Work Header

Shattered Glass, Tempered Steel

Work Text:

Content Disclaimer:  Descriptions of a violent rape, of decomposition, of infanticide, and of consensual sex between consenting adult females. 
Source Disclaimer:  I do not own Criminal Minds or the characters from that show.  I seek no profit from this story. 




Penelope Garcia's cell phone's insistent jangling jolted her awake and the first thing she noticed after her eyes adjusted to the dim light filtering in through her purple curtains was a white envelope on the pillow next to hers in her bed, the pillow usually occupied at this time of the morning by her beautiful lover.  It wasn't addressed, of course.  It didn't need to be.  She knew who it was from and what it probably meant and her stomach sank as she reached for her phone. 

"Garcia's All-Night Nerd Nook," she intoned morosely as she answered.  "I tag 'em, you snag 'em."

"Garcia, it's Reid.  Hotch is calling everyone in.  We've got a case."

"Where?"  She reached for her glasses on the bedside table and put them on, stifling a yawn in the process.

"Cody, Nebraska," replied Reid, making the answer sound almost like a question.  A question he would happily answer, of course.  "It's a small town off Route 20, south of the Nebraska/South Dakota border.  Population of 149 at the 2000 census."

"Well, that should make questioning the locals easier," mused Garcia.  "You can round 'em all up down at the one-room schoolhouse that doubles as Town Hall.  Is it bad?"  She knew all their cases were technically bad but she had a short list of personal squicks that could make a case so much worse for her.  The team knew what they were and did their best to protect her from them.

"Some local teenagers celebrating the end of the school year found a shallow grave in the hills outside town.  They'd gone up there to drink, according to the police report, and saw what they thought was a mannequin's hand lying near a dried stream bed.  When they got closer and discovered it was real, they went home to get their parents, who then called the local sheriff.  He called in the state troopers and when they found the sixth grave, they called us.  They believe there are more graves, dozens maybe, all along that stream bed."

"Ugh."  Garcia grimaced at the thought of the pictures she knew she would be getting soon.  "Anything on the victims so far?"

"Nothing yet.  The most recent--the one the teenagers found--is the best possibility for quick identification.  Minimal decomp.  She's female, approximately 40 years old.  Her head had been shaved and she was buried nude and face down.  Preliminary COD is listed as strangulation.  The ME up there estimates she's only been dead for 7 to 10 days.  She is not someone the ME recognizes as being part of their small community so she's being called Jane Doe #1."

"Okay, Reid, get me pictures of her face and any identifying marks and I'll see if I can track her down in missing persons reports.  I'll be in within the hour."

"Thanks, Garcia.  Sorry to ruin your weekend."

Garcia smiled at Reid's boyish earnestness.  "That's why they pay us the big bucks, Reid.  Anyway, I'd never let the team go to Nebraska without me in The Box.  I'm not sure a town that size even has indoor plumbing, let alone a computer.  Sounds like you're heading for Laura Ingalls country."

"Yeah.  We have to fly into Rapid City and drive 194 miles to Cody.  We're taking over the high school gym as our staging ground.  The guys are sleeping there.  Emily and JJ will be staying at the sheriff's house--"

"Wait," interrupted Garcia, "let me guess--'On account of them are womenfolk'?"  She did her best John Wayne impression.

Reid chuckled.  "That's the gist of what he said, yeah.  See you when you get here."

"Yeah.  Bye."  She dropped her phone on the bed, her mind already racing, plotting out what she needed to do and in what order to make her morning the most efficient.  She saw the envelope again when she stood up and all those thoughts simply scattered.  She looked at it for a long moment before opening it, smiling sadly as she turned it over to remove the crisp card from within.  It read:


Got an email this morning that looks like we might have a case, so I went into the office.  I'll wake you when we need you but I wanted to let you sleep as long as possible.  You looked so peaceful, so beautiful...  Do I look that way to you when I am sleeping?  I wonder... 

I've taken my ready bag, just in case.  I'm sorry about our weekend.  You know I'd rather be here, cuddled up on the couch with you and The Carol Burnett Marathon, right? 

I love you.


Penelope Garcia smiled so widely she thought her cheeks might ache for the rest of the day.  She replaced the card in the envelope and dropped it into her purse on the way to jump in the shower.  She decided suddenly that she'd set her DVR to capture the entire marathon so that she and JJ could enjoy it later. 

No sense in letting perfectly good cuddle time go to waste, she thought, humming a happy little tune.  As she stood under the hot spray of water in her shower, washing her hair with a sharply-scented green apple shampoo, she began to think about what she would cook for that eventual weekend, forgetting all about the bodies being unearthed in far away Cody, Nebraska.


Penelope Garcia, FBI Tech Analyst extraordinaire, picked up the envelope propped against her pen cup and slid out the card for what had to be the thousandth time in four days and every time she read it, it generated a full-on, million-watt smile.  This time was no exception.  She needed it, too.  They were on grave number 37 along that stream bed with no end in sight.  The resultant massive law enforcement presence--there were CSUs from three states walking around up there--had probably spooked their unsub.  Rossi believed he was long gone, whoever he was.  The others were not so sure.  Cody was a small town.  Very small.  If the unsub had been a part of their community, the team would know it by now, wouldn't they?  But no one in or around Cody could recall seeing anyone suspicious or out of place in the last two weeks.  Not even the most recent victim.  It was all very confusing.

Garcia had worked magic on that identification and she knew it.  Even Rossi, may the fleas of a thousand camels infest his bad-tempered armpits, had said so.  Evelyn Dearborn, an unmarried herbalist and holistic health practitioner from Delaware had decided to take a few months off after the death of her mother to travel the country in her mother's prized possession: a gently used, white-topped '67 Chevy II Nova Wagon in original Nantucket Blue--as yet unrecovered.  Friends said she had chosen a route that did not include Nebraska.  It did, however, include South Dakota and state troopers were checking with hotels along Interstate 90 to find out where she had last been seen.  They figured most people would at least remember the car. 

In the mean time, the team continued canvassing community members, which was proving more difficult than Garcia's prediction of a quaint little round up down at Town Hall.  This community extended well beyond town limits to include people who were truly rural.  Some of these families only came into town two or three times a year, mainly to restock in staples and seed for their farms or to sell whatever meager harvest they had scratched out.  Finding some of them was nearly an exercise in futility--with directions like "take that wagon track until you see the fourth cottonwood copse and then bear left past the old rusted cistern..."--so each pair from the team had a local deputy with them acting as a guide.  It was a painstakingly slow process that, so far, had yielded nothing.

Garcia was just putting the card back into the envelope when her phone rang.  She propped the love note against her pen cup for easy retrieval and jabbed the answer button on her phone.

"Speak that you may become enlightened, O mortal one!  You have reached Garcia's Nerdly Nirvana..."

Jennifer Jareau grinned and turned as far away as she could from fellow agent Emily Prentiss and their deputy guide, Hank Brodie, in the front seat, lowering her voice to keep them from overhearing her response.  Emily was driving them over some pretty bumpy terrain which she knew would help, too.

"I'll show you Nirvana when I get home," she promised huskily, chewing briefly on the nail of her left index finger and leering gently.

Garcia gasped, jerking ramrod straight in her chair.  Her entire body instantly became engulfed in tingles and she felt both feverish and freezing at the same time. 

