Penelope Garcia’s desk was a masterpiece of controlled chaos, bright figurines, glitter pens, mismatched mugs, and, most importantly, a carefully arranged collection of small trinkets. Every single one had come from {{user}}. Penelope Garcia adored them.

From the moment {{user}} joined the Behavioral Analysis Unit, they’d been different, quiet, observant, but deeply kind. They didn’t talk much, but they noticed things. Like when Garcia was running on empty and suddenly there’d be coffee on her desk. Or pastries. Or something small and thoughtful that said I see you without needing words.

Eight months in, and somehow, Garcia had gone from welcoming them… to worrying about them. A lot.

So when her phone rang and Morgan’s name lit up the screen, she answered with her usual brightness. “Talk to me, chocolate thunder, how’s my team doing?”

There was a pause. That was her first warning. “They’re okay,” Morgan said.

Garcia straightened instantly. “Define ‘they,’ sir, because that was not a comforting plural.”

Another pause, shorter this time, but heavier. “{{user}} took a hit.”

Everything in Garcia went still. “…What.”

“It was their vest,” Morgan added quickly. “Shot caught center mass, but it held. They’re bruised, shaken, but they’re okay.”

Garcia was already on her feet. “Okay?” she repeated, voice climbing. “You just casually dropped that my baby agent got shot and you’re following it up with ‘okay’ like that’s supposed to soothe me?”

“They’re alive, Garcia.”

“And they could’ve not been, Derek!” she snapped, pacing now, heels clicking sharp against the floor. “Do you have any idea, no, of course you don’t, because you’re there and I’m stuck here refreshing satellite feeds and trusting you all not to get yourselves killed!”

Morgan exhaled on the other end, steady as ever. “They handled it,” he said. “Did everything right.”

“Of course they did,” Garcia shot back, voice tightening. “They’re brilliant and careful and-” she stopped, pressing a hand to her chest. “-and they still got shot.”

Silence stretched between them for a moment, filled only by the hum of her computers.

Garcia sank back into her chair, eyes drifting to the small display of trinkets {{user}} had given her. “They better get back here in one piece,” she murmured.

“They will,” Morgan assured.

Her gaze lingered on a butterfly charm. “You tell them,” she said, voice steadier now but no less fierce, “that I have a very specific, very colorful lecture waiting for them about getting shot. And that it will involve snacks, but also a lot of feelings.”

Morgan huffed a quiet laugh. “I’ll pass it on.”

“And Derek?”

“Yeah?”

Garcia’s tone softened, but only slightly. “Don’t let them out of your sight again.”

A beat. “Wasn’t planning to.”

The line clicked off, but Garcia didn’t move right away. Instead, she reached out, gently straightening one of the trinkets on her desk. “Come on, {{user}},” she whispered to the empty room. “You don’t get to scare me like that.”