Her Still Point
by Karyl McLeod
This is a second universe to the Santa Cruz one, this from Penelope's perspective of why I see Hotch as such a good fit for her. It was inspired by the scene at the end of "House on Fire" and my discussion with two friends about why PG looked like she was talking to her own personal god. *g*
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Suddenly, there was this man-shadow standing in her doorway and it wasn't the usual man-shadows like Morgan or Hotch or Reid. This shadowman was leaning into the doorframe with his arms folded. He was trying with great success to seem completely casual. And finally she got that it was Rossi, who never came to see her. Never. As in ever … ever.
"Hi," he said.
"Hi?" she replied, tilting a way too obvious eyebrow at him as she continued working.
He grinned fondly and took a step inside. "Was that a return greeting or a question?"
She stopped working for a moment and tentatively looked around. "Little of both, maybe? Can I help you with something, sir?"
"Mind if we talk a little?"
"No. What about?"
He finally walked all the way to a chair halfway between her desk and the door. He sat down slowly which made the moment seem even more ominous.
"Some things I've noticed about this and that," he said. "For one thing, I wanted to congratulate you on your excellent work on the Grimes case. We couldn't have done it without you. Even an old Luddite like me can see that."
"Thank you," she said carefully, trying to sound calm, hoping that he would just get to his point.
He smiled sadly back at her through a full moment of silence. "Look, I get that you don't like me, Penelope, but you don't have to be so terrified. I've actually already been defanged."
"Really," she said, recoiling with a look of guilt at the fact she'd actually said that aloud. "I'm sorry, that was rude."
He waved away her apology. "Naw, I had that coming. You and I got off on the wrong foot, I know. We haven't had a lot of chance to talk since. Get to really know each other. Until this case."
"Okay," she said, slowly turning her chair slightly toward him.
"Just for the record, I think you're amazing, like everyone else does. I mean, just so you know. You're one of a kind. I like that about you."
"I thought you said I wore my individuality like a shield," she had said before she could really stop the words.
He smiled with a hint of remorse. "Did Hotch tell you about that?"
She shook her head. "A neighbor. Hotch wouldn't do that."
"I know. But observation isn't defamation, Penelope. I didn't mean it as a judgment. But Hotch objected to what I said about you. I guess you heard about it. I wonder if that's when it started."
"What do you mean?"
He smiled even more. "He's obviously very fond of you."
"He's very fond of everyone on our team."
"That's true," he said, nodding as if it meant something. "And I know you care a great deal about them all. I mean, there will always be more special people than others. One or two. I've noticed that JJ's a good friend of yours. Reid. Morgan, of course. And … Hotch. Those seem to be your special people."
She averted her eyes to some place on the wall. "I've been with them the longest. Anyway, speaking with all due respect, I don't see that this is any of your business … sir."
"If it impacts our team, it could be."
"Hotch doesn't think so. Derek and I are just -- "
"I know. Anyway, you and Morgan seem to handle your mutual admiration society pretty easily now. But then Derek's sort of out of bounds, isn't he? Plays the field. Dates around. So he's safe to flirt with, to talk to."
"Are you profiling me?" she asked, squinting hard.
"Well, now I'm supposed to say I'm not but really, it's an occupational hazard, seeing people that way. Like it is with you, you meet people, you probably wonder what they have on their hard drives." He reached for a little pink-haired troll doll that he picked up and considered inside his hand. "I can't help but think it must be really difficult to keep these newer feelings you have under wraps. I see it whenever you look at him. And I can tell that the feelings scare you."
"What feelings?"
"Romantic feelings. Pretty deep ones. We've dealt with Morgan. So I'm asking about the other man in your heart."
Penelope turned her chair away a little as if trying to bring the discussion to an end. "Kevin and I broke up."
"Kevin was a boyfriend. You loved him but you weren't in love with him. You know how it is."
"I'm not following you."
Rossi said nothing but continued to admire the troll doll. He smiled as he stroked its hair. "Listen, it makes sense, you two. It really does. No one else has sustained the degree of loss the two of you have. You're already fond of each other. You'd naturally feel even closer to him now. And the two of you make an oddly perfect kind of sense. Kevin's much too young for you. Morgan is Morgan. But the other man, he's strong and gentle and calm under pressure. He's a still point in your topsy turvy world. As different as you are, stability and strength would still be attractive to you. What I said before, about the individuality being a kind of shield may be true I think. It masks your fear of being alone. You like to flirt with danger but you long for home."
"Sir, you really don't know anything about me," she said sharply, turning around completely to go back to scanning the screen for the program's return of congruent information. "And I'm really busy so I need for you to go. Now."
He nodded, nesting the troll doll again amid her pencils. "All right, but if you'll humor an old guy, mind if I give you a last piece of advice?"
"Go on."