"JJ," she breathed, dazed with desire.  She stared blankly ahead, her fingers poised over her keyboard until she managed to shake herself out of her reverie.  "God, you can't talk to me like that at work!" she admonished plaintively.  "I go into shock and become useless!"

"I'm sorry," said JJ, immediately contrite, her voice sounding tinny and very far away.  "I was actually calling for work reasons but you said 'Nirvana' and distracted me."

"Everyone's a critic!" retorted Garcia brightly, her voice retreating to its normal, professional timbre.  "And before we get around to how I can help you, what in the Goddess' name is wrong with your phone?"

JJ snorted, the sound melting with the static on the line.  "Nothing that a local cell tower wouldn't cure.  If they had one.  Which they don't." 

"Are you sure you're even still in the 21st century?" asked Garcia snidely, her lips twisted in a sardonic grin.

"I'm not sure we're even on the same planet.  I've never seen so much...landscape before.  And all of it is beige."

The pink-streaked blonde chuckled.  "What do you need, hon?  Before I lose you to the Hell of the Lost Signal."

JJ discarded the first two less-than-professional responses to her lover's perfectly innocent question and replied, "Emily and I are heading up to someplace called the Petit Farm but our guide is a little lost.  Can you lock onto my GPS signal and get us heading in the right direction again?  We're pretty much in the middle of nowhere."

Garcia's fingers flew over her keyboard as she activated several searches at once.  "Give me just a sec, Sugar, and I'll find you..."  A red blip appeared on the satellite map Garcia had in front of her.  "There you are..."  She entered information into the mapping software from another search she'd done on county records and waited for the results. "And the Petit Farm is...just over three miles due north of you."

JJ relayed that information to Emily and Garcia could hear the SUV grinding through what sounded like gravel as it changed directions.  "Don't they have roads there either?"

The blonde agent almost rolled her eyes.  "Not so much.  There's not even a hint of a trail, really.  It's much more...subliminal." 

Garcia laughed.  "Subliminal roads, no cell towers, and a command center smelling of boys' gym socks.  No wonder they sent you out with guides."

"Yeah.  Hotch was getting annoyed at all the time being wasted."  JJ looked out the windshield and noticed a graying hulk of a barn in the distance.  Beyond that, she could just see a dilapidated farmhouse with windows as dark and hollowed out as the eye sockets of a skull.  "Hey, as long as we're still connected, can you tell me anything about who lives here?  They're one of the families that doesn't make it into town that often and I want to know what to expect."

"Uh...sure..."  Garcia began running several searches simultaneously, mostly through state databases, county records, and newspaper archives.  There wasn't much but, then, there wasn't much of Cody, Nebraska either.  "The land is currently owned by Ollie Petit, wife of the late Charles Petit who died in...1992.  Winter.  Pneumonia.  Ollie is 78-years-old and receives disability checks for...blindness.  She apparently lost her eyesight in what is listed as a 'farming accident'--whatever that means--back in 1960 and has received disability checks since then.  There's a human interest story in the Rapid City Journal--dated September 12th, 1971--all about how she weaves these intricate tapestries on this big antique loom even though she's totally blind.  Pretty amazing..."

"Okay..."  JJ wasn't sure how amazing it was, actually.  It sounded sad to her.  Desolate.  Stuck out in this bare land with nothing to do but weave since she'd lost her eyesight?  JJ thought it was a recipe for madness.  "Anyone else?" 

Fingernails clicking on her keys, Garcia cross-referenced the name Petit with all state records on file.  "I have a Richard Petit, 52-years-old, who has a current Nebraska driver's license listing that address; a Josie Petit, 50-years-old, arrested twice last year in Valentine for public drunkenness--the farm is her last known--and multiple truancy notices from the early '90s on Ricky and Joey Petit, a pair of twins, and a Crystal Petit..."  A burst of rapid clicks and then silence.  "It looks like that's it.  Sorry, Jayj."

"Sorry?  Garcia, that's more than we knew from the sheriff.  At least we"  Garcia heard JJ gasp and what sounded like a muffled, urgent conversation between Emily and the deputy.  The SUV came to a stop and Garcia clearly heard three car doors slam.

"JJ?"  Penelope could feel the tension radiating from her lover.  "JJ?  What's going on?"

"Garcia, Emily's sending you some pictures from her cell.  I don't know how clear they're going to be--"

"Pictures of what?"  The tech analyst refreshed her email inbox reflexively but nothing new came in.

"License plates, hundreds of them.  They're hanging from two trees in the yard and are nailed onto the side of the barn.  Multiple states...  Maine, Ohio, Pennsylvania...  I see two from DC and one of them is older.  Maybe from the '70s?  It's a government plate, Garcia--"

Suddenly a voice Garcia didn't recognize--a harsh, shrill, shrieking voice--sliced into JJ's description.  "Get off my land!  You aren't welcome here!"  She was a little distance away from JJ's location but getting nearer.

"FBI, ma'am!  We are federal agents!  Put the shotgun down now!"  That was Emily's voice, strong and fierce, authoritative and urgent.  Everything happened too fast after that--the sound of JJ's service weapon leaving her holster then a thump and rustle after which the sounds became even fuzzier and more distant.  Garcia heard Emily shouting again, followed by two different men's voices, then JJ ordering someone to drop their weapon, more shouting, and then shots--first one, then too many to count--until finally Emily's voice again, louder now, shouting into her own phone.  "Officer down!  We have an officer down!" and then a more panicked "Get into the car!  Pull it around--"

That was the last thing Garcia heard. 


Jennifer Jareau sat at one of the desks in Cody-Kilgore High School's gym where she and her team had set up their command center.  She pressed a square of gauze against her forehead and patiently endured the ministrations of Deenie White, school nurse, who was checking several smaller cuts for broken glass.  The sharp scent of iodine made her nose twitch and the cuts sting, but she sat through it without complaint, sighing with relief when the short, elderly, penguin-shaped woman declared her 'all patched up.'

Emily Prentiss came over to check on her, her camel-colored suit pants and her white Oxford still stained dark with Hank Brodie's blood.  She'd washed her hands, though, JJ noticed.

"How are you?" asked the brunette, her dark eyes taking in the small bandage on JJ's forehead and her numerous other injuries.

JJ smiled weakly.  "I'm fine.  Superficial cuts from the shot that took out the driver's side window.  They shouldn't scar unless--and I quote--'you're like Janie Landry's oldest girl, Tillie.  Picked at her scabs all the time.'"  

Emily's eyes went wide.  "Tillie?  As in the sheriff's wife?"

JJ shrugged.  "I guess so," she said, laughing.  She looked across the room at the tiny, stocky, gray-haired woman who was now speaking to the sheriff.  "How many generations do you think she's told to 'turn your head and cough'?"

"Oh God..."  The look on Emily's face was a priceless mixture of disgust and mortification, making JJ laugh even harder.

Emily grinned and the sight jarred JJ a bit.  With the deputy's blood staining her clothing and that conspiratorial grin, Emily looked like a feminine version of Sweeny Todd.  The blonde agent shook her head to dislodge that particular thought and changed the subject, asking, "How's Hank?"

"They took him to Valentine.  He's in surgery but they think he'll be okay.  Collapsed lung."  The brunette sighed.  "It could have been worse."

