Special Providence

"I think about how scared you must be, how you're in some dark place all alone, but you're not alone, okay? You are not alone. We are in that dark place with you. We are waving flashlights and calling your name. So if you can see us, come home. But if you can't, then, then you stay alive, because we're coming."

~Breen Frazier, writing as Penelope talking to Emily (Eps 6.18: Lauren).


*Author's Note: Events set in the 2007 flashbacks are taken from Eps 3.8: Lucky and 3.9: Penelope. The lines of dialogue in the second flashback belong to Chris Mundy, who wrote that particular episode.

Also, I went back to those episodes to see if I could find a name for the hospital where Penelope was treated, but didn't see anything…however, the ICU setup is identical to the one Hotch is in for 5.1: Faceless, Nameless. So I decided that Penelope had stayed at the same hospital, Saint Sebastian Medical Center. (But, seriously, if someone else paid closer attention and did see or hear a hospital name, lemme know!)

And though the episode never mentions the name of the church in which Morgan prays, based on the vestments hanging to the right of the altar, I'm assuming it's an Episcopal church—the priest's green stole is embroidered with the Chi Rho, which I've only ever seen on Episcopalian stoles, never Catholic (and again, I could be wrong on that point—and if I am, let me know).

I have no idea why you should know this, but now you do. Enjoy your dose of random info for the day.

Also, Annber03 covers this particular episode in her 50 One-Word One Shots series (Ch 27, FYI). Definitely worth the read.*


November 2007. St. Mark's Episcopal Church, Washington, D.C.

Derek Morgan had stared at the altar for so long that his vision had become blurry, the jewel tones of the altar cloth and the stained glass windows muting together like an odd kaleidoscope of religious iconography. His mind had wandered the same winding paths for the past two hours, and he was no closer to an answer than he'd been when he first set foot inside.

If you believe in one, you have to believe in the other. Rossi's words from earlier that evening echoed in his mind.

He believed in evil. Floyd Feylinn Ferell and his cannibalistic tendencies confirmed that belief; every UNSUB he'd ever hunted confirmed it. Carl Buford confirmed it—there wasn't one devil, there were many, walking among the unsuspecting and the innocent, quietly waiting for their next chance to attack. They left behind scars and howling demons in the minds of their victims, vicious voices that whispered the worst of things (it's your fault, it's always been your fault, you did this to yourself).

The problem was that he wasn't sure he believed in God—in some higher power that somehow restored balance and justice to the world, someone or something that witnessed the daily evils and did nothing to stop them, some all-knowing deity that supposedly loved his creation yet allowed it to suffer in such horrible ways. He didn't want to believe in such a thing. He wanted to believe there was a God who somehow reached out to protect his children, someone who orchestrated events for the greater good—but the sad, fearful truth was that Derek Morgan had seen too many things that spoke in direct opposition to such a concept.

But now, he needed to believe. He couldn't explain why or how, but there was an urgency in his spirit, a restlessness in his soul that pleaded for some sense of higher purpose to the world, some kind of divine order in the chaos and destruction of his reality. He needed to believe that all things would work out for the good of mankind, that the evil he saw on a daily basis somehow could be turned into something…noble. He didn't know why he needed it, only that he knew he did.

If God was there, he wasn't in a talkative mood—Derek had made several attempts to pray, ranging from simply reciting prayers he'd learned as a child to having frank, open dialogue of his own wording, and nothing had elicited a divine response.

Please. Just show me you're there. Show me something, anything. Please, give me a sign.

His mind went back to his Sunday School days, to the story of Gideon—God had told him to lead Israel out of idolatry, but Gideon had asked for three signs to prove that it was truly God's will, all of which God fulfilled. Derek Morgan hadn't been asked to lead a nation; he just wanted to know that God was really there (a small request that seemed completely reasonable, in his mind, though the Man Upstairs apparently disagreed).

Time lagged on, and the heavens kept silent. Morgan felt trapped, like his words simply bounced off the ceiling, falling back to his feet in useless piles. His entire being felt numb, and his brain refused to cooperate with this exercise in futility anymore.

He stood, casting one last doleful glance at the altar, engraved with those familiar words. 'Do this in remembrance of me'—God, how can I remember someone who's never even shown themselves to me?

The cool November air cleared the fog from his brain, the iciness cutting into his lungs and bringing him back to the land of the living. He slipped his cellphone from his back pocket, turning it on once more.

He immediately knew something was wrong—his phone began to ring and buzz with notifications of voicemails, missed calls, and text messages.

The first text he saw was from Emily. Even though it was just words, he could still hear the irritated concern in her tone, Where the hell are you?

Something was very wrong. He went to his voicemail. The first one was from Hotch. "Morgan, it's Hotchner. There's a situation with Penelope. Please call me as soon as you get this."

