The Element of Surprise

Birthright - Part 1

The American poet Anne Sexton once wrote, "It doesn't matter who my father was, it matters who I remember he was."

"Penelope!"

Garcia flinches and nearly yeets her coffee over her head. I hardly bat an eyelash at the glare she sends me and march past her chair to lean against her desk, heart racing and short of breath.

"Sweet glory, Stella, don't do that. These are very, very expensive equipment and you almost made me... spill my coffee all over it!" Her sudden annoyance vanishes the moment she gets a good look at me, "Oh no, what happened?"

I huff an ironic laugh - what happened? Let's see...

These past few weeks...

After putting a bullet through Colby's skull and telling Rossi I might forgive him if he did my paperwork, things somehow changed. That Italian , coffee-skinned, chocolate-eyed, son of a stallion literally did my paperwork as well as the additional reports I usually have to write here and there. That next morning, my desk was clean and organized, one of the other trainees brought me a coffee - a macchiato of all things - and JJ came to inform me I might as well take the day off since all my work is done. So, obviously with nothing to do and not in the mood to go home, I went to ask Hotch if he has anything for me to do.

And then he passed me over to Rossi since he was on his way to a meeting with Strauss.

I worked with Rossi that entire week. And I enjoyed it. More than I should.

We worked on some smaller cases considering no major ones came in and literally stayed in his office the whole time. He would have trainees bring us coffee - some kind of Italian brew each time - and every afternoon he offered to take me out for lunch. Of course, I politely declined the offer each time, too scared the strange feelings I harbor towards him would return.

And they did. Why did I ever expect them not to?

The next week, we had to head out to speak to a few victims of a wannabe sexual sadist. He let me do all the talking that time, keeping his mouth shut while I spoke to the traumatized women and only giving his opinion when I asked him. If he did have to talk to the victims, he did so softly, gently, and so tenderly I almost believed he was their lover and not the agent on the job. Every fibre in my being burned at the sound of his voice, wishing I was the one he was talking so soothingly to.

Last week, we set out to LA to deal with an unsub who enjoyed killing his victims with a bladed weapon. He devolved from one, to two, to entire gangs and we soon discovered it was only a comic book writer who witnessed a gang murder her girlfriend, who now suffered critical PTSD. At night, his imagination would torment him with flashbacks of the death of his girlfriend, and he would transform into a vigilante who was out for revenge. Hotch, of course, teamed me up with Rossi and, just my luck, the traffic was bad that day. We were stuck together in an SUV for almost an hour, alone. And the tension was thick...

It's safe to say my subconscious didn't give me a break that day. She was literally bouncing all over the place every time he would open his mouth and speak.

The coffee, the lunch offers, his mysterious soft side, and the part where he remembered not to interrupt my questionings, that hour of quality time in the car, all those factors played a role in the dream I had last night...

It comes to me in short flashes but at the most inconvenient times - him inviting me into his office, his desk being laid for two with candles and rose petals strewn about, him leading me deeper into the candlelight by my hand, his skin on mine. And right when we're seated opposite of each other, the scene would ripple and we're kissing. He hoists me onto his desk and I cross my legs around his waist, my fingers tangle through those silky dark tresses, and slowly but surely, his hands make their way underneath my shirt...