"Yeah."  JJ thought about that, letting her eyes wander the nearly empty command center.  Hotch was on the phone organizing the arrival of even more Crime Scene Units now that they had a primary crime scene.  The sheriff was talking to one of his other deputies, a young, clean-cut redhead who practically squeaked when he walked.  He nodded sagely as the sheriff spoke then turned to carry out whatever orders he'd been given with intense concentration carved into his features.

"Josie Petit's in surgery, too," continued Emily, her features smooth and unreadable.  "They're not sure she'll make it.  Richard Petit is dead."

JJ nodded.  It had been a good shoot and she'd say as much and more in the review.  Emily Prentiss had clearly identified them as federal agents before any shots were fired.  They'd been attacked without provocation. 

"Those license plates...they're what we thought they were, aren't they?" she asked hollowly.

Emily sighed and sat on the edge of the desk.  "Looks like it.  They found Evelyn Dearborn's plate hanging from the smaller tree out front.  Morgan, Reid, and Rossi are up there right now with some of the sheriff's deputies, sorting through the rest of them by state so they can get Garcia to cross-reference them with missing person's lists.  They go back years.  Morgan said he has two from 1961 already.  That may be the starting point."

"The year after Ollie Petit went blind from a farming accident," said JJ absently, thinking about the call she'd been on with Penelope before all Hell had broken loose and the call she'd made to her after, almost as soon as she was inside the gym's heavy institutional doors and before she'd let the nurse touch her.  Penelope's voice had been so relieved and so angry at the same time and the knowledge that she'd caused her sweet, funny, violet-eyed lover so much pain hurt JJ more than the stinging cuts on her face and neck.  Much more.  She sighed then deliberately pulled her mind away from her guilt, sore like a bruise.  She couldn't fix it from here, she reasoned.  She'd have to wait until she was home. 

Attempting to take her mind off the sound of tears in Penelope's voice, she wondered, "What kind of farming accident causes blindness like that?"  She remembered with revulsion Ollie Petit's eyelids, sewn shut over empty eye sockets, the skin around the ancient wounds tough and leathery, the scars thick and mottled.

"Farming accident?" repeated Emily, clearly confused.  "It wasn't a farming accident.  At least that's not what Sheriff Collier told me.  He said some drifters had shown up in town one Spring and Charles Petit had hired them on as farmhands, thinking hard work would straighten them out.  They were okay for about a month.  Then Charles Petit came back from a trip into town to find his son and daughter tied to the tree in his yard, mouths gagged with rags, and his wife laid out on the kitchen table, naked, beaten, and raped.  The farmhands had apparently cut her eyes out in an attempt to keep Ollie from identifying them to the police but they were already long gone by the time Charles Petit found her."

JJ, her sky-blue eyes wide, grimly finished the story.  "And to keep their 'troubles' private, they put 'farm accident' on the disability application."

"Or the town doctor did, out of loyalty to the family," agreed Emily.  "Whatever they called it, it's certainly the trigger point for whatever else happened at that farm.  We're up to 50-something graves out at the stream bed.  If those graves go all the way back to 1961 and the killing truly was a  family affair then there must be..."  She didn't finish the thought.  Somehow a 47-year-long killing spree by one rural farming family was too weighty and horrid to speak of, even for Emily Prentiss, who was usually so good about compartmentalizing the death and mayhem they often saw in the field.

"Have they located the boys yet?  Ricky and Joey?"

"No," said Emily, shaking her head.  "But they were at the farm as recently as Sunday.  Rossi thinks they got spooked and took off when the sheriff called in the state troopers."

"Then they could be out there, anywhere, starting over..."

Emily's features hardened and her mouth flattened into a thin line of determination.  "If they do, we'll find them.  They won't last long."

"And their sister, Crystal Petit?  Did anyone ever find out what happened to her?"

"Apparently she hanged herself from the big tree in the front yard the night before she turned 18--about ten years ago," said Emily solemnly.  "According to Ollie, age 18 was when the kids went through their right of passage: hunting and killing their first victim.  Crystal killed herself rather than take another's life.  She's buried on the farm next to Charles Petit in an unmarked grave."  She turned inscrutable dark eyes toward JJ, sadness tugging at her mouth.  "Ollie said Crystal was the only angel she'd ever known."


Penelope Garcia watched on one of her monitors as the team returned from Cody, Nebraska.  They straggled in, tired and defeated, dropping their ready bags to the floor as if they carried the weight of the world in them.  This case hadn't wrapped itself up into a tidy little package and two unsubs were still on the loose, possibly looking for a new home base.  The CSUs had found a total of 211 graves up in the hills along the stream bed near the Petit Farm.  That meant the Petit family had killed an average of four people a year, roughly.  Four tourists or wanderers or traveling businessmen, four college students on road trips, four armchair historians, four people just passing through on their way to somewhere else...every year.  No wonder Morgan and Reid both looked like kicked puppies.

She was waiting to see JJ, of course.  Normally she wasn't such a voyeur--okay, not as much of one--but she had to see JJ as soon as she walked into the bullpen.  To know that she was okay.  Once and for all.  Those moments after hearing Emily shout "Officer down!" had been among the worst in Penelope's life and her heart thundered with panic when she remembered them even now.  Not until JJ had called her had she regained some semblance of equilibrium.  But it wasn't a complete recovery; a tiny but insidious question had infected her.  What if? 

Not one to let doubt keep her from being the best tech analyst she could, Penelope had pushed the strangely viral question down deep to focus on the case at hand.  Now, though, she could feel the words lying in wait--like a knot of spiders sitting at the base of her skull.  She tried to shut the door on them once again.  It was harder this time.   

The team had spent the last few days of their time in Cody sorting through the gruesome license plate collection--grouping them by state first and then by year in ascending order.  Only five states were not represented: Hawaii, Alaska, Rhode Island, New Jersey, and Nebraska.  Rossi figured that the lack of Nebraska plates meant the family had rules and would not hunt 'their own', either out of loyalty or simple pragmatism.  Hunting fellow Nebraskans might have ended their killing spree years ago, drawing attention to their location or putting them at risk of being recognized.  Plus, the drifters who had raped and blinded Ollie were not from Nebraska.  If Charles Petit had been seeking vengeance for their acts, he would not have meted it out against his neighbors.  Hawaii, Alaska, and Rhode Island were probably missing due to simple statistical improbability.  However, no one had the faintest clue why New Jersey had been overlooked. 

There were 218 plates all told--which, of course, had the forensics people pulling their hair out.  They were preparing to exhume the entire family plot, wondering if the missing seven graves were there.  Garcia wondered how long the CSUs would be working the Petit Farm.  It could be months before every body was found and identified.

She glanced at a monitor to her left, the one cross-referencing plate numbers and states to missing persons reports.  She'd already found 44 matches, including the owner of the 1972 government plate from DC that JJ had mentioned just before Chaos had intervened.  Turned out that poor schmuck had probably walked right up to the Petits' front door. 

Records showed that Charles Petit had been flagged for an audit after he failed to file his taxes for five years in a row.  Unable to reach Mr. Petit by phone (even now the farm didn't have one) or by mail (all the letters they'd sent had gone unanswered), the IRS had decided to send an auditor to contact the family in person.  That auditor had been Bob Finch, a 29-year-old unmarried number cruncher originally from Tennessee.  No one, apparently, had ever heard from Bob Finch again.

