The happiest of new years to you all, my wonderful readers. I do hope you all had a lovely holiday! And of course, thank you for the kind words on the last chapter. Feedback is always appreciated.
Taken another stab at writing Penelope. This one is tagged to the lovely "Minimal Loss" episode from season 4. Many thanks to Shadpup for the suggestion and seemingly endless supply of motivation.
Happy reading =)
"If you do a good job for others, you heal yourself at the same time, because a dose of joy is a spiritual cure." – Dietrich Bonhoeffer
I anxiously twirl a pen through my fingers as I stare at my phone. I'm focused intently on it, as though willing it to ring, even though I'd spoken to the team just a few moments ago. The news report that had aired just after we ended our call has me worried. They identified an undercover FBI agent. That can't be good, can it? Now the baddie knows either Em or Reid isn't who they say they are. I keep fidgeting, trying in vain to release some of my nervous energy. I feel so useless. Aside from the small bit of magic I'd worked to get the info on Cyrus and get the skinny on the former leader of the creepy cult, there hasn't been any need for my particular talents. But that hadn't stopped me from scouring every database I could think of. What I was looking for, I wasn't entirely sure, but when I didn't find anything, I expanded my search to the wide and vast Internet. When I didn't find anything relevant there, I started staring at the phone.
I'm usually not so anxious, but the combination of not being able to help and not knowing the fate of our resident genius and female badass has me all tied up in knots. I've been holding out on calling back my wondrous hunk of a chocolate god, knowing that Emily and Reid need his head in the game now more than ever and not focused on placating me. But patience has never been my strong suit, so I grip my fuzzy pen a little tighter as I dial Morgan's number and listen as it finishes dialing. But before I hear a single ring, I end the call. I feel the all too familiar panic blooming in my chest. What if my call distracts him? Takes him away from a strategizing meeting? Forces him to lose his train of thought regarding a brilliant tactical plan? I feel myself start to hyperventilate as my panic continues to grow, so I grab a stress ball from my desk and grip it with all my might. I squeeze my eyes shut and attempt to even my breathing out, and calm down from the frenzy I'd worked myself into. A panicked and frenzied Garcia is not helpful to anyone, least of all my poor babies stuck in that hellhole.
Slowly I begin to feel my heart rate slow and my breaths even out. I open my eyes and let go of the stress ball, replacing it on my desk. With one last deep breath I attempt to begin to rationalize why breaking my self-imposed moratorium on phoning the team is not going to end in catastrophe. From what I've heard and seen, this whole 'negotiation' thing is really a case of whole lot of hurry up and wait. Kind of like those ridiculously long lines at theme parks where it's a mad dash to move forward 2 feet, and then wait another 20 minutes before moving again. So maybe a two minute phone call isn't going to end in disaster.
I punch in Morgan's number again and this time let it connect. I hear it ring once, twice, three times before he picks up. "Morgan," he answers gruffly. Clearly he didn't check his call display.
"Hey. It's me," I say faintly as dread begins to consume me. His gruff tone doesn't bode well.
"Baby girl, hey," he says, his tone softening a bit. "What's up?"
"Any news?" I breathe.
"Nothin' since we talked last," he says with a laugh that comes across as very strained and very forced.
"You guys getting anywhere with a plan to get our crime-fighters outta there?"
"We're working on it, but the son of a bitch who decided to let the world know there was an FBI agent in th-" He stops abruptly and I never hear the rest of his sentence because all of a sudden I hear commotion on his end. "What?!" he calls to someone in the background.
"Derek!" I say, trying to get his attention.
"You sure?" he asks. I can hear him moving quickly toward whoever called him.
"Derek!" I say a little louder this time.
"SHE WHAT?!" he yells in response to something in the background. I feel my heart begin to race again when I realize that his voice has started to sound a little panicked. Derek may get angry, and frustrated, and grumpy, but panicked is not something he gets.
"DEREK BENJAMIN MORGAN! ANSWER ME RIGHT NOW!" I screech into the phone.
"I gotta go," he says quickly. "It's Em."
"What do you mean it's Em? Derek, what's going on?" But he's already hung up the phone and I give a strangled yell of frustration. I have to know what's going on. I have to know what my raven-haired beauty has gotten herself into. I quickly dial JJ's number, guessing she's the one most likely to answer her phone.
"Jayje?" I say tentatively when I hear the call connect but don't hear any sort of greeting.
She answers in a strained and distracted tone, "Garcia, I can't talk right-"
"Jayje, tell me what's going on," I demand forcefully, my voice surprisingly even and free of excess panic. I guess it's like being tired – you eventually reach a point where you're so overtired that you stop feeling exhausted. I guess that means I passed the threshold for panic.
She stays silent for a moment, and I hear what I think are muffled screams and yells coming from her end.
"Jayje what is that in the background?" I ask in a whisper, very much afraid of hearing the answer.
"It's Em," she says quietly.
"What?" I ask in confusion. But Em is inside with...
"It's Em," she repeats. "We've got ears in there now and are listening in. Cyrus found out about the news report, and asked them which one was the FBI agent. She told him it was her, and now he's..." she trails off.
