#sigh well if 'tis the life this poor fool chose to live he shall live with the consequences also

[starpros-sunshine]

Points. New theme!

(Does a little spin) New theme!!

[okimargarvez]

HURT- open wounds

Original title: Hurt.

Prompt: Luke’s dark thought, destiny, contrasted love.

Warnings: sexual content, dark thoughts.

Genre: angst, drama, romantic, smut, dark, mistery, frienship.

Characters: Penelope Garcia, Luke Alvez, BAU team, O.C.

Pairing: Garvez.

Note: multichapter.

Legend: 💏😘😈🔦🐶❗🎈👻.

Song mentioned: La tua vita intera, Tiziano Ferro.

Hurt- Masterlist

MY OTHER GARVEZ STORIES

Chapter 5-

Yet she insists on going to the Quantico headquarters alone. She doesn't want others to know. -Not yet-. For him it's indifferent. He doesn't care what others think. Although he quickly became attached to the team. Or so he believes. Because as soon as she leaves her home and gets on the subway, his head starts to spin at full speed. And the ghosts visit him. It had been too good. It had lasted too long, the fun's over.

It's tremendous not to be able to be himself. Not being able to touch her. Smile at her. I'm screwed. Completely fucked.

Then she arrives one morning with bags in hand. She stops in front of his desk. He must hold himself back so as not to stretch his hands towards her body.

-It's just a little something.- he smiles at her, confused. There is hardly anyone. It's still early. He chose to get there first, hoping that filling out some paper would help him divert his attention from his fixed point. From his obsession. But it hadn't been like that, as he could readily imagine.

-For me? - he asks, hoping for a positive result. She shakes her head.

-No! Not for you, it's for Roxy. But you have opposable thumbs, so you can open it for her.- his face widens into a smile as he peers into the smaller bag and discovers some... biscuits. Which turn out to be unfit for his dog's diet. And telling this to her is a titanic enterprise. How badly this gets him, seeing her so sad because she was wrong. Fortunately, there is a second gift: a sweater. Pink. He would see it much better on her. It would exalt her forms. Then her damned phone ring -We have a case.- he can't avoid turning his head towards her, following her until she disappears in the meeting room.

 On the jet, he continues to rethink the information he has acquired on previous nights. The way she had stripped completely naked before his eyes, her sincerity. Totally exposed. Vulnerable at the highest level possible. If he had wanted, if he had been a sadist, a madman, a wicked person, he could have made her what he wanted. It was as if she had given him the opportunity to hold her palpitating heart in his hands, crystal, both for the transparency and the fragility of this material. The responsibility she had given him, unwanted and unexpected, had completely stunned him. She had left him numb.

Then some particular episodes come to his mind in random chronological order. She had told him that on public transport she never sat down. She always carried a book with her, because you never know, if the environment around her was dark, if the world tried to suck her down the drain, she would let herself be carried among the clouds on the balloon of fantasy; and then it was the only way to endure the noise of the crowd, the confusion, without really becoming estranged from the real context in which she found (and so it would not have been if she had listened to music with headphones). And at the same time, she had tried to explain to him how much in those moments, crushed between men in suits and ties, briefcase in hand, cheeky ruminant little girls, indifferent of their half-open backpacks, old women stubborn to not sit because "The next stop is mine", how often she lost herself to think how beautiful, varied, vast the world was. How many occasions, how many people we don't have the possibility to meet. She had felt a sense of loss towards something that had never been. And perhaps never would have been.

So, she had stared at him intently, making him understand that it could also have happened between them. Thanks to that criminal, only thanks to Daniel Cullen, to the escape organized by Mister Scratch, their paths had crossed. So, he owed his happiness to the bastard who had almost killed his best friend and had ruined his life. A beautiful paradox. And now this asshole was comfortable in a psychiatric hospital and there was even the risk of freeing him, because he was no longer the Crimson King, he was a rind of a man, the one who had left Lewis; he was any person he didn't know, he didn't feel he had committed any kind of crime. Always that he wasn't pretending.

Luke remembers the question Hotch had asked him. Do you want to kill Daniel Cullen?

And his answer: I took an oath to uphold the laws of this country. So... Yeah. Yeah, I want to kill him.

How much of these events had influenced in his first "approaches" with Penelope? He had not unloaded all his tensions on her? It wasn't just the shadows of his past or a desire to be "healed", as he had told himself until now. It was much more. He needed to throw, fling on someone else all that weight, which bent his back, prevented him from thinking rationally. And poor, little Penelope, she had found herself in the wrong place at the right time. And now that mistake had proved to be the greatest miracle that could ever happen to him. But he didn't stop feeling guilty, wrong, horrible, thinking about how he acted. How much he had used her, and yes, it cost him to admit it, even ill-treated. And to what he had received in return: love, tenderness, understanding, total availability.