Bob's parents, now long dead, had filed a missing person's report nearly three months after the scheduled date of Charles Petit's audit but the report didn't say why they'd waited so long to act.  The only record Garcia could find in the IRS' personnel records pertaining to Bob Finch was an invoice for the black Buick he'd been driving on that trip.  The bastards had sent the invoice for the missing car to his parents, who'd dutifully paid it.  Three grand for a 1969 Buick LeSabre four-door sedan in black with black leather interior.  It made Garcia sick.  She wondered if she could get the government to give the money back and who--if anyone--would be alive to receive it.  She made a mental note to see if Bob had any living siblings or cousins. 

Movement on the surveillance monitor caught Garcia's eye and she turned back to see Rossi arrive with Emily Prentiss, the two members of the team least likely to show the emotional wear and tear of a case.  Not this time, apparently.  Rossi seemed agitated and on edge, his movements sharply defined and staccato, while Emily's usually perfect posture sagged alarmingly.  Garcia imagined she could see dark circles under the brunette's eyes and her heart went out to the agent.  She watched Emily drop her ready bag on her desk and turn to look back the way she'd come, frowning just slightly.  Then Hotch and JJ entered the bullpen and Garcia--watching on the monitor--made a tiny yelping noise which she stifled by clapping one hand over her mouth. 

She ignored Hotch and his stern-but-exhausted features.  She focused only on Jennifer Jareau and even then barely saw her, overwhelmed by relief and love and doubt and fear.  The square of gauze on JJ's forehead, the deep sadness haunting her eyes, the nervous glances she threw toward the door to The Box as Hotch caught her elbow and said something to her--all of this hardly registered with Penelope Garcia.  Instead, she felt her face flush hotly and her heart beat wildly, she heard only the blood rushing in her ears, and saw only JJ, alive and whole.  She felt the ache of relief wash through her, chased by doubt, dark and mercurial.  She could hardly breathe.

Emily took a step toward JJ on the screen but JJ dropped her bag on Reid's desk and headed toward The Box.  Penelope flipped off the incriminating monitor and held her breath as she heard the door to her office open and then close gently.  She stared straight ahead, trembling with an overpowering need to touch JJ, to hold her in her arms.  It was a staggeringly intense desire and it took everything that Penelope had not to give in to it.  Two tears crested over her lashes and slipped down her cheeks in scalding rills.

JJ saw the tremors shudder through Penelope's shoulders, noted the tension in her bearing.  She took a step toward her lover, her own throat aching with unshed tears.


"Don't."  Garcia's voice was hollow, harsh.  She held up a hand to stop JJ's movement toward her.  "Don't, JJ."

JJ stopped instantly, frozen by confusion and fear.  "Honey?" she whispered and Penelope heard the worry and the hurt in the blonde's soft plea.

"I can't," she explained, her voice hard with conviction she didn't feel.  "All I want in the world is to see you, to touch you, but if I do--if I look at you right now--I'm afraid I'll lose it and I can't do that here.  Not where I have to be strong, day after day.  Not where I'm charged with keeping all of you safe."  She wiped her tears away with an angry swipe of her hand.  "I have to know that I can stay focused in this room, that I won't...fall apart if something happens to you.  Can you understand that, JJ?" she asked, her voice tinged with desperation, the sound of a woman barely holding on.

JJ closed her eyes and took a deep breath--the first in ages, or so it felt to her.  She considered Penelope's words carefully, finally letting them settle inside her.  They were twin pebbles--reality and duty--and they sank solidly to the pit of her belly.  Their weight was a weight she knew well.

"Yes," she answered simply, opening her eyes.  Her pride in her lover made them bright blue.  "I'll see you at home?"

Penelope let go the breath she'd been holding and nodded her head once.  "Yeah.  At home." 

"Home" meant her apartment, where they spent most of their time together.  JJ always said her own apartment was just a place to sleep.  Like a hotel room, cold and bereft of personal attachment.  Garcia's apartment, on the other hand, felt like a combination between a carnival and a fortune-teller's tent at a Ren Faire, filled with color and music, redolent with spice and warmth, heady with comfort and safety and love.  They'd traded keys a few months back and it was no surprise to JJ that she used hers more.  Even now she felt the pull of that haven and the exhaustion that she'd been fighting suddenly seemed to overwhelm her. 

JJ gazed at the back of Penelope's pink-streaked head and smiled softly.  Her eyes filled with tender emotion and it spilled over the rest of her features, smoothing out the hard lines of a long and grueling couple of weeks, erasing the furrows and frowns that had seemed permanently etched into her features only this morning.  "I love you," she whispered, pulling the door shut behind her as she left.

Penelope Garcia smiled in spite of herself, grateful beyond measure that she had a lover like Jennifer Jareau.  "I love you, too," she whispered back.


Emily Prentiss watched with concern as Jennifer Jareau exited the room the team lovingly called The Box, her hand still gripping the doorknob, her head bowed.  She watched the younger blonde take a deep breath and then straighten, as if readying herself for the camera, hiding--once again--the reality of her life and experience beneath a mask appropriate for public consumption.  Emily glanced at Morgan and Reid who were slowly finding their own equilibrium after the events of the past few weeks, bantering with one another over the original Star Trek series and whether or not Captain Kirk was an adequate leader.  She didn't roll her eyes at the boys, but it was a near thing.  Instead she headed toward JJ.

"Hey," she said, touching the communication liaison's elbow to get her attention.  "Everything okay?"  Her dark eyes slid past JJ to look at Garcia's closed door, a slight frown deepening the lines on her forehead.

JJ smiled wearily.  "Yeah," she said, nodding her head, her blonde hair shimmering around her face with the movement.  "Yeah, everything's fine."  But Emily saw that the smile didn't quite make it to JJ's azure eyes.

"JJ, this isn't a press conference.  Talk to me.  What's going on?"

The young blonde looked at Emily for a long moment, considering her options.  She knew she could trust the SSA with her life but could she trust her with this?  In the end, it wasn't a difficult decision.  Emily had never shown herself to be anything but steadfast, trustworthy, discreet, and kind.  As far as confidantes went, JJ could do much worse.  And as far as the team went, Emily really was the only choice.  JJ glanced at Reid and Morgan--now thumb wrestling for God knew what reason--and grimaced.  No, she could never share this with either of them.

JJ pulled Emily farther away from the boys to a deserted area of the bullpen.  She glanced nervously at Hotch's and Rossi's offices and chewed on her bottom lip, wondering how to ask for this favor that she needed, for this validation that she sought.

"JJ, whatever it is, it stays with me.  If that's what you're worried about."  Emily lowered her voice, her eyes darting around the room in the same nervous way as JJ's had--before she stopped herself abruptly, chastising herself.  Why not just yell "We're having an extremely private conversation over here!" into a bullhorn? she thought.

"Emily, I need a favor.  A big favor.  And before I tell you what it is, I need you to know that you don't have to say yes, okay?"  JJ looked away, her eyes dark blue with memory and pain.  "But this case..."  She rubbed the gauze bandage on her forehead absently then looked Emily dead in the eyes.  "Emily, Garcia and I have been seeing each other for over a year.  Romantically."  She closed her eyes briefly and lamented the use of the ridiculous word romantically but there was nothing she could do about it now.  Grim determination thinned her lips and she lifted her chin in defiance, prepared to defend her relationship if need be.

