Work Text:
Hotch is in one of his notoriously bad moods – was, earlier, in any case.
Everyone is stressed in their own ways: Derek keeps signing in early to use the gym facilities and that’s on top of his regular routine; Spencer has so much sugar in his coffee she’s not sure how he can stand to drink it; JJ has gone through half a pack of Advil this week alone from the stress headaches; and Emily keeps snapping and immediately apologising for it. Even Penelope herself has a hard time remembering to tone down… everything.
Their least favourite time of year: performance reviews. An excuse to get pulled up on the most minor of mistakes and drilled on techniques down to exact wording. She understands (they do have the highest rate of injuries out of any unit) but they’re also very good at their jobs and having higher-ups breathing down the back of their necks for a good two weeks is inefficient at best.
They’d called it an early night – early in the sense that they weren’t going to stay late for once – because they had reached the stage where they were starting to drive each other crazy just by existing together.
Penelope stays. Mainly because IT have got their new equipment in and she’s determined to get the unit’s share before they get stuck with the duds – the ones people break, panic and put back with the rest of the other new hardware. She’d never have thought there’d ever be such a rush over bog-standard monitors and a couple of towers. There’s not much needs done, just some of the upstairs monitors and a keyboard or two, so she might as well start it herself.
It’s not really a surprise when the lights are on in Hotch’s office. Why his solution to stress is to stress more, she’ll never know. She knocks and he’s more surprised to see her still here, looking up from his work. “Garcia? I didn’t know you were still here.”
“I’m just sorting out tech stuff,” she says carefully. He doesn’t sound irritated. Just tired. “It’s nothing exciting.”
“The IT department should do that,” Hotch says. “You don’t have to stay.”
“If I wait for them, we’ll be waiting ‘til Jack’s in college,” Penelope says. “No, they would get around to it if I did leave it but I might as well.”
He nods, already half focused on his paperwork. Small ink spots stain along the side of his hand.
Penelope spends more time carting things from the main office back to hers – it’s a long trek to IT and she might leave that half of the process to the boys. At least they can say they helped. In the office, she glances periodically over the monitor or desk or wherever she is working at Hotch.
Elbows on the desk he lets his head rest in his hands. It lasts just a moment then his shoulders rise and fall with a long deep breath and it’s back to working. She has the distinct impression he’d never let that, the most minor of indicators, show if he knew she was looking.
She switches out monitors. Hotch paces. She reaches under a desk to unplug a keyboard. He tilts his head against his free hand, tapping his pen as he thinks. She checks the connections. He stifles a yawn. The bursts of genuine concentration grow further apart and the agitated movements closer.
And by the time she’s done – at midnight, the time slipping right past her – Penelope has a plan. And a good thing, because when he allows his elbows to rest on the desk again his hands are balled into fists and trembling minutely; she can’t tell if it’s frustration or physical strain or indeed which is worse.
Hotch might be too stubborn to admit he’s flagging but she’s relying on that stubbornness to work to her advantage. Well. That’s if she’s read his mood right and that’s difficult on the best of days, especially without really talking to him.
She sticks her head around the door. “Can I borrow you for a minute, sir?”
Hotch sits back and she takes note of the dark smudges beneath his eyes.
“It’s not important if you’re busy.”
“What do you need?” he asks.
“I’ve got some things to take back to my office,” she says. “It shouldn’t take long but I’d like to get home…”
For a moment she thinks he’ll turn her down and she will have to find something else to do the trick, but Hotch scribbles down the end of a sentence and closes the folder. Penelope tries not to let her success show on her face.
She’s taken most of it back and though she intends to take the heavier PC tower rather than the box crammed full of keyboards and mice, Hotch picks it up, brushing off her offer to take it.
“I didn’t realise it was getting late,” Penelope says. “It doesn’t feel like a Wednesday to me. More like Thursday.”
“And they feel very different?”
She adjusts her grip as they make their way along. “Not really, but Thursday is only one day until I get to go home and not set my alarm for the morning.”
“It has been a long week,” Hotch concedes.
“Tell me about it,” she says. “The reviews are done by Friday still?”
“They better be.”
“What happens with their reviews?” Penelope says. “They all sit around patting themselves on the back?”