The screen turning on interrupts his thoughts, more or less: it's the face of his woman, the one that occupies the visual rectangle entirely. -My crime fighters- she begins, as she usually likes to define them -I have some news for you: Amanda Berxtrom awaits you at the police station upon your arrival.- while providing important data, he is attentive and in "operational" mode. But as soon as the screen goes black, as if someone has pressed a button in his head, he re-starts from where he left off.

If only he could tell her. If at least he managed to get rid of this extra burden, this sword of Damocles, before it fell between them, definitively separating their lives. Because until he had said nothing to her, the "thing" would continue to grow, to incorporate him, drag him down with it. And there was the usual problem: there were other things that she should have known, before she could think, hypothesize a relationship with him.

And Luke realizes it while they're starting the landing maneuver. He wants that. He wants a serious relationship with her. And he can't have it. But he can't do without it. And so he's a hundred percent messed up.

 She cares about everyone, each of the members of behavioral analysis unit. Just as she wanted a deep good to anyone who had been part of it, even in a very limited way, like Jordan Todd. But for the first time since Derek said goodbye to the Bureau, she rehearsed that feeling of amplified anguish, at the thought that there is someone who she loves in a special way, out there to fight against the contemporary dragons of our society.

Well, it's useless to make fun of herself. She's in love. Wretch world!

Worse than a teenager. She is in the phase of the Little Prince: "If, for example, you come at four o’clock in the afternoon, then at three o’clock I shall begin to feel happy. As the time passes I shall feel happier and happier. At four o’clock, I shall become agitated and start worrying; I shall discover the price of happiness!". She does her job, she researches possible connections to identify the bad guy. But she does so with the knowledge that first they'll catch the unsub and first she'll see him again.

Oh my God, I'm so ruined.

And he, what does he feel? He didn't say anything to her, but the way he made her feel that night, the attention he gave her, the way he looked at her all the time, as if he were contemplating something precious, to be treated and protect with nails and teeth... it gives hope her. It's a while she doesn't see those shadows obscuring his already dark eyes. But she doesn't be fooled that they have disappeared forever. And she doesn't want that he censors anything in her presence. She wants him in integral format. Full package. Full price. Evil and good. In sickness and in health.

Till death do us part.

Amen.

 Why the hell that phrase does come to his mind right now? What does that have to do with what Spencer has just said?

When I was five, no, maybe they were already six... Zorba, my kitten, my first pet, was hit. My parents tried to sell me the story that he was gone, and indeed it was true, in a "better place" or so-called. But I saw it. I saw his body deformed by the impact with the car. He was agonizing. He was still alive. Mom didn't want that I knew it. But I discovered that a neighbor had to go there to "stop making him suffer". I have done absolutely nothing. I know I couldn't, I was just a child. But this is one of the things that still haunts me today. And when I went to Alaska with the team, one of the few times I was in the field, it happened that the signal was gone, I was talking to my boyfriend... I went down to check and I heard a cry. Human, though hardly recognizable as such. I was afraid, I would say a lie if I asserted the opposite. But I couldn't stay there, doing nothing. Why I didn't go call someone who would be able to do a better job than mine? Because there was no time. I knew he could no longer be saved. But I didn't want the last thing he saw was the face of his killer. Whose had taken his life from him... how it could have happened to me.

She had continued, adding the details of her exit, the frightening noises amplified by the fear, the wind that hissed, freezing every limb, the ferrous smell of the gushing blood, of the life that abandons the body of that poor man, the grass that crunched beneath her feet. But he interrupted her, because he wanted an explanation. What do you mean with "it could have happened to me"?

Penelope had sighed. And then spat everything out, exactly as he would have done with her own saliva or her own phlegm.

About ten years ago I went out with a man. I don't want to make this too long. He was attractive, at least for me. I had repaired his computer and he asked me out. I found it strange. I'm not the girl men see across a smoky bar and write songs about, I told Derek at the time when I told him about it. And just because of his answer, don't get me wrong, I don't want to least to blame him, it was only my responsibility, my naivety and stupidity. However, almost as a consequence of his sentence, I decided to accept the invitation. Just... this man was a policeman with the killer hero syndrome and he was convinced that I was identifying him. As a result, he shot me, hitting me very close to my heart, on the stairs of my apartment. And he also bent down to make sure I was dead, that his plan was successful. I had to hold my breath. In those conditions. As my head thundered, the forces faded, I heard David Bowie calling me, I thought I saw Mom, Dad and even Zorba, who made me a sign of reaching them... and I managed to deceive him. I don't know how. I don't know what I was holding onto. But what I know, and that I knew even then, is that I never wanted my last look to be occupied by my killer. That his indelible image remains forever on the retinas. I don't know if you've ever seen See No Evil...

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