"I know," said Emily, her features open and encouraging as she concentrated earnestly on JJ's every word.  "And?"

JJ blinked.  "You know?" she asked incredulously.  "What do you mean you know?"

Emily allowed a small grin to tug at her lips.  "We are profilers, JJ," she explained gently.  "Some things are more...obvious to us then they would be to a...layperson."

JJ swallowed.  She couldn't hear very well through the blood rushing through her ears.  And what were those flashing spots in front of her eyes?  "'We?'" she asked weakly.  "Everyone knows?"

Worried that this knowledge might upset JJ even further, Emily found she could only nod.

"Oh God!"  JJ crossed her arms over her chest and began to pace in tight, panicked circles.  Emily reached out to stop her.

"JJ, it's okay!  Everyone's happy for you--for you both!  We're a team, remember?  We look out for each other."

JJ didn't look convinced.  "Hotch knows?"  Aaron Hotchner would not be understanding...would he?  As their immediate supervisor, he'd have all sorts of HR considerations and regulations on his mind.  Would he simply turn a blind eye, giving tacit approval while still maintaining "official" ignorance?  Would he really take that risk?

Emily nodded again.  "And Rossi.  Not Strauss, though.  And we don't think she'd be very accepting so you might want to be discreet around her."

"I thought we were being discreet around all of you!" complained the communications liaison, exasperated. 

"The difference is we've got your back, JJ," replied Emily sternly.  "We know.  We care about you and about Garcia.  We will look out for you both.  Now, can you get a grip, please, and tell me what this big favor is so I can just do it for you and go home?  I don't know about you, but I really want to get out of these clothes, take a bubble bath, and eat an entire pint of Ben & Jerry's Marcia Marcia Marshmallow--and not necessarily in that order."

Stunned, JJ could only stare at Emily Prentiss, her eyes big and round.  Then she laughed.  "Yeah, okay," she agreed, grinning.  "I can do that."  She glanced at the door to The Box and her smile faded just a bit.  "The favor is..."  She stopped and took a deep breath, turning to face the dark-eyed brunette fully, her eyes bold and pleading at the same time.  "Emily, if anything ever happens to me in the field...if I...  Will you tell Penelope?  I don't want her finding know...accidentally.  I want it to come from someone who knows about us.  From someone who cares.  She's lost so many people...her parents, her grandparents...and...I...I just want her to be taken care of, if something happens to me."

"She will be," said Emily gently.  "We will close ranks around Penelope like the Secret Service and she will have everything that she could ever need."  The words except you went unsaid but JJ could see them written in Emily's Moroccan leather eyes.  "You know that, JJ," she continued.  "Or you should."  She smiled warmly.  "Okay?"

JJ smiled a watery little smile.  Emily hadn't demurred or shushed her with useless platitudes.  She knew--like they all did--that anything could happen in the field; that you could be knocking on someone's door or tracking down someone at their workplace one minute and shooting snarling, blood-matted attack dogs the next.  That was just the way it was in their line of work and JJ was extremely grateful for Emily's simple acceptance and understanding.  "Okay," she agreed, her voice catching with sudden emotion. 

"Come on, let's go home," sighed the older agent.  "You have a date with the sexiest tech analyst in the whole FBI and I have a date with Ben & Jerry."

"Huh," said JJ pensively as they returned to the occupied portion of the bullpen to retrieve their bags.  "I wouldn't have pegged you for the threesome type, Emily."

"You haven't seen me with a pint of Marcia Marcia Marshmallow and a spoon," replied the dark-haired agent, winking saucily.

JJ just shook her head and laughed.



Penelope Garcia trudged up the last few steps to her floor, feeling both keyed up and ground down to a pulp.  She'd waited for almost forty minutes before leaving the office, needing the time to collect herself, to feel capable again.  Strong and unflappable.  Well, mostly.  Plus, she and JJ had long ago devised what they called their "exit strategy": every morning they flipped a coin to see who would leave first at the end of the workday.  They never left together unless they were heading to their favorite bar to de-stress with the rest of their team.  Just another way to keep their friends from finding out the truth of their relationship.  Heads, JJ left first; tails, she did.

At the door, Penelope hesitated, laying her palm flat against the whitewashed wood, imagining what she would find on the other side.  It was late.  JJ could be asleep already, exhausted by the case and the traveling, or she could be sitting in the center of the little couch in the living room, her arms crossed over her chest, glaring at the television as she waited for Penelope to come home.  Of all the scenarios she imagined, though, one never crossed her mind: JJ not being there.  Penelope knew right down to her purple-painted toenails that JJ was on the other side of the door.  For better or for worse.

Her mouth twisting into a smirk at her play on words, Penelope slid her key into the lock and pushed the door open, her deep, steadying breath turning into a gasp of surprise.  Candles flickered on every surface, on the tiny coffee table, on top of the TV, along the kitchen counters, on the bookshelves...  White and pink candles in all sizes, bathing the entire apartment in shades of rose and amber, pools of light dancing on the walls, on the ceilings. 

JJ stood in the center of the living room, her blue eyes large and uncertain.  She was freshly showered and her skin glowed in the golden light.  The tips of her flaxen hair were still damp, dark like honey, and she just stood there, trembling, chewing her bottom lip nervously.  She wore only an oversized white blouse--one of Penelope's--with the top three buttons undone, allowing the older woman a glimpse of the tantalizing auric skin beneath.

Penelope Garcia absently closed and locked the apartment door, never taking her eyes from the alluring sight before her.  She lowered her pink Prada knock-off bag slowly to the floor and kicked off the matching pumps, not caring where they landed.  She closed the distance between herself and her angelic lover quickly, placing a single finger over the petal pink lips that had opened, preparing to speak.  She cupped the sweet curve of JJ's cheek, gasping softly as she did so, her eyes fluttering closed.  When they opened, they were dark violet, like bruised plums, and feral with need.

Her hands suddenly shaky with desire, Penelope unbuttoned the rest of the shirt's buttons, baring JJ to a hungry gaze that seemed to burn the younger agent as it raked down her body.  Inky dark eyes drank deeply of the vision that was Jennifer Jareau, with her dusky nipples tightening under the erotic scrutiny of her lover, with the too-large shirt hanging invitingly from her shoulders and waves of gooseflesh rolling over her creamy opaline skin.

When her eyes had drunk their fill, Penelope slowly removed the sexy, square black glasses she wore and placed them carefully on the end table next to her couch, her movements exaggerated and precise.  Then she reached for and unfastened the thin black belt around her waist, carelessly dropping it to the floor.  She followed the belt with her silk skirt, unzipping the raspberry-colored fabric and letting it fall with a whisper; then followed the skirt with her slip, pushing the taupe satin over her hips.  Next, she pulled the sleeveless white turtleneck she wore over her head, her pink-streaked blonde hair now a wild mane around her face.  She dropped the sweater to the floor with the rest of her clothing and reached for the hooks that held her bra together.  As she removed the garment, Jennifer's eyes feasted on the sight before her and she groaned quietly.  Penelope Garcia was completely nude save for a pair of lacy pink panties, a raspberry-colored garter, and a pair of thigh-highs the color of a virgin's blush.

