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Penelope does not usually fly back with them.
When she does, she likes this part.
The steady hum of the jet fills the silence without demanding anything from it. Nobody has to talk if they do not want to. Nobody has to perform being okay before they are ready. It gives the adrenaline somewhere to go. Lets the sharp edges of a case dull into something survivable before they land back in reality.
Tonight, it is not working.
Her hands will not stop moving.
Not enough for anyone else to notice. Just small things. Fingertips tapping against her thigh. Thumb catching on the edge of her sleeve. Nails worrying a loose thread until it frays between her fingers.
She had tried crocheting earlier.
That lasted maybe three stitches before she lost count and had to pull the yarn apart with a frustrated little sigh she thought nobody heard.
Her brain will not hold a pattern.
It keeps slipping.
Keeps replaying.
The case had lived online. Quiet and ugly and hidden in places most people never think to look. Suicide chat rooms buried under layers of encryption and throwaway usernames. Forums full of people talking in circles around loneliness and exhaustion and wanting someone to understand them badly enough to follow them into the dark.
And he had understood them.
That was the worst part.
The unsub had not forced anything at first. He listened. Mirrored. Matched tone and typing cadence and fear until people trusted him. Until they believed him when he said he understood exactly how tired they were.
A pact, he called it.
Something mutual.
Something safe.
And for a while, nobody questioned it.
Local police saw the forums. The messages. The victims agreeing to meet. They saw lonely people finding each other in dark corners of the internet and assumed the ending had been chosen too.
Suicide pacts.
Tragic. Quiet. Voluntary.
But Penelope had read the final messages. The panic buried underneath the hopelessness. The hesitation once survival instinct kicked back in.
They changed their minds.
At the end, they wanted to live.
And he made sure they died before they could choose that for themselves.
She had been the one to find him.
Hours and hours of noise. VPN chains bouncing through cafés and libraries and unsecured public networks. Usernames that shifted just enough to stay hidden. Fragments that only made sense once she laid them beside each other long enough to see the shape underneath.
Thirty-eight hours.
That was his average.
Thirty-eight hours from first contact to death.
She found the last victim at hour thirty-six.
A location.
A window.
They moved fast.
They got there in time.
Technically.
The girl is alive.
That should matter more than it does.
But she cannot stop thinking about how close it was. About the plastic bag over the victim’s head. About the way Luke had ripped it away while JJ cut through restraints. About the sound the girl made when air finally hit her lungs again.
Too close.
Way too close.
And there were others.
Profiles that stopped posting overnight. Conversations that ended in the middle of sentences. Accounts that went silent before she even knew they existed.
One username keeps circling in her head.
If she had trusted herself sooner. If she had followed the instinct instead of double-checking the metadata one more time.
Maybe.
Maybe.
Maybe.
It keeps drilling into her skull until she feels scraped hollow by it.
Across the aisle, Luke watches her unravel quietly.
She has tucked herself into a window seat near the back of the jet, trying to make herself smaller than she is. Her bag sits at her feet. The abandoned crochet project is pooled in her lap like evidence of surrender.
Her fingers keep moving anyway.
Tap. Pause. Tap.
He feels something in his chest pull tight.
She does not usually come out with them.
Garcia stays behind the screens. Safe. Separate from the blood and panic and aftermath. She sees everything without having to stand in the middle of it.
Out here is different.
Out here there is nothing between her and the grief once it lands.
And Garcia feels everything.
Every single time.
He watches her lose count again. Watches her pull the yarn loose with another tiny frustrated motion before she drops the hook into her lap entirely.
He should stay where he is.
He does not.
Luke stands quietly and crosses the aisle before he can think too hard about it.
The jet hums around him, low and steady.
Cover.
He stops beside her row.
“Hey.”
Her hands still instantly.
She looks up at him, and there is something tired in her expression that twists hard beneath his ribs.
“Hello, you.”
Warm. Automatic. Like nothing is wrong.
He nods toward the empty seat beside her. “You mind?”
The answer comes too fast.
“Please.”
Soft enough that it nearly undoes him.
She shifts her bag without hesitation, making room for him before he even fully sits down.
Their shoulders do not touch at first.
He can still feel the heat of her beside him anyway.
For a second neither of them says anything.
Then he lifts his phone slightly. “You want to listen to something?”
Her mouth curves faintly.
“Are you offering to share, Agent Alvez? I did not know you were capable.”
He huffs a quiet laugh. “Do not get used to it.”
She takes the earbud from him, fingers brushing his.
“You know,” she says lightly as she tucks it into her ear, “sharing music is actually a profoundly intimate act.”
He glances at her sideways. “Oh yeah?”
