked at her and kept his mouth shut, although he was clearly wondering how this, of all things, was a ridiculous outfit – especially when compared to Garcia's daily attire.
"But it's so. . . black," she continued, looking glumly down.
The Technical Analyst was dressed head to toe in dark, unmarked clothing. Literally. Most of her red curls were squashed under a black knit cap Morgan was working onto her head while she pouted. She wore long-sleeved and long-legged form-fitting black clothes, black socks, and black sneakers with black laces. The only spots of color were her hair, bright eyes, and smile – and even those looked a little dimmer with her colorful makeup removed.
"Listen, Baby Girl," Morgan said patiently. "It's only going to be for a couple of hours, until we have enough that we can arrest this guy. Now, I know you can do that. You can hide that light under this cat-burglar gear for just a little bit, in the interests of justice, can't you?"
Garcia beamed back up at him from under the cap. "For you, sug, – and justice – I can do anything!" she chirped, squaring her shoulders. She surveyed the team members gathered around to send her off. "Don't worry, guys. I'll be back to my usual self, soon!"
With that, she walked away, a spring still in her step despite the somber gear. When she was out of sight, Morgan's face quickly sobered.
"We're sure we're not going to lose touch with her while she's in there, right?" he grilled the Technical Analyst manning the wires at the BAU. He thought of the guy as the "Backup Tech" – everyone else was second to his Baby Girl.
"Absolutely, sir," the Tech answered, managing to suppress most of his nervousness.
"Okay."
Morgan, Reid and Prentiss sat in silence for a while. Through Garcia's body mike, they heard faint steps, a dried leaf crunching underfoot, and once, a muffled word.
"What's up, Garcia?" Morgan asked, instantly alert.
"Nothing," came a slightly quavery reply. "I just, uh, I – well, there's a dead animal in the road and it sorta crept up on me." Reid raised an eyebrow, Spock-like, but continued to say nothing.
After forty seconds, she continued.
"OK, I'm in sight of the house now," she said. A pause. "Wow, it's beautiful."
Morgan smiled to himself. Only his friend Penelope could see beauty in a place that had endured so much horror.
Hotchner's voice came over the line. "Don't forget all we practiced, Garcia. He's looking for someone to support his fantasy, the fantasy he's desperately been trying to keep from crumbling to dust around him. He wants – he needs to be a criminal mastermind, a leader, and a teacher, of crime."
"Understood, sir," Garcia replied, "I won't forget."
She swallowed as she took the first of the eight stone steps into the large house. It had beautiful windows and a gable on one side, near a copse of tall trees. The house was in good repair, despite being old, and still picturesque.
He won't hurt me, she repeated to herself. He wants to believe in this. She ascended all the stairs. Besides, Morgan would never let him have the chance. An involuntary smile came to her lips. She frowned, and refocused on her task.
Garcia knocked tentatively at the door. Hearing no response, she pushed the door in. It opened smoothly, without a sound. For some reason that made her more nervous. Deep breath, she told herself.
The lights in the house were all extinguished, although it would likely start to get dark soon. The late-afternoon sun slanted through some of the windows, and missed others entirely, creating patterns on the floor. She looked at the spots of light, and then ahead into the rooms. She knew from the blueprints she'd. . . borrowed that the next room ahead was large, with only one window. A small pool of sunlight sat alone in the farthest corner. Much of the room was dark.
She took a step, and then froze, drawing her breath inward in fear. A dark shape she hadn't seen before uncurled itself five feet from her face, rising from a dining chair with terrifying speed.
The UnSub stood and looked at her, patiently. A lock of brown hair fell over one of his eyes, and he brushed it away, slowly.
"You've come to find me." It wasn't a question.
"Yes," she said, voice shaking slightly. She hoped he would think it was admiration. "And I have brought you something, to prove I am ready to learn." She pulled forth a small, battered parcel from one pocket of the damnable black jersey. She extended it towards the man.
She watched his face carefully as he reached his hand, taking the parcel without touching her, and began to unwrap it. She saw some superiority, as though his ego had truly been fed by the arrival of this acolyte. She saw some joy, as he recognized the value of the item he held, and how difficult its theft would have been. And she saw, for a brief instant, relief. Relief that maybe he didn't have to give it up, that maybe he was special, and deserved love and admiration. He lifted his gaze to her eyes, and his face gentled. He reminded her of a highschool teacher, who loved what he taught and wanted nothing more than to share that love with his students.
She felt compassion. Despite everything this man had done, he understood that he needed not only love, but to believe he deserved love. She understood him better, meeting him, than she ever had from the team's descriptions. I can do this, she thought. I can bring him home.
She took another step. Then another. She pulled out a facing chair. "I am ready," she said again.