Penelope reached for Jennifer's hand and took it in her own, the shirt's cuff a barrier between them.  The tech analyst turned and pulled her younger lover into the bedroom.  JJ had lit candles in here as well and the flickering buttery light cast long shadows on the purple walls.  Penelope turned toward JJ and her eyes hardened, glittering like shards of coal licked by fire.  She gripped the lapels of the crisp white shirt JJ wore and drew the younger woman toward her, breathing deeply, catching the light citrus scent of JJ's soap and the spicy tang of her arousal.  Then she kissed her.

First, the light press of full lips against the corner of Jennifer's mouth, there then gone again.  Then a sexy nip at her bottom lip, and another, her teeth gentle but riveted, holding then finally releasing.  Over and over Penelope tasted her lover's lips, maddeningly brief touches that drove JJ mad with desire until she finally groaned in frustration and raised her hands to hold Penelope's head still, plundering her intoxicating mouth, driving their kiss deeper, a hunger she could not satiate.  Tongues entwined, the dance begun, and her body a live wire arcing with electricity, JJ hardly noticed when her world changed from vertical to horizontal.  She did notice, however, when Penelope's mouth left hers to trail scalding kisses down the long line of her neck, over her collarbone, and down, enveloping one aching nipple with a wet heat that rivaled the molten honey pooling between her legs. 

In her life and work, Penelope Garcia communicated with the world via staccato keystrokes peppered against plastic buttons, delving the world of bytes, bits, ones and zeros for the ghosts and whispers that would reveal the habits, details, and movements of the perpetrators of horrible, unspeakable crimes.  In their bed, Penelope's language of choice was entirely different.  With the sweet dance of tongue and lips, with the gentle touch of sensitive fingertips, with soft words and steadfast love, she made Jennifer Jareau's body, heart, and soul sing out.  "God, Pen," she groaned, writhing under her lover's elegant torture. 

JJ was still semi-clad in the oversized shirt and the cotton sleeves felt cool and crisp against Penelope's back as she lifted herself over the long-haired beauty and JJ wrapped her arms around her neck.  When the younger woman wrapped her legs around her hips, Penelope Garcia pulled her mouth from its delicious task and gasped, "Goddess in Heaven!"  She braced herself with one hand even as the other found its way between their heated bodies, seeking the source of JJ's need and--finding it--thrusting her long, talented fingers into its silky depths.

JJ hissed with pleasure.  "Yes!" she cried, gazing deeply into eyes as dark as wine.  "Penelope, yes!"  Her hips rose to meet her lover's insistent pace thrust for thrust and she felt the exact moment, deep inside, when desire coalesced into flame and ignited the charge that would inevitably lead to her volatile climax.  The tech-analyst felt it, too, and she moaned, thrusting harder and deeper until JJ began to keen, a rising crescendo of pleasure and need...until they both ran out of time and breath and obliteration took them in explosive blossoms of a fiery cacophony.

Long, thundering heartbeats later--after she'd collapsed next to JJ, her right arm weak with the strain of bracing herself above the beautiful blonde--Penelope Garcia opened her eyes.  As close as she was and now no longer blinded by lust and need, she could clearly see the tiny, scabbed cuts that peppered the left side of JJ's face, the longer laceration above her left eye.  "Oh!" she breathed, touching the tiny spots with trembling fingers, feeling the roughened edges of broken skin beneath her fingertips.  "Oh, my sweet girl..."

JJ, drugged with lassitude and happy completion, forced her eyes to open, concerned by the tone of her lover's voice.  "Pen?" she asked, brows quirking in confusion until she remembered the stinging pain of shattered glass slicing past her in the SUV and the damage it had left in its wake.  It was nothing, of course.  Superficial and well on its way to healing.  To everyone but her lover, of course, who had spent the better part of an hour almost a week ago worrying that she'd been the one shot by the Petits.

"Penelope, look at me," she ordered.  When those frightened, violet eyes found hers, she said, "I'm fine.  I promise.  They don't even hurt."  Penelope looked profoundly unconvinced.  JJ sighed.  "Look at them, honey.  They won't scar; they're that superficial.  This is nothing like the dogs, okay?" 

Penelope shut her eyes and shuddered with revulsion at the thought of JJ walking into that hellish place in Georgia last year, three feral dogs snarling at her, jaws dripping gore and saliva.  They'd attacked and JJ'd gone down shooting, somehow managing to kill them all before they could rip out her throat.  She still had scars--pale, ragged indentations, like tiny craters--on her left tricep and bicep.  "Nothing like the dogs," she repeated dully, forcing the morbid thought away with a powerful mental shove.

"I'm so sorry, Penelope," continued JJ, eyes welling with regretful tears.  "I'm so sorry you had to hear that; that you thought it was me.  But I talked to Emily tonight.  Honey, I can't promise you that I won't get hurt but I can promise you that if I can't tell you what happened, Emily will.  She--"

The former hacker sat up abruptly, looking at her lover with wide eyes.  "Wait--Emily?  You told Emily about us?"

JJ had the foresight to look sheepish before she turned to gaze at one of the flickering candles.  "They apparently already knew," she mumbled, caught between a bubbly feeling of relief and a sinking feeling of dread; her pale blue eyes were anxious but a shimmering smile lit them and curved her lips sweetly.

"They?" squeaked Penelope.  "Jennifer Jareau, what are you talking about?  Exactly who 'already knew'?"

"According to Emily, everyone but Strauss."  JJ bit her lip nervously and added, "She says we should be discreet around her."

"Be discreet around her?" spluttered the tech analyst, now completely exasperated.  What had they been doing all this time--with the hushed conversations and the 'exit strategy' and all their other little tactics of discretion?  Had that just called attention to themselves?  Had they--unwittingly, of course--been putting on a little show for the team?  "I thought we were being discreet around them!"

"Believe me, so did I," agreed the younger blonde ruefully, sitting up finally, and nestling closer to her lover.  She rested her head on Penelope's shoulder and sighed.

"What do we do now?"  Penelope put her arm around JJ and absently stroked her hair, her brows knitted in intense thought as the implications of everyone knowing swirled furiously in her brain.

"Nothing?" asked the press liaison simply.  When Penelope goggled at her as if she was crazy, she said, "Think about it, honey--the only thing that's changed is now we know that they know.  We've been discreet enough that Hotch hasn't had to take either of us aside and warn us about the consequences of our relationship, which means we must be doing everything right.  Changing what we're doing could jeopardize that.  And we don't want that suspicious bureaucrat Strauss to have even a hint of a whisper of something wrong."

"I guess you're right," said Penelope Garcia, sighing dramatically.  "But..."


The older woman turned a saucy gaze toward JJ.  "But when am I ever going to get to wear that t-shirt I made on CafePress?"

JJ laughed.  "And what t-shirt is that?"

"The one that says 'Sorry, Reid.  She's mine.'"

The young press liaison sat up and gaped at Penelope.  "Penelope Garcia, you do not have a t-shirt that says that," she declared with a forced, almost desperate certainty.  "You do not."

"Whatever you say, Gorgeous Girl," agreed the tech analyst, grinning like the Cheshire cat.  There was a moment of charged silence as Penelope continued to grin while JJ warily rearranged herself in her arms.  When she finally felt comfortably settled and had relaxed again, absently nuzzling the soft skin over Penelope's pulse point, the older woman added, "But you should probably stay out of the third drawer of my dresser--just to be safe."