"I should preface it by saying that I'm no one from whom to take romantic relationship advice. And even though I've had a lot of experience in these matters, it's been a long time since the last big fling. Still, I seem to distantly recall through the mists of time that romantic feelings between a woman and a man are usually best discussed with the object of those emotions. I mean, how else can anything become of them?" He stood up from his chair and walked slowly across to chance a hand on Garcia's shoulder. "Why don't you talk to him, honey?"
She turned around very slowly to look at him and then quickly turned away again so she wouldn't have to face him to say what needed to be said. "I'm sorry, sir, but you don't know anything about how I feel. You don't know what it's like to be me or somebody like me or anything about me. You don't know the right way for me to react to anything because you're not me. I know you think I'm a glorified secretary but what I do takes the same amount of concentration and effort as what you do. You wouldn't walk into Morgan's office when he's working so you shouldn't barge into mine. So why don't you leave me alone so I can finish my work?"
He took in her words and nodded with a kind of surrender. "Fair enough," he said, while standing and moving to the door. "One last thing, just to satisfy my general curiosity, you ever read Emily Dickinson?"
She bit her tongue to keep from lashing out. She shut her eyes to do it. "A little. Why?"
"I like her. She wrote a lot about fear and despair. Of how our aversion to risk leads us to the same end we'd reach if we really had tried and failed. Today we'd call it risk aversion usually from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. We used to term it fear-triggered inertia. Unfortunately, Emily knew a lot about failing by just standing still. She's famous throughout the world in death. In life, she was a timid young woman who wrote her poems and stuffed them into drawers. Think of how different her life would have been if she had just taken a risk. All risk doesn't end up in death and despair, Penelope. Or at the other end of a gun. And sometimes just standing still can be just as destructive. Keep that in mind."
Finally, thankfully, he left the room and closed the door behind him.
It gave her a quiet moment to fight her tears in the dark. She wondered if he had given her that privacy by design. And if his words were going to go anywhere else.
She had waited more than an hour until she was pretty sure everyone had gone. It was a down week. Nothing happening. They had them on occasion. Most of the time they'd break off into groups and go off for dinner or drinks or a movie. Rossi would be somewhere reading a book. And Hotch would be in his office working … as usual.
She made her way as quietly as possible down the interior hall past the last and final office window.
Then she heard the voice call out to her, "Garcia."
She stopped mid-step. She took a step back.
Her head swiveled very slowly to his door. "Yes, sir?"
Hotch glanced up and beckoned her toward him. "Can I talk to you for a moment?"
She squeaked out another answer, "Sure."
"Come in please and close the door behind you."
Her feet had never felt so numb as she walked forward toward him, shutting the door behind her with a very reluctant push. She hovered for a moment. "Yes?"
"Have a seat," he said, nodding at one.
She did so. And folded her hands in her lap. And locked her fingers together tightly. "Have I done something … wrong?"
"Not at all," he said, looking up for a moment. "Why do you ask?"
She shrugged. "I guess because I'm sitting here."
"No, in fact Dave Rossi came in to speak with me about you," he said, returning his attention to the work before him to sign off and then close a folder. "And I wanted to talk to you about that."
Never in a million years had she really thought Rossi would say something. So what should she do? Deny it? She had never confirmed it to Rossi. It was possible. Plausible. To just deny it.
She couldn't even feel her feet or fingers. She tried to swallow hard but couldn't. She could only hope her eyes were too stunned to cry. "He spoke to you about me?"
"Yes, he says you did a great job on the Grimes case. He was particularly impressed with your work and for Dave to say that is truly something. I assured him that you already had my every confidence."
She exhaled. A lot. Feeling was beginning to return to her feet and fingers. She even managed a smile. "Thank you, sir." She waited a moment. "Was that it?"
"Yes, that was it."
So she stood up to walk over to the door she had closed in terror, now opening it in abject relief and yet somehow an inescapable feeling of sadness. A weird inescapable feeling of sadness.
"Oh, Penelope, there is one last thing," he said.
She turned around again. "Sir?"
"I was wondering, do you like the Beatles?"
She stopped hard, at the edge of thinking she had all but escaped her fate. "Sure. Who doesn't? Why?"
He continued making notations on some field folder. "The touring Cirque company of Love is at Lincoln Center. I was thinking you might like to see it with me. We can have dinner afterwards, if you like."
"Sure," she said, trying like hell to sound casual and not like she had in fact just been broadsided by the mother lode of surprises. "That sounds … nice."
"Great. We can coordinate schedules tomorrow and I can order the tickets.."
"Fine." She lingered at the door a moment longer. "Sir … may I ask a question?"
"Of course," he said, continuing to write.
She had to know. She really had to know. If she didn't ask, she'd be going home to a sleepless night of wondering into the early morning.
She took one step back toward his desk. "Did you … just ask me out on a date?"
He set his pen aside, looking up to this time meet her eyes. He smiled a little. "Yes. I did. Is that all right?"
"Yeah. I mean, of course. I mean, okay. It's great."
His smile grew gentle. "Goodnight, Penelope."
She took hold of the door and whispered, before closing it between them, "Goodnight, Aaron."