"He's what?" I ask quickly, my mind instantly spiraling into a variety of terrible scenarios, all of which are making me sick to my stomach.
"He's beating her," she says. I can hear the fear, anxiety, and despair in her voice.
"Oh god," I say and shut my eyes as I feel tears start to form and that sickness in my stomach creeping up my throat.
"Garcia, I-"
"I know, you gotta go. Get them outta there, Jayje."
"We're trying, Garcia."
After several days of waiting, finally my babies are home safely. I'm waiting in the bullpen as they ride the elevator up to our floor. No one's told me how bad Emily is, and the hospital records I hacked are far from helpful, only revealing a prescription for pain meds that she no doubt refused to get filled. The only thing they've told me is that they're "all fine" and advised me to "try not to worry so much". Despite their efforts, I can't help but worry. I worry for Emily and how she's dealing with the pain – physical and emotional. I worry for Reid and his likely overwhelming guilt for not admitting he was the FBI agent. I worry for Hotch, Rossi, Derek, and JJ, and wonder how they're dealing with having listened to one of their closest friends beaten while they were utterly helpless and unable to stop it. I worry about how this is going affect the team dynamic and how long Emily's going to be out of action. And mostly I worry about how I'm going to cope when they have to go off and handle the next case.
I hear the ding of the elevator and slowly pull my gaze from the floor to the doors of the elevator as they slide open. I watch as my crime-fighters stream out slowly. First Rossi and Hotch, who head straight for their respective offices, each giving me a quick nod on their way past me. Then JJ, who shoots me a weak smile and gives me a tight hug while whispering "she's okay" in my ear. Reid slips out of the elevator and walks quickly to his desk, ignoring me, save for a quick pained smile. I can tell his heart is a lot heavier than when he and Emily left for Colorado.
I watch as Morgan steps out, and presses a quick kiss to my cheek. "She's okay, so don't go too crazy," he says as he sneaks a peek back at Emily who is just shuffling out of the elevator before heading over to his desk.
I feel my eyes go wide as they scan over her body, cataloguing the cuts and bruises that I can see. Her left eye is partially swollen shut and coloured a nasty dark purple with highlights of a gruesome blue and streaks of yellow. I see wrapped bandages on her forearms, and smaller cuts on her face and neck. She's got sickening bruises covering most of the left side of her face and her nose. From the way she's walking, I'm guessing her ribs took a decent beating, and I'd bet every last one of my computers that she's sporting some nasty bruising on her stomach and side. But most of all, I see the utter and complete exhaustion in her eyes.
"Oh, Em," I croak.
"It's not as bad as it looks," she says, dismissing my assessment.
I open my mouth to respond, but find that I can't. My eyes are locked to hers, seeing the pain and weariness in them. I feel tears prick my eyes and a lump form in my throat. She seems to sense my unease and steps forward, opening her arms for a hug. I can't help my eyebrows from shooting up in surprise. Emily Prentiss seeking affection?
"I don't want to hurt you," I admit softly.
"You won't," she says confidently with a roll of her eyes. "I'm not made of glass."
I accept her words and take a step forward, tentatively wrapping my arms around her. I feel her tense up slightly and hear a probably involuntary sharp intake of breath. I immediately loosen my grip and begin to pull back, but I'm surprised when she tightens her grip on me.
"Don't you dare let go, Garcia," she says quietly.
For a fleeting moment I think that maybe she needs this as much as I do and that maybe her seeking affection wasn't a fluke. But the realization quickly sets in that in actuality she's probably just looking out for me. She knows I must have felt helpless sitting here, so far away and unable to help. She knows that I'm the type to need physical reassurance. She knows that to cope and deal with all this nastiness, I smother those I worry about with love. She's putting my needs before her own, just as she's always done. It's exceedingly frustrating that she continues to do that. She was just beaten badly and nearly blown up, and she's putting her needs on the backburner to make sure I'm okay. Definition of ridiculous, if you ask me. Nevertheless, I count my lucky stars that she and the rest of this group know me so well and are so willing to give me what I need. When we break apart, she cracks a small smile and grabs my hand giving it a quick squeeze.
"Thank you," she says.
I look at her in puzzlement.
"For worrying," she explains quickly. "It's nice to know someone cares, you know?" she says offhandedly.
"Oh, my raven-haired beauty. You just don't get it, do you?" I say with a sad shake of my head. "We all care. JJ and those boys were worried sick about you. I heard from my wonderful hunk of chocolate just how panicked they were. All they wanted to do was to rush in there and get you and our genius outta there, but of course you had to go and sacrifice your health for the good of the people," I finish sadly.
"I'm fine, Garcia. Really."
"Fine? Pssh. You are certainly not fine. But don't you worry, between Derek and I, you'll be well taken care of."
She lets out a groan. "There's no talking you out of this, is there?"
"Not a chance, my fine, furry friend. Now, you're headed home, right?"
"Yeah. Morgan's taking me, since Hotch deemed me unfit to operate a motor vehicle," she says bitterly, shooting a glare to Hotch's office. Clearly this was a subject of debate on the trip home.