“Mm-hmm.” Her eyes narrow thoughtfully behind her glasses. “Window into your soul. Emotional vulnerability on display. Deeply personal insight into your inner world.”
A beat.
“Very dangerous behavior, really.”
He snorts. “It is a playlist, Garcia.”
“That is what they all say.”
But she leans toward him anyway.
Just slightly at first. A gradual shift until their shoulders finally touch.
The contact is so light it should not matter.
It matters immediately.
“Okay,” she murmurs. “What am I listening to?”
He looks down at his phone.
“Just something I put together.”
Not a lie.
Just not the whole truth.
He presses play.
The music settles quietly between them, soft enough not to disturb the rest of the cabin. For a few seconds nothing changes.
Then he sees it.
The tension in her shoulders loosens little by little. The restless movement of her hands slows. Her fingers stop picking at threads and curl loosely in her lap instead.
Like she can finally breathe.
He feels something in his chest loosen with her.
She exhales softly and tips her head back against the seat.
Then, after a moment, she leans closer.
Not enough to call attention to it.
Enough that her shoulder rests fully against his now.
Enough that he can feel the warmth of her through both layers of clothing.
He goes very still.
He tries to listen to the music.
He really does.
He focuses on the rhythm. The lyrics. Anything except the fact that Garcia is curled into his side trusting him with something fragile and unspoken.
But somewhere around the first chorus, he gives up.
Because she is right there. Warm and trusting against him like this is easy.
Like she has no idea what she is doing to him.
Because her breathing has finally started to even out.
Because she smiles suddenly, soft and small, like the song is reaching into all the jagged places inside her and smoothing them gentle.
Because she does not know.
Or maybe she does.
That thought hits him hard enough to make his pulse stumble.
Because every song on this playlist means something.
Every single one.
He built it slowly over months without meaning to. Songs that reminded him of her. Songs that sat too long in his chest afterward. Songs that felt too honest to send and too true to delete.
And now she is here listening to all of it.
He swallows hard.
Beside him, Penelope hums quietly under her breath.
Content.
Trusting.
Close.
The song changes.
He feels it instantly.
Track 7.
His stomach tightens.
The one he almost deleted.
The one that says too much if you are paying attention.
His thumb hovers near the screen automatically. Half a second away from skipping it. Half a second away from pulling the emergency brake before this turns into something irreversible.
He does not.
Because she shifts closer again.
Because her head brushes lightly against his shoulder this time.
Because she sounds calmer than she has all day when she sighs softly through the next verse.
And because he remembers exactly what she said earlier.
Window into your soul.
Jesus Christ.
If she meant even half of that jokingly, this is a terrible idea.
This song does not hide anything.
He risks another glance at her.
Her eyes are still closed. Her expression soft now in a way it had not been since before the case. No tension left in her mouth. No restless movement. Just quiet.
Like the music is holding her together.
Like maybe he is too.
The thought scares him more than the playlist ever did.
His thumb brushes the screen while adjusting the volume.
For a split second, the playlist title flashes across the top.
lo que es quererte
She stills beside him.
Barely noticeable.
But he feels it immediately.
Her eyes open just enough to catch the screen before closing again.
The words clearly mean something to her.
Even if she cannot translate them yet.
He only sees the flicker of confusion for a second before she smooths it away.
She does not ask.
Does not pull away.
If anything, she leans into him harder.
“Hey,” she murmurs softly.
He clears his throat. “Yeah?”
“Is this a theme?”
His pulse kicks hard against his ribs.
“Theme?”
She hums thoughtfully. “Or are you just emotionally devastating me for fun?”
He lets out a breath that almost sounds like a laugh.
Almost.
“You are reading too much into it.”
“Mm.” She does not sound convinced.
Neither of them says anything after that.
But she stays exactly where she is.
Curled warm and soft against his side while the song keeps playing and Luke sits there terrified she can hear every single thing he has never been brave enough to say out loud.
And worse than that?
Part of him hopes she can.
They do not linger on the jet.
The cabin slowly wakes back up once the wheels hit the runway. Seatbelts click loose. Go-bags get slung over shoulders. Someone near the front mutters about needing real coffee.
The case already beginning its slow transformation from adrenaline into reports and evidence logs.
Penelope stays in her seat a little longer.
Not because she has to.
Just because getting up feels strangely difficult now.
He notices that too.
Of course he does.
By the time she finally stands, most of the team is already making their way down the narrow jet stairs onto the tarmac below.
Cold night air hits her immediately.
She adjusts the strap of her bag higher on her shoulder.
“Hey,” she says quietly.
He slows immediately beside her. “Yeah?”
For a second she does not answer.
