Chapter Text
The motel’s ice machine hummed in the background, a dull, unchanging whir like tinnitus against the stillness of the Texas night. It was the only sound, aside from the occasional groan of the old A/C unit sputtering to life. The hum, the rattle, the sterile flicker of fluorescent light—it all formed a kind of white noise grief couldn’t quite fill.
Garcia sat on the edge of her bed, her shoes discarded in the middle of the room like she’d stepped out of them mid-run. Her fingers tangled in the hem of her cardigan, twisting the soft fabric like it was a lifeline. She hadn’t changed out of her work clothes. She hadn’t pulled back her hair. She hadn’t turned on the TV, or the radio, or even the tiny lamp beside the bed.
The air conditioner’s breath was too cold against her bare calves, but she didn’t reach for the blanket. Didn’t pull on her leggings. She just sat there, caught somewhere between frozen and undone.
The case was over.
The bastard was in custody.
And the girl—the little girl with the missing tooth and purple shoelaces—wouldn’t be coming home.
Penelope blinked hard, then pressed the sleeve of her sweater beneath her glasses to dry the sting behind her eyes. She hadn’t cried. Not really. Not when she was helping the local PD decrypt the unsub’s horrifying cloud archive. Not when she flagged twenty-seven images in under five minutes, each one worse than the last. Not when she found the GPS metadata that put them within ten feet of the killer’s shed.
She had powered through, even cracked a half-hearted joke to keep Reid grounded while he translated the tech jargon. She kept Hotch updated through her headset with a voice that was a little too steady. She was their rock.
But now?
Now, the day had run out. The adrenaline had drained. And there was nothing left but silence and static and the smell of industrial cleaner soaking into motel sheets.
The others were scattered through the building, winding down in quiet ways: Reid and JJ had commandeered the little kitchen and were trying to make popcorn with bottled water and a fork. Rossi was probably sipping whiskey with one sock off and watching a local true crime doc on mute. Hotch had told them all to take the night. To rest. To breathe.
But Penelope didn’t want to breathe.
She wanted to stop. She wanted one moment—just one—where she didn’t have to be strong, or smart, or helpful. So she left.
The gravel crunched under her boots as she walked, phone tucked into her purse, sweater sleeves pulled over her hands. She didn’t have a destination in mind—just away. Away from the smell of bleach and old smoke and grief.
She found the bar by accident.
A dusty neon “OPEN” sign blinked in the window of a squat building that looked like it hadn’t seen a renovation since the 70s. The sign buzzed faintly, flickering like it wasn’t entirely sure it wanted to stay alive. The place was called “Buckshot’s,” because of course it was.
Inside, it smelled like wood polish, old beer, and resignation. Country music hummed low over the speakers, not the upbeat kind, but the kind that sounded like heartbreak draped in denim.
There were a few regulars perched at the bar, men with graying stubble and weathered hands who nodded vaguely at her presence without really looking. A couple of guys in cowboy hats were arguing over darts near the back. No one asked questions. No one stared.
Perfect.
She slipped into a booth near the back, where the wood felt sticky but the shadows were soft. A tired waitress took her order without judgment. Garcia asked for a whiskey sour, heavy on the whiskey. When it came, she wrapped both hands around the glass like it might steady her.
She took a sip and let the burn do what it could to dull the ache.
Penelope Garcia, the woman who dressed in unicorn cardigans and pixelated glasses, who sprinkled glitter on horror for a living, sat still in the golden-dark of a nowhere bar and tried not to think about the mother who’d asked her, “How could someone do that to a child?”
Her phone buzzed on the table beside her. She glanced at the screen.
Group chat. A photo from JJ—her and Reid in the motel kitchenette, Reid in socks and a too-big hoodie, holding up a scorched popcorn bag with a triumphant grin. JJ was mid-eye roll, but smiling.
Penelope stared at it for a long moment.
She didn’t reply.
Not because she didn’t love them. Not because she wasn’t grateful. But because tonight, her soul needed silence. A place outside the profile. Away from the monsters and the maps and the evidence boards.
Tonight, she needed to be alone.
Just long enough to feel human again. Just long enough to remember she still could.
Across town, Luke Alvez stretched his shoulders with a quiet groan as he slid into the passenger seat of an unmarked SUV, the cracked leather creaking beneath him. His arms ached from the takedown earlier, and the adrenaline had long since burned off, leaving him with the kind of bone-deep fatigue that only came after a week of chasing shadows through unfamiliar streets.
Next to him, his partner, Phil Brooks, was already grumbling as he tossed their half-eaten takeout into a paper bag and rubbed at his knees like they personally offended him.
“These damn motel pillows are made of concrete. My spine’s got questions and none of ‘em are polite.”
Luke smirked, wiping his hands with a napkin that smelled faintly of barbecue sauce. “You’re getting soft.”
“I’ve been soft,” Phil shot back. “That’s why I got married, bought a Tempur-Pedic, and stopped sleeping in chairs six years ago. You, on the other hand, still think neck pain builds character.”
Luke chuckled, leaning his head back against the seat and closing his eyes for a second. “You’re the one who said we should keep chasing leads tonight.”
“Yeah, and I didn’t think we’d actually find the bastard,” Phil said, adjusting the AC vent to full blast. “I figured we’d drive around, argue about GPS directions, then call it. Instead, we end up tackling a guy in a gas station parking lot like it’s our rookie year.”
“But we found him,” Luke said, opening one eye. “And he’ll be on the plane to Nevada tomorrow.”
Phil let out a sigh of satisfaction. “Thank God. If I had to spend another night in that motel with the haunted ice machine and the dead crickets in the sink, I might’ve started crying in the shower.”