“Something like that,” Hotch says. “They ask for the reports in advance and every year they manage to give the final evaluations late.”
“They’d get on well with IT,” she says. “Honestly. Don’t get me started on their ticket system, I could rewrite that whole thing top to bottom.”
Hotch nods like he knows what she’s talking about as she nudges the door open and sets the box down. He puts the PC down by the back wall and she smiles. That’s already half the plan.
“Is that all of it?”
“Yep!” Penelope says. She pushes her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “Well… no, never mind.”
“What?”
“Do you mind coming out to the parking lot with me?” she blurts. “I know there’s nobody there but it’s later than I normally—”
Someone might ask why she’s afraid tonight, when she has done it for years by herself and at far less reasonable hours than this. They might ask whether or not she’s noticed all the CCTV cameras. They might ask what does she think is going to happen in the car park of the literal FBI?
To which Penelope would point out, first of all, the unit has taken hundreds of cases which prove that safe places aren’t all that safe, thank you very much, and secondly: she isn’t, she has and nothing. But her own answers are irrelevant.
Her plan hinges not on her logic being flawless but something much simpler: Hotch being too polite to question it. For all she cares he could see through her – probably can – because, if he doesn’t mention it, he’ll go along with it.
“Of course,” Hotch says. Just like she’d thought.
Penelope gathers her things quickly and locks up the office behind them. Making easy, if somewhat tired, small talk they’re almost at the elevator when she splits off, earning a questioning look.
“Aren’t we…?” Penelope blinks, puts on her best innocent face. “I thought we were gonna get your stuff so you wouldn’t have to walk there and back again afterwards.”
Hotch tilts his head and gives her a flat look. It might have worked if she wasn’t immune to all of their puppy eyes, including his. “Fine.”
She waits until he’s crammed files into his briefcase and they’ve left the office behind before she breaks. “See, I can be subtle.”
“I think it works better when you don’t immediately admit it,” Hotch says wryly.
“It worked,” Penelope shrugs. “And we can’t all be profilers. Some of us mere mortals have to make do.”
“It worked,” he admits. Though there’s something in his eyes closer to amusement than irritation.
“Subtlety’s overrated,” she says. “I know, I know. Just ‘til Monday.”
The elevator dings and they step out into the cold. “Garcia. I want to apologise. I don’t mean to argue with any of you.”
“That’s all right,” Penelope says. “And I don’t think you need to worry about the reviews. They’re gonna turn out fine.”
Hotch makes a carefully neutral sound.
“I mean, they can’t look at all of that—” She gestures in thin air. “—and say it’s not good enough.”
“It isn’t just my performance I’m responsible for,” Hotch says. “I have to prove what I see from all of you every day and they expect that in a couple of hours where all they choose to discuss are the negatives. And if I don’t, it’s your reviews that suffer.”
That’s the most she’s heard from him in the past few days and he says it like he’s been thinking about it for twice as long. Penelope bumps into his shoulder. “Well, we haven’t been fired yet.”
“Yet,” Hotch repeats. “Thank you for your confidence, Garcia.”
“You’re welcome,” she says. “Worst case scenario, I start flirting with you and they get too worried about sexual harassment to care.”
She winks.
“Don’t do that, I’m your boss,” Hotch says. “And – don’t.”
“They’re not going to fire me,” Penelope says. “I managed to say that to Strauss and I’m still here.”
“And you want a repeat of the conversation she made us have afterwards?” Hotch asks, raising his eyebrows.
“Point taken,” she says. It had been less of a conversation and more like Strauss alternating between berating her and, a little less outraged, lecturing Hotch. “I’ll do it with Morgan instead.”
“…just keep it PG this time,” Hotch says. His fond smile, brief as it is, feels like a relief after the mood brewing in the office. “Actually PG.”
“I’ll be perfectly professional, sir,” she promises as they reach the car. “Seriously, it’s going to go well.”
Hotch nods. “Goodnight, Garcia.”
Penelope resists the urge to hug him – those seem to be reserved for near-death scenarios apparently – then thinks screw it and throws her arms around him anyway. Like usual, he stiffens for a moment before he lets her. Honestly, she’s convinced none of them, bar Morgan, were ever hugged enough as a child.
She likes to think she’s slowly wearing them down.
“Night, sir,” Penelope says.