If there was one thing both Garcia and Morgan were good at, it was avoiding sharing of their deep dark secrets. Or, in this case, just the last three months. Before her shooting, they cooked together often, so when he made a beeline for her kitchen, taking her with him, she didn’t bother to resist.
Her kitchen was stocked, much to her surprise, and he only shrugged when she raised a questioning eyebrow at him. He had her emergency key. He was the only person she could think of who would stock her entire kitchen just before she got home. Her cupboards were open to his every whim, and he took advantage, moving from her counter to the fridge to the cupboards and back again.
Even if she was absolutely terrified about what their conversation would entail, blood pumped that bit faster as she watched him go about making spaghetti sauce. She loved watching him cook and knew it was a secret that he seldom shared.
“Spaghetti, Derek?”
“Problem with that, Baby Girl? I even have penne ‘cause I know you don’t like spaghetti noodles.”
Garcia grinned and blushed at how well he knew her eating habits. “No problem,” she promised. “I’m just wondering what makes me special enough to deserve Mama Morgan’s sauce this time.”
He grinned at her. His mother’s spaghetti sauce was a recipe he tended to make for her during bad cases, cases where she had to watch terrible videos or focus in on the brutality that the team saw in the field. Cooking things that were his family’s recipe comforted him, reminded him of the times he used to cook with his mother.
“I need a reason?” he finally replied.
There was a million responses to that, a million ways she could catapult them into the conversation they needed to have. Yet part of her resisted from deep down in her body. Right now, things were light, she could feel her body recovering from the panic attack, had actually stopped her mind from beating herself up about it. She wasn’t sure she was fully prepared for more self-derision or self-doubt quite yet.
“Come on, Sugar,” she goaded. The grin he shot her over his shoulder was the one she loved so much.
“Because you’re you,” he answered.
“Because I’m freshly home from the hospital with a gunshot wound? Because I just had a panic attack on the front steps? Because you feel bad and know Mama Morgan’s spaghetti makes both of us feel better?”
He looked at her, a smile on his face but surprise in his eyes. “Are you sure you should take a step out of your lair and become a profiler?”
“You didn’t answer Gorgeous, which choice is it?”
He waved her over to the stove, handing her the wooden spoon he was using to stir the beginnings of the sauce. She took over willingly, glad he wasn’t babying her and keeping her from doing anything. Meanwhile Morgan pulled out another pot and filled it with water for the noodles.
“Can’t a treat such a strong and beautiful woman to a home made meal after she’s eaten hospital food for a month and a half?” Morgan teased.
Her hand came to rest on his forearm as he put the pot on the stove. “Be honest with me, Derek.”
The combination of the blatant plea in her eyes and the soft tone of her voice spoke volumes as to her own turmoil. Both of them kept their secrets “ though fewer and fewer from each other “ and her entire stance was begging him to open up first, even if it was just a little bit. He kissed her temple. “Because it makes both of us feel better,” he whispered against her hair.
They cooked in silence for a while, though took opportunities to lean across the other or affectionately bump hips. The quiet, however, was deceptive. Derek was finely tuned to Garcia, very aware of how she did not take more than two or three steps in any direction. He noticed her wince when she twisted too fast or moved in a way that aggravated the still bruised and torn tissue.
“Painkiller, Pen?” he asked softly as he drained the penne, throwing some butter in it to ensure that it did not stick together.
She shook her head. “Not yet.”
“Pen,” he warned. “You don’t have to be strong here.”
“The painkillers make me fall asleep,” she reminded him. “I have a feeling I am going to need every omniscient brain cell I’ve got tonight.”
“I don’t want you to be hurting,” Morgan replied. “We can wait.”
Garcia shook her head. “I’m sick of you feeling guilty for my mistake.”
“I’m and FBI Special Agent…”
“And I’m a technical analyst, Sugar,” she pointed out. “If anyone should be feeling guilty, it’s me.”
“For what?” he asked, confusion and frustration blatant.
“I have the all-knowing power of hacking skills and FBI clearance. I should have run a background check, I should have trusted my gut.”
Gently, he extracted the wooden spoon from her fingers, grinning at the aggressive way she had begun stirring as she got frustrated. “I’m sorry for making you feel worthless,” he said softly in her ear.
By the time her body had gone through it’s response to his close proximity and breath on her ear, he’d already moved away to put the sauce on the pasta. She moved reluctantly when he waved her ahead of him to the table. Dinner was eaten in between light tidbits, a game of who could come up with the most random trivia. It wasn’t until they settled on the couch, Garcia curled up against Morgan’s side, that they picked the conversation up again.
“I might have overreacted a bit,” Garcia said, her eyes focused on the window and something outside. “To your analysis of Colby, I mean.”
“Baby Girl, I don’t have the right to judge the guys you meet.”
“Yeah, you do,” she contradicted immediately. “You’re my teammate, my colleague and my best friend. You have the right to judge the guys I’m thinking of seeing.”
“But not before meeting them. I drove you to call him back, to say yes to going out with him. I shouldn’t have said anything,” Morgan replied. “You were so mad at me.”
Her hand took his and placed it on her abdomen, right above the wound, turning her back and leaning into him more in the process. She did it every once in a while because the heat helped the dull throb of her healing skin. It would do as an effective painkiller until this conversation was over. “Some of the things I said were wrong, Derek.”
“Nah, you hit the nail on the head. I miss things that are right under my nose sometimes.”
Her heart rate accelerated at that admission. “I just… I’m not that girl, not like you’re that guy.”
“Sweetheart, you don’t have to be That Girl to get That Guy,” he told her. “And I felt so guilty. I swore to protect when I joined the FBI.”
For the time being, Garcia ignored the subject change. “You were in Florida, what could you do?”
They both fell silent for a few moments though Garcia could tell Morgan was puzzling through something.
“My heart stopped when I got the call,” Morgan started softly, the hand not on her stomach starting to brush through her curls. “Then the team started making calls to Quantico, to the hospital, to police stations and media channels and I just sat there. All I could think was that I couldn’t lose you, not after being in a fight with you, not with you mad at me.
“When I saw you in that hospital bed… I wasn’t sure what to think. All I knew was that you had to wake up. Our team just isn’t our team without my Baby Girl. You are such a light to anyone who gets the honour of working with you, Pen.”
He fell silent and Garcia tried not to deflate. They were dancing again and she was sick of it. She waited a few more minutes before sighing softly and moving his hand. However, it came back, pressing gently against her other hip and holding her body down.
“You’re my light.”
That was admission enough.
For now.