They drove in a comfortable silence for a few minutes, the streets dark and quiet, headlights carving soft arcs through the dust. The weight of the case was easing, just enough for reality to come back into focus—tired joints, a full belly, the promise of sleep.
Then Phil nodded toward a glowing red neon sign as they passed. “Hey. That place doesn’t look half bad.”
Luke turned his head. The sign buzzed faintly: Buckshot’s. A rough little bar with a gravel lot and flickering lights, nestled between a defunct pawn shop and what looked like an abandoned feed store. The kind of place that didn’t expect anything from you—except that you pay cash and mind your own business.
“Buckshot’s?” Luke asked, raising a brow.
“Yeah,” Phil said. “You wanna grab a drink? Just one. I’ll buy. You earned it.”
Luke considered it. He hadn’t really stopped in weeks—not with the fugitive running circles through three counties. He hadn’t had time for normal. But now, with the guy in cuffs and the team scheduled to fly out first thing in the morning, there was a strange emptiness settling in. He didn’t want to go back to the motel yet. He didn’t want to sit in silence, staring at the water stains on the ceiling, thinking about all the kids they couldn’t save.
He didn’t have plans.
Didn’t have anyone waiting.
Just a dull ache behind his eyes and a quiet craving for something that didn’t feel like work.
He looked at Phil and gave a nod. “Sure. One drink.”
Phil grinned. “Atta boy.”
They turned around at the next intersection.
Neither of them noticed the neon flicker a little harder as they pulled into the gravel lot—like it knew the night was about to shift.
The door creaked open, hinges protesting like they hadn’t been oiled since the bar opened sometime in the ‘70s. Penelope didn’t look up. She took another sip of her whiskey sour, watching the condensation trail lazy streaks down the side of her glass like they were trying to escape with her.
The bar still smelled faintly of beer and linoleum polish. Her cardigan sleeves were pulled low over her hands. The left one was damp from wiping under her eyes too hard. She blinked, slowly. Felt the cold bite of the air conditioner kick back on. Let it numb her legs, her arms, her thoughts.
But someone looked at her.
Luke Alvez stepped just inside, the door swinging shut behind him with a soft thud. He shrugged off the weight of the heat outside, cracking his neck like it might shake loose the tension of the day. His eyes did a quick sweep—military-trained, careful, thorough. First checking exits, corners, and movement. Then, curiosity crept in.
And that’s when he saw her.
She didn’t notice him at first. Her hair was swept up into some messy twist, secured with a bright pink clip that didn’t match anything else she was wearing—black cardigan, black dress, heavy boots kicked halfway under the table. A rainbow pin clung to the strap of her crossbody bag like a badge of defiance. Her eyes were glassy, a thousand yards away.
Something in him stilled.
Phil Brooks nudged him from behind. “Well, damn. You see her?”
Luke blinked once, pulled out of whatever invisible thread had yanked him toward her. “Yeah. I see her.”
Phil grinned, already walking toward the bar. “Go say hi.”
Luke arched a brow. “You’re married, remember?”
“I’m not blind. And you’re not dead.” Phil tossed him a smirk. “One drink, Romeo. I’ll get the first round.”
Luke hesitated for a beat longer. But something about her—the tension in her shoulders, the way her fingers clutched the hem of her sleeve like it was the only thing tethering her to the room—had him moving before he even fully decided to.
He crossed the bar in easy strides. Quiet. Unintrusive.
Penelope sensed someone approaching and glanced up, already mentally rehearsing how to tell some stranger she didn’t want company.
Then she saw him.
He was tall. Ridiculously so. Built like a brick wall in a fitted black T-shirt, jeans that sat too well on his hips, and a face that had definitely seen some things. His jaw was sharp, mouth soft, eyes dark and careful—and kind. Like he knew how to carry weight, and when to set it down.
She didn’t say no.
“Is this seat taken?” he asked, voice low and smooth, like it didn’t want to startle her.
She tilted her head, studying him. There was a smile trying to tug at her mouth. “Depends. You planning on ruining my night?”
That earned the barest upturn of his lips—something between a smirk and a promise. “Not unless you’re into that kind of thing.”
A laugh—small but real—bubbled up before she could stop it. Her grip on her sleeve loosened.
She nodded at the booth across from her. “Alright, Mr. Mysterious. Sit. But you better have a good story to tell.”
Luke slid in smoothly, every movement measured. His gaze didn’t leave hers. “How about this: I tell you something ridiculous, and you pretend to believe it.”
She narrowed her eyes playfully. “Is it going to involve alien abductions, or will it be more grounded in reality?”
“Neither,” he said, leaning in with mock gravity. “I once got kicked out of a rodeo in El Paso for trying to ride a mechanical bull… backwards.”
That startled a snort out of her. She clapped a hand over her mouth. “No way.”
Luke shrugged. “You agreed to pretend.”
“And I am,” she said, wiping under her eyes again, but this time because they were watering from laughter. “I’m very committed to this fiction.”
Across the room, Phil handed two beers to the bartender and glanced over his shoulder. When he saw Penelope laughing—actually laughing—he grinned and raised his bottle in a silent toast.
Back at the booth, Luke leaned his elbows on the table, the space between them shrinking by inches. “Your turn,” he said gently.
“For what?”
“To make something up. Or tell me the truth. Whichever feels easier tonight.”
Penelope stared at him for a moment, this stranger with a voice like comfort and eyes like quiet understanding. Then she took another sip of her drink and said softly, “I’ve just… had one of those days. The kind where pretending feels harder than the truth.”
Luke nodded once. No pity. Just presence.
“Then I’ll tell enough lies for both of us,” he said, voice almost a whisper.
She smiled. Really smiled.
And for the first time in a long time, it didn’t feel like a betrayal to feel good again.
It felt like maybe she could come back to herself. One story, one laugh, one quiet stranger at a time.