"Princess, you're on so many painkillers, you shouldn't even be walking unaccompanied," Derek says as he appears beside me.
"But I didn't take any painkillers," she says in confusion.
"What? You were supposed- We got your prescription filled before we left and everything."
"I don't like them. They make me all fuzzy," she whines.
"Emily, you're gonna be in a world of pain if you don't take them," he warns.
"Well, I'm not on anything right now, and I'm totally fine. So I don't see why I have to-"
"Gumdrop, take the pills. A grouchy Prentiss is the last thing he and I want to deal with tonight."
"I don't get grouchy," she snaps. Derek and I share a look. "Okay, okay. So I'm a little grouchy. I think being held and beaten by that fanatical sect leader entitles me to a little bit of grouchiness. Can we go now?"
I blink in shock at her overly blasé tone. She'd just described her ordeal like it was just another day at the office – which, in a very twisted way, I guess it kind of was...
"Sure thing," Morgan says, reaching forward and snatching her ready-bag before she can pick it up. "See you later, Baby Girl," he says happily, giving me another quick kiss.
"Au revoir, my pet! I'll drop by later with some food for you, Em. And don't bother arguing, because I have the power to kill your credit and bank accounts, just like that," I say with a snap of my fingers.
"Garcia-" she begins to protest but stops at my glare. "Right. I'll see you later then, PG."
"There we go," I say with a smile. "Take care of her, Derek."
"I will," he promises. "Let's go, Princess."
"Can I have my bag?" she asks as they make their way over to the elevator.
"No."
"Morgan," she warns. "I can carry my own bag."
"I'm sure you can, you just won't be doing so on my watch," I hear him retort as the elevator doors close.
Several hours later, I'm heating up some soup for her in her kitchen as she relaxes in her bed. She'd argued fervently that she wanted to set herself up on the couch, but I flat out refused. There was absolutely no way I was going to let her already battered body try in vain to be comfortable on a couch most certainly not designed for sleeping. "Into your room, missy. Dinner in bed is just what the doctor ordered!" I'd told her.
As soon as the soup's warm, I bring the tray to her room where she's half asleep watching – or rather, staring absently at – some nonsense reality TV show.
"That smells heavenly," she says appreciatively.
"It's Grandma Garcia's original recipe. Handed down...well really just to me, but I'm sure it would've made the rounds if it was conceived earlier."
She smiles lazily, probably an effect of the painkillers Morgan and I had finally convinced her to take. "I bet. What's in it?"
"Shh," I shush her. "Less talk, more slurping."
"I don't slurp," she says defensively, her brow furrowing as she frowns.
"Right, I forgot little Emily Prentiss was raised with proper table manners. Well even so, less talk. I want to get some of this soup into you before you pass out on me."
"I'm not gonna pass out," she says, a yawn at the end betraying her argument.
"Right. Of course not. You're as awake as me on 5 cups of coffee," I quip.
She shoots me another unimpressed look but picks up her spoon and begins to carefully bring spoonful after spoonful of my soup to her mouth. She gets through almost all of it before she puts the spoon down.
"Done?" I ask.
"Yeah," she says with a nod. "It was really good though. Thanks."
"No problem, Em. Now go ahead and sleep. I'll clean this up and let myself out."
"Thanks again, Penelope," she says, meeting my gaze. "You didn't have to do all of this."
"Of course I did. Don't be silly, Em. You're a part of this family, and family takes care of one another. Now don't make me force you to fall asleep."
"Force me?" she says skeptically, one eyebrow arched upward. "How were you planning on doing that?"
"Oh, I'm sure the Internet has a few ideas..."
"Okay, okay. I'm sleeping," she says, admitting defeat, holding her hands up to emphasize her surrender. "You're welcome to use the spare bedroom, if you want. Save yourself a trip, since I know you'll be back in the morning anyway."
"You know me too well. Now go, visit dreamland. And if you somehow connect to a hunky guy's subconscious, send him my way, got it?"
She lets out a small laugh. "Why don't I get to keep him for myself?"
"Because I just called dibs."
"For the hunky men in my dreams?"
"Yeah...I fail to see why this is an issue."
"But they're my dre- You know what, okay. You got it. The hunks are all yours."
"Excellent. Sweet dreams, Em."
And with that I pick up her dinner tray and make my way back to the kitchen, closing her bedroom door behind me. My thoughts wander to just how she got herself into this situation. Of course she was doing her job, saving the world and all that jazz. It makes me realize that honestly, there are few people more qualified to deserve a smothering of love than the fine folks I work with. They see and battle evil every single day and yet still somehow manage to stay human. They give up so much to make the world a safer place for all of us, and are so sparingly shown due gratitude. I know that by noon tomorrow she'll be practically seething with frustration at my near constant presence, but for now I'll enjoy the fact that she's letting me smother her with love. I'll enjoy the fact that she's still here and breathing, even if those breaths she's taking are being used to curse at me in frustration.
Thoughts? Opinions? Impressions? I'd love to hear them. Even if it's just a few words, please do let me know what you thought. Reviews make my fanfiction world go 'round.
Happily working on chipping away at the lengthy list of potential conversations, but of course suggestions are always welcomed.