That restless energy from earlier is mostly gone now, but he can still see traces of it in the way her fingers curl briefly against the strap before relaxing again.
She looks tired.
Soft around the edges.
“I just…” She exhales softly through her nose. “Wanted to say thank you.”
Luke’s expression shifts immediately, something gentler settling there. “Garcia, you don’t have to—”
“I know.” She cuts him off lightly. “I know I don’t have to. I want to.”
Hearing her say it that plainly does something dangerous to his self-control.
She glances down at the floor for a second before looking back at him.
“My brain was being very loud,” she admits quietly. “And weirdly mean.”
He huffs softly. “Yeah. I noticed.”
Her mouth twitches.
“Of course you did. You profiler people are deeply irritating that way.”
He smiles a little at that, small and private.
The tension in her shoulders loosens another inch.
“It helped,” she says after a moment, softer now. Honest enough that it almost feels fragile. “The music. You sitting with me. Just…” She gestures vaguely between them. “Existing in my general vicinity.”
He laughs quietly under his breath.
“Happy to provide that service.”
“Mm. Five stars. Excellent emotional support FBI agent experience. Very calming presence. Would absolutely survive another traumatic jet ride with again.”
Her tone stays light, teasing around the edges the way it always does when feelings start getting too close to the surface.
But he hears the sincerity underneath it anyway.
So does she.
The smile on her face softens slightly.
“I mean it,” she says.
And God.
That almost undoes him more than the leaning against him did.
Because Penelope Garcia feels things loudly. Brightly. With her whole chest. Even when she tries to hide it behind humor, there is still so much truth in the center of it.
He swallows once.
“I’m glad it helped.”
A small silence settles between them.
Comfortable.
Charged.
She shifts her bag higher on her shoulder again, eyes flicking toward him before away.
Then back again.
“You can send me the playlist, you know,” she says casually. Too casually. “For future emotional emergencies.”
He feels his pulse jump instantly.
“Yeah?”
“Mm-hmm.” She nods seriously. “Could be medically relevant. We should probably continue testing.”
“Scientific purposes?”
“Exactly.” Her mouth curves slightly. “Peer-reviewed emotional devastation.”
He laughs again, softer this time.
And then Penelope says the thing that really gets him.
“I could make you one back.”
The words come quieter than the jokes did.
Almost careful.
He looks at her fully then.
Something shifts in her expression when he does. Not fear exactly. But awareness. Like she realizes, suddenly, how intimate that offer actually is.
Sharing music.
Window into your soul.
Emotional vulnerability on display.
Her own words circling back between them.
She clears her throat softly and tries to recover first.
“You know. For fairness. We believe in collaborative workplace environments.”
His chest aches with affection so sudden and overwhelming it almost knocks the breath out of him.
“Right,” he says quietly. “Of course.”
They keep walking.
Not touching now.
Which somehow feels worse.
At the split toward the parking garage, she slows again.
“Okay,” she says softly.
He nods once. “Okay.”
But neither of them moves immediately.
And for one impossible second, He thinks she might say something else.
Something real.
Instead she smiles at him. Small. Warm. A little nervous around the edges.
Then she points lightly at him.
“Do not think I missed the theme, by the way.”
Luke’s stomach drops straight to the floor.
“Theme?”
Her smile widens slightly.
“You are not nearly as subtle as you think you are, Agent Alvez.”
And before he can recover enough to answer that, she turns and walks away toward her car.
Leaving him standing there staring after her with his heart somewhere around his knees.
Luke is halfway through taking off his jacket when his phone buzzes.
He almost ignores it.
Then he sees her name.
Garcia 💛
His chest tightens instantly.
He opens the message.
No text.
Just a playlist link.
He frowns slightly and taps it open.
The title loads first.
lo que no dijiste
What you did not say.
He goes completely still.
Because that is not vague.
Because there is absolutely no way that is a coincidence.
Not after she caught the edge of his screen earlier.
Not after—
Lo que es quererte, mi diosa.
What it is to love you, my goddess.
That is not accidental.
That is an answer.
His phone buzzes again.
Garcia 💛:
scientific comparison. obviously.
He laughs softly under his breath, helpless.
Of course she would soften it with a joke. Of course she would give both of them an escape route.
It does not actually make this feel lighter.
Another buzz.
Another message.
Garcia 💛:
come find me when you get to track 7
He stares at the words.
Reads them once.
Then again slower.
Come find me.
Not call.
Not text.
Find.
Something sharp and immediate twists low in his chest.
He looks back at the playlist.
Track 7.
The one that mattered on his playlist too.
The one she noticed.
The one she waited for.
He grabs his keys before he can think himself out of it.