JJ could only groan in helpless protest.


Three weeks later, Jennifer Jareau stood alone in the conference room of the BAU, hip canted to one side unconsciously, intent on the contents of the manila folder in her hands.  She was so engrossed in what she was reading, she didn't hear Penelope Garcia enter the room; didn't, in fact, even realize she had company until she felt a gentle nudge against her side.

"Hey, Sweet Girl," said Garcia softly, catching the press liaison's eye.  "You left without your coffee this morning."  She glanced nervously at the door to make sure no one was within earshot before offering the blonde a to-go cup from her favorite coffee shop.  "I stopped and got your favorite."

JJ took the cup eagerly, grateful for the sweet, hot jolt of caffeine.  She'd been so distracted by the urgent phone call from her contact in Violent Crimes this morning that she'd completely forgotten she'd only gotten about four hours of sleep--due entirely to a certain Carol Burnett marathon that her lover had recorded.  She smiled involuntarily, remembering lying on the couch with Pen, munching on take-out sushi and glass noodles, and laughing so hard at Carol as Scarlet O'Hara that she actually snorted root beer up her nose. 

"Thanks," she said after another welcome sip.  Her bright smile and twinkling eyes belied her exhaustion and Garcia grinned back, completely enchanted.

The tech analyst took a step toward the press liaison, her gaze averted, her index finger drawing random patterns on the conference room table.  She chewed her lip flirtatiously and whispered, "I want to kiss you so hard right now."

JJ froze, her pale blue eyes widening with shock.  She looked toward the bullpen worriedly, hoping that it was still empty.  It was only 7:30am so--damn!  Reid was already at his desk, looking pensively up at the conference room door.  And if he was already there, then Morgan and Emily couldn't be too far behind.  "Pen!" she whispered back, her tone scandalized and warning at the same time.

"Oh, I know we can't," said Garcia reasonably, trying to reassure her lover.  "I just want to--really badly."

"You need to stay as far away from me as possible," scolded the younger blonde.  "Sit over there," she ordered, pointing to a chair opposite hers.  "And don't distract me."

Penelope smirked but did as she was told.  "New case?" she asked innocently as Spencer Reid made his way into the room and to the table, taking his usual seat.  He turned his attention to JJ when he heard Garcia's question.

"No," said JJ slowly, once again immersed in the small stack of files.  "It's an update on the Petit case--"

"Turns out the Petits honeymooned in New Jersey," said Rossi, entering the room suddenly and with the same power and single-minded purpose as a bullet.  "That's why there were no New Jersey plates.  Charles Petit remembered the kindness they'd been shown in 1955 by not targeting the state's residents in his campaign for revenge."

"Please wait for everyone to arrive," admonished Hotch, following Rossi into the room.  Morgan and Prentiss were already hurrying from the bullpen so they didn't have to wait long.  Once the entire team was seated, Hotch gave a tiny nod to JJ, who began passing out folders.

"Rossi's right," she agreed.  "According to multiple interviews with Ollie Petit, her husband chose not to target cars bearing Nebraska or New Jersey plates; Nebraska because he didn't want to draw attention to himself and New Jersey because of their 1955 honeymoon at Ocean Isle boardwalk."

"She knew about the murders the whole time?" asked Garcia, eyes round behind her glasses.  

JJ nodded.  "And she couldn't notify anyone.  There was no phone at the Petit farm, they never had visitors, and she rarely went to town.  She was completely dependent on her husband.  When he died in 1992, she became completely dependent on Richard Petit.  Josie Petit wasn't as reliable due to her drinking problem."  She traded gazes with the rest of the team.  "It gets worse.  Much of the thread Ollie used in her loom was comprised of human hair carded and spun on either a wool or cotton base."

Garcia covered her mouth with her hand in shock while Emily Prentiss grimaced in disgust.

"That would explain the shaved heads on some of the female bodies that were still intact," noted Reid absently.

Emily flipped through the pages of her folder, consternation coloring her features.  "Did they ever figure out why some of the victims--including Evelyn Dearborn--were buried face down?"

"Those were victims killed by Josie Petit," explained JJ.  "She says she couldn't bear to look into their eyes as she was burying them.  The guilt was too much for her."

"Which is why she was drowning it in alcohol," surmised Morgan.  "How's she doing?"

"Surprisingly cooperative, considering.  She won't walk again, though.  One of the bullets she took during the firefight severed her spine between the second and third lumbar vertebrae.  She also lost a kidney."

There was a brief silence as that stark report settled in for the team.  No one was particularly interested in knowing whose bullet it had been.

"What about the missing seven graves?" asked Hotch, eager to move the topic along.  He didn't want the team to linger here and he especially didn't want two of the best agents he had ever worked with second-guessing their actions that day.  Whatever else Josie Petit was, she was also a serial killer who had been responsible for the deaths of 38 of the 211 Petit Family victims.

JJ flipped through her copy of the report.  "Apparently the Petit family wasn't always successful in their--what did you call it, Rossi?  Campaign for revenge?"  She indicated the projection screen on the wall and pressed a button on her remote.  "Five of the seven extra plates were reported as carjackings or cars stolen during the commission of felony assault, two in South Dakota, one each in Iowa, Colorado, and Wyoming.  Deanya Lewis of Athens, GA, who was abducted from a parking lot of a Motel 6 in Casper, Wyoming, actually came closest to breaking the case.  Her police report states that she was assaulted and kidnapped by a pair of twin brothers who indicated they were taking her to Nebraska where she would be 'shaved of that pretty red hair' then 'butchered like a hog'.  She escaped by throwing herself from the car into traffic on Interstate 25 near Douglas, Wyoming.  She was hit by two cars, that then stopped to assist, and the Petit boys fled the scene."

"Why didn't the Wyoming police follow up on her story?" asked Reid, the expression on his face mirroring the disbelief shimmering around the table.

"Agent Tinker of Violent Crimes contacted the interviewing officer in Douglas.  Officer Leonard remembered the case--from March 1994--and said he didn't follow up because he simply didn't believe Deanya's story.  He thought she'd been partying with some locals, got into trouble when she wouldn't 'put out', and that they decided to steal her car in retaliation.  He believed the fall into traffic was an accident even though both drivers of the cars that struck her claimed otherwise."

"Damned lazy," cursed Rossi shaking his head.  "He didn't want the extra paperwork."

Looking nervously at the stewing senior agent, Garcia asked, "So five victims escaped...  And the other two plates?"

JJ shrugged.  "As far as anyone can tell, they belonged to two cars that were simply stolen.  The owners did not report any personal contact with the thieves at or around the time of the thefts.  The theory is that at the time that these two cars were stolen, the Petits needed the money more than they needed the kill.  That's how they lived all these years: they supplemented their meager farm income with the proceeds from the sale of their victims' cars.  Charles Petit kept a ledger of the sales.  After his father's death, Richard Petit continued to use the ledger until June 4th, 1995.  That's the last entry. "

"Man!" blurted Morgan, slamming his copy of the report shut.  "The Petits had some racket going!  Trolling for tourists traveling alone, selling their cars and whatever else they had of value, using their hair in Ollie's tapestries...  Everything about this case says they should have been caught years ago but they used the system, made it work for them.  They counted on the lack of communication between different law enforcement agencies, different states.  Hell, not even ViCAP would have flagged the carjackings!  Lemme guess--different MOs, different descriptions, four different states...  No one in their right mind would have connected the crimes.  And 211 people lost their lives to one family!"