He didn't take the time to listen to the others—he simply took off, sprinting to his truck and revving the engine as his shaking hands dialed Hotch's number. His heart was pounding so loudly that he could barely hear anything else as the phone rang.

"Morgan," Hotch answered, the relief evident in his voice.

"What's going on? Is she OK?"

"She's been shot—she's in surgery right now."

"Where?"

"Saint Sebastian."

"I'm on my way." He slammed the truck into gear and gunned it.

"We're already here, in the waiting area. Second floor," Hotch informed him.

"I'll be there." He'd already begun to feel guilty about the fact that he had not been there when this first happened—he should have been the first one at her side.

His heart stayed firmly lodged in his throat the whole time, pounding against his vocal chords in a rhythm that was both uncomfortable and nauseating.

This time, he prayed—not to any far-off deity, but to the blonde woman currently on an operating table ten miles away.

Don't leave me, Babygirl. Stay strong—keep fighting, keep holding on, keep trying, for me. I can't lose you. Please, please, please.


February 2015. Quantico, Virginia.

Derek Morgan ran as if his life depended on it—because in a way, it did. He couldn't give those Marines another chance to keep him from finding his Babygirl.

He checked his stride long enough to stop a group of rescue workers who were bringing down another set of injured survivors, holding out his hands in a gesture of askance, "Which areas have been covered?"

"We started on the southeastern side, closest to the blast. We're moving outwards from there."

Derek nodded, moving towards the closest stairwell—the one on the northwestern corner. He opened the door, only to be greeted by sheer blackness. He looked back towards the rescue workers, his mind trying to process everything at once.

He spotted someone with exactly what he needed, "Hey, man, lemme borrow your flashlight."

The man gave it up without a second's hesitation. Derek bolted into the stairwell once again. He went up the stairs, calling out her name, occasionally stopping to listen for a reply, though none came. He stopped on each floor, rushing down the main hallways, calling out and hoping against all hope that she'd somehow hear him and reply.

He checked her office, which was empty and suddenly devoid of its usual cheeriness.

On the eighth floor, he ran the entire length of the building, shouting her name like a man possessed. He opened the doors to the southeastern stairwell, taking a moment to simply yell out, "Penelope!"

He took a moment to listen, his heavy breathing echoing through the confined space, making it harder to hear (especially with the pulse pounding in his head as well).

There was something—a noise, faint and barely perceptible.

He called out again, "Penelope, can you hear me?"

Another noise. A voice from below. He rushed down another flight of stairs, pausing again to call her name.

He heard stirring, followed by a call of, "I'm here!"

The voice was weak, seared with pain, but God above, he'd recognize that voice anywhere, in any condition.

"Oh, Babygirl," he breathed in relief, billowing down the stairs as quickly as his legs would carry him, the single beam of his flashlight bouncing wildly off the walls. He found her on the landing between the fourth and third floors, in a bloody, mangled heap of wood.

"What the hell?" He knelt beside her, gingerly moving away the pieces of wood, trying to check her body for injuries. Her knees were coated in a thick, dark layer of blood, her hands were scratched and bloody as well, her forearms were covered with marks, and her cat-eyed glasses were completed shattered. "Penelope, are you OK?"

"My ankle—it's broken. I was trying to get down…I used a coffee table as a sled, but it broke." She was pushing herself into a sitting position again, her strength renewing itself at the comforting sight of her beloved dark knight.

"Let's get you out of here," he rose to his feet again, pulling her up on her one good leg.

"My shoes," she glanced around, and Derek couldn't stop the incredulous scoff that slipped from his lips (though he still found the bright orange pumps and retrieved them from the wreckage).

"C'mon," he handed her the shoes and the flashlight before easily sweeping her off her feet, gingerly taking the first few steps down the stairs again. "We're gonna take it nice and slow, and we're gonna get you out of here."

"I knew you'd come for me," she gave a relieved lazy smile, taking a moment to nestle her head against his.

"Of course, Babygirl. That's all part of the job description—rescuing fair maidens in peril. And when I'm really lucky, I get to carry off a foxy warrior woman."

She grinned, "Then this must be the luckiest day of your life."

Derek Morgan felt a sobering lump in his throat, his grip instinctively tightening around the woman in his arms, "It is."

Those words rang truer than she could ever know.


November 2007. Saint Sebastian Medical Center. Washington, D.C.

Derek Morgan pushed back another wave of helpless panic as he turned away—Hotch had just informed him that so far, the detectives on Penelope's case were not hopeful about finding any evidence at the crime scene, which in turn meant there wouldn't be anything to help establish some kind of lead.

The surgeon was approaching, and Derek's heart forgot to beat. He tried to read the surgeon's body language, looking for a sign of the news to come.