"Two-hundred and twelve," corrected JJ softly, her brows creasing with sadness and distaste.  "Ollie Petit told her interviewers that she became pregnant from the rapes.  Charles Petit took the baby when it was born and they never spoke of it again.  She didn't even know if it was a boy or a girl."  She cleared her throat quietly and looked away from Penelope's questing eyes.  "When the CSUs exhumed the family burial plot, they found a Tupperware container with the mummified remains of a newborn inside--a boy.  He had been strangled."

Garcia made a muffled sound of pain, Emily turned vaguely green, and the men in the room didn't know where to look so they looked at the nowheres in the room: the nowhere near their left shoe, the nowhere beside the whiteboard, the nowhere on the back of their hand.

"Two-hundred and thirteen," said Garcia finally, struggling against her anguish to speak.  "Ollie Petit may have lived, but she was still a victim--of the rapes, yeah, but of her own family, too."  No one disagreed with her.

"What about Ricky and Joey?" asked Prentiss finally.  "Has there been any sign of them?"

JJ shook her head.  "None at all.  Violent Crimes suspects they've gone underground for the time being."

"They'll be back," declared Rossi, his certainty as immovable as stone.  "Killing is what they know, all they know.  They were spoon fed it as babies.  They won't stay away long."

"Josie Petit is under 24 hour surveillance, including mail and telephone.  They're hoping the boys will try to contact her--"

"Waste of time," interrupted the older agent, shaking his head again.  "They've cut their mother loose; she was the weak link.  All the drinking, the sleeping around--she was bound to slip up somewhere along the line, give them all up.  And then they would have killed her.  No.  Tell your friend in VC they should monitor mail to Ollie Petit.  When the boys start up again, they will send her the souvenirs.  She's their matriarch, the woman for whom all this madness was begun.  They've probably elevated her to icon status, someone who intervenes with the world on their behalf.  They'll try to please her by showing that they've continued the pattern of revenge, even if they've had to make changes.  Ollie will be their focus, not Josie.  Tell them that."

JJ nodded.  "I'll call him when we're done here," she said, making notes on a pad to her right.  When she'd dotted her last "i", she looked up.  "We don't have any priority cases on the docket right now," she began, changing the input to the large monitor on the wall, "but I do have several cold cases--"

Aaron Hotchner, largely quiet through the horrific recounting of the Petit Family's crimes, sat forward, frowning.  "Not today, JJ," he said, looking off into the middle distance, lost in this thoughts.  Several people thought they might have an idea where his mind had gone.  "I want all of you to take the rest of the day off.  If something urgent comes up, you'll be called in, but for now, go.  Find something to do out there," he made a gesture that vaguely encompassed the windows of the bullpen, "that will lessen the impact of this case for you.  Whatever that is."  When the team just sat there, blinking at him with owlish eyes, Rossi stepped in.

"Are you deaf?  Go!"  He made a shooing motion with his hands, trying to dislodge them from their seats and into freedom like recalcitrant chicks huddled under a hen's wing.  "I know at least two of you have somewhere else you'd rather be.  The rest of you should also find something outside this building on which to lavish that singular focus that makes you such workaholic agents!  Go!"

The team--as one--stumbled up from their seats and made their clumsy way out of the conference room.  JJ, scooping up her files and gathering them to her chest, was the last out.  She backed through the doorway with an ersatz smile plastered to her face, the beginnings of a blush coloring her cheeks.  "Uh...thanks, Hotch."  She glanced at the other SSA fleetingly.  "Rossi." 

Rossi waggled his fingers at her in a sarcastic wave and she turned and fled.

After a moment, Hotch said, "You do realize that you terrify them on some level."

Rossi grinned.  "Eh, it keeps them alert."


The more junior agents of the BAU team only got as far as the bullpen under the artificial momentum provided by David Rossi.  They milled around at a loss, unsure of what to do next.  Even those with the longest tenure could only count on one finger the times Aaron Hotchner had sent them home for the day.  It was too good to be true.

JJ, the last to arrive, glanced shyly at Penelope then quickly averted her eyes, her fading blush flaring again.  She dumped her files on the first empty surface she came upon and chuckled nervously.

Emily homed in on the younger woman's skittishness like a heat-seeking missile and a mischievous smile curved the corners of her mouth.  "So two of us seem to be set for the day," she drawled, giving both JJ and Garcia a mock disapproving once-over.  "Morgan?  Reid?  Any ideas on what we can do to pass the time?"

Penelope Garcia's pink streaked hair, done up like a fireworks display on the top of her head, bounced and quivered as she looked from Emily to Morgan to Reid then back again.  "What are you talking about?" she squeaked, her own blush creeping steadily toward her cheeks.  She dared not look at JJ.

Morgan tsked at her.  "Baby Girl, you tellin' me you have a free day and you don't know what to do with it?  I'm surprised at you!"  He nudged Reid.  "If it were you, Reid, what would you do?" he asked, winking.

Picking up on Morgan's signal, Reid made a show of considering his options.  "If it were me," he said slowly, rubbing his chin with his thumb and forefinger in the Universal Indication of Deep Thought and looking up toward the ceiling.  "If it were me..."  He suddenly dropped the act and grinned at Garcia.  "Well, by now I'd at least be in the elevator," he teased.  Emily and Morgan laughed, making Garcia even more flustered.  JJ, however, felt her entire body narrow in focus.  Exasperated, she grabbed her purse and Penelope's bag in one hand and held out the other to a very round-eyed tech analyst.


"No buts," she said sternly, her pale blue eyes flashing.  "We're going home right now.  I won't be kept one moment longer from what I really want to be doing."  Garcia timidly put her hand in JJ's and the young blonde whisked her out of the bullpen, leaving three gaping FBI agents in their wake.  The tech analyst would have laughed at the looks on their faces if she wasn't so shocked herself.

Once in the elevator, with the doors shut behind them, JJ gently disengaged her hand from Penelope's, grinning like the cat who'd eaten the canary.  "That should keep them quiet for a while," she laughed.

Garcia blinked twice, then felt her own smile take hold.  "Jennifer Jareau, you are evil!  Their heads have probably exploded all over the bullpen!"

"Good.  That will teach them not to tease you."  She stared straight ahead, her chin tilted at a regal angle.

Penelope sidled up to her lover and leaned into her side.  "Mmmmm," she purred.  "I like you all butch and protective."

JJ was unmoved.  "Oh?"

"Mmm-hmm," she replied, tracing abstract patterns on JJ's arm.  "So...what is it that you really want to be doing at home, JJ?" she asked sweetly, her violet eyes darkening in anticipation of the answer.

The younger blonde turned a predatory smile toward her lover and leaned in close, her voice low and feral.  "I want a long, luxurious, uninterrupted and decadent..."  The elevator stopped and the doors opened.  "...nap!" finished JJ, nose to nose with her swooning lover.  She kissed Penelope lightly on the tip of her nose and then abandoned her, heading for her car.  Halfway there, her cell phone rang.  "Jareau," she answered.

"You are in so much trouble," growled Penelope Garcia on the other end.

JJ just laughed.