"Penelope Garcia?" The surgeon asked, more out of custom than actual query—there was only one patient on the operating table at this hour of the night, and these people all moved easily around one another, implying they were together as one big support group.

"Yes," Hotch's voice was as calm as ever. Derek stepped forward, mouth suddenly too dry to speak. He heard Emily echo Hotch's response, her tone small and breathless with the same fear and dread that was filling every muscle of his own body.

With one last glance at his notes to make sure he had everything right, the surgeon launched into a quick explanation. "The bullet went in her chest and ricocheted into her abdomen. She lost a lot of blood."

Derek felt his own blood seep out of his veins, his body preparing for the worst shock it could ever expect.

"It was touch-and-go for a while, but we were able to repair the injuries."

"So what are you saying?" JJ asked, her face still filled with apprehension. The weird energy of tension still sang from one team member to the next, every muscle tensed as they collectively awaited the final pronouncement on Penelope's condition.

"One centimeter over and it would have torn right through her heart. Instead, she could actually walk out of here in a couple of days. And I'd say that's a minor miracle."

A miracle. The word breathed across Derek's brain. Less than an hour ago, he'd asked the heavens for some kind of confirmation, anything to prove that there was some higher power at work in the world around him. On the frantic drive to the hospital, he'd fearfully wondered if Penelope's shooting had been a further indication of the opposite.

However, now he stood in a tiny hospital waiting room, relief surging through his tired veins as a small voice in his head quietly whispered, Derek Morgan, there's your sign.


February 2015. Quantico, Virginia.

"We're almost there, Babygirl," he assured her, his heart soaring at the sight of the first floor stairwell door, which shone under the bobbing beam of the flashlight in Penelope's hand.

"Oh thank goodness," she breathed a sigh of relief. "As much as I'm enjoying our time alone in the dark, I'd really like to get the heck out of here."

He had to stop to laugh, bowing his head slightly as he tried to keep his feet steady on the stairs and his grip tightly around the woman in his arms. She was laughing, too, a skittering giggle still shaking with tears and pain and relief.

"You know this makes us crazy, don't you?" She asked, wiping away a tear. "Laughing at a moment like this?"

"We've always been crazy," he returned easily. He slowly resumed his downward trek, feeling a weight of concern lifting from his shoulders as soon as they reached the bottom and entered the main foyer—the area was teeming with medics and rescue workers, which meant he'd finally gotten them where they needed to be.

An EMT noticed them and called for a stretcher. Within seconds, Penelope was seated upright, being whisked out the door as a medic asked her questions about her injuries. Derek followed close behind, silently letting them know that there was no way in hell that this woman was leaving his sight again.

He took a moment to stop once they got outside, looking back to the barricades where he'd left the others.

Hotch gave a slight wave of his hand, his face filled with askance. Derek gave a silent thumbs up (she's gonna be alright), and even from a hundred yards away, he could see the shift in Hotch's body language, the huge sigh of relief rippling through his shoulders. Then Derek nodded back in the direction of the ambulance (I'm with her), to which Hotch gave a nod in return (go).

However, there was a problem once he reached the ambulance.

"I'm sorry, sir," the EMT's face filled with regret. "She's in non-critical condition, and we're trying to load up as many as we can that need medical attention—we just don't have the room for an extra body who isn't injured or one of our personnel."

"I'll be fine," Penelope called from inside the ambulance, her voice lilting with false cheeriness. "Go save more fair maidens. It's OK. I promise."

He hesitated for a moment (and for that, she loved him all the more—because even as the world was crumbling down around them, all he wanted was to be there to hold her hand), then he glanced back at the building, at all the agents standing around in fear and dismay. Still, he turned back to her, his features a mask of determination, "I will see you soon, Babygirl."

"Count on it, Hot Stuff," she gave her most winning smile, which somehow only seemed to accentuate the blood and dirt on her face. "Now go be the daring hero—just not too daring, OK?"

He put his hand over his heart in silent promise. He saw those big doe eyes shimmer with fresh tears, and he was reminded once again of just how miraculous life could be—twice he'd lost her, twice he'd found her, and both times she was still as bright and beautiful as always.

More medics came, more injured joined the cab, and then the heavy doors were shut. Derek Morgan's miracle gave one last tiny flutter of her fingers through the glass window as the lumbering ambulance pulled away.

In that moment, he realized that if there was a God, then he loved Derek Morgan very, very much.


"There are days when I think I don't believe anymore. When I think I've grown too old for miracles. And that's right when another seems to happen."
~Dana Reinhardt.


*Author's Note: Although most of us are more familiar with the phrase "divine providence", Catholic theology divides Providence (aka God's intervention in the world) into two categories: General (continuous "upholding" of existence and the natural order), and Special (extraordinary intervention into a specific person's life, aka a miracle). Obviously, Morgan's story seemed to fit the latter.*