Bleeding Heart - Penelope Garcia x Reader (Criminal Minds)
a/n: we survive another day of may prompts!!! (touch wood for the rest) - inspired by the shooting episode but not that one !
summary: Penelope Garcia was always sunshine in a dark world, always deflecting with sparkle, always dancing around her own feelings. Especially the ones she had for you.
Until the day she thought she was being a hero. Until the day she was shot.
And you were the one who found her.
Part of Mayloncholy 2025: Day Four, bleeding out of @may-lancholy
Penelope Garcia has always been a kaleidoscope of contradictions, bright colors and rapid-fire jokes, glitter eyeliner and code-cracking brilliance. And somehow, from the moment you stepped into the BAU, she decided you were worthy of being a part of her vibrant world.
Your friendship bloomed fast. She’d call you by ridiculous nicknames over the intercom, sugarplum, hotshot, divine creature of the fiber optic realm. You’d fire back with emails filled with GIFs and sarcasm, until Hotch threatened to monitor your office communications. You shared lunches, sneaking into each other’s offices with takeout and your latest string of inside jokes. No matter how heavy the cases got, Garcia was your safe place.
You fell in love with her somewhere between a poorly made sandwich and a string of midnight tech support sessions. Not all at once. More like a soft, persistent tide wearing away your defenses. But she sparkled too much, she hid too well behind her wit and whimsy, for you to ever really say it. She made you feel special, yes. But you knew that she made everyone feel that way. Every call with the team only proved your point.
Still, lately… something’s changed.
She’s been distant in ways only you would notice. Laughing too loud. Smiling too wide. Her jokes come faster now, like she’s trying to drown something out. Her eyes dart around the bullpen more. She checks her phone too often. Her coffee goes cold beside her without a single sip.
“Hey,” you ask one day, gently, catching her outside the conference room. “You okay?”
She gives you the usual grin, but it falters at the corners. “Of course, sugarplum. I’m unbreakable. Practically glitter-coated Kevlar.”
But you’re not buying it. You tilt your head. “Penelope.”
Her eyes flick away. “Don’t worry. I’ve just been chasing a weird lead. Nothing big. It’ll shake out.”
You want to push. But her walls are wrapped in pink tulle and charm, and she’s built them high. So you just let her brush past you.
That night, you stare at your inbox a little too long, rereading one of her old messages.
From: Garcia, Penelope Subject: World’s Most Beautiful Human (Spoiler: It’s You)
Hey you. Just wanted to remind you that you’re doing an amazing job and I love sharing air with you. Now go crack that case like the radiant badass you are.
You smile, even as your chest aches.
She’s always known how to say the things you need to hear. But lately, she’s forgotten how to let you say them back.
And deep down, you can feel it coming, that moment when her shine won’t be enough to hide whatever’s going on. You just don’t know that it’s racing toward you faster than either of you can see.
xxxxxxxxxxxx
The call came just after dusk. You knew something was wrong the moment you saw her name on your phone. Not the usual flurry of emojis. No playful subject line.
Just: Need a favor. Meet me in the back lot behind that old bakery on 7th. Come alone.
You didn’t hesitate.
By the time you pulled into the near-empty lot, the sun was fading behind the rooftops. You spotted her car immediately—parked off to the side, tucked beneath the shadows of a flickering streetlamp. Garcia stood beside it, jacket drawn tight against the wind, her blonde hair glowing faintly in the dim light. She looked smaller than usual. Folded in on herself. Nervous.
You were already halfway to her when it happened.
One crack. Sharp and cruel.
The gunshot tore through the quiet like a scream.
She dropped.
Your legs moved before your brain caught up. You sprinted, slipping on gravel, knees slamming hard against the ground as you slid beside her. Blood bloomed across her blouse, vivid and terrible. Her hands clutched at her stomach, shaking. Her lips parted in pain and then softened when she saw you.
“Oh,” she breathed, voice feather-light. “Hi.”
“Penelope.” You were already tearing off your jacket, pressing it to her wound, your hands slick with her blood. “Hey. Hey. Stay with me. Okay? I’ve got you.”
“I didn’t… I didn’t think he’d actually…” Her lashes fluttered. “I thought I was being smart.”
“You are smart. You’re brilliant. And brave. And- Jesus, just... don’t talk, okay? Help’s coming. Just hold on.” Your voice cracked around the edges. You pressed harder against the wound, willing the bleeding to stop, to slow, anything.
She grimaced. “I messed it up, didn’t I?”
“Don’t say that.”
“I meant to do it properly. To do a good job, worthy of the team.” Her fingers curled weakly around your wrist.
You shook your head, heart pounding against your ribs like it was trying to punch its way out. “You did, you did. But, Pen, none of that matters. Just stay with me.”
Behind you, tires screeched. Doors slammed. Morgan’s voice, sharp, panicked, echoed from somewhere far away. But your world had narrowed to her pale face, her shallow breaths, the way she looked at you like you were the only thing keeping her tethered.
“You’re okay,” you whispered, over and over. “You’re okay. Just keep looking at me.”
Her eyes fluttered. She tried to smile. “I was going to make a joke about dying dramatically in your arms, but it’s less funny now.”
“You’re not dying.”
“You’re very convincing.” Her breath hitched.
“Good. Then believe me.” You leaned closer, voice trembling. “Please. Stay.”
And as the sirens wailed down the street, she blinked up at you, eyes full of fear and something else.
Something she’d been hiding behind all the sparkle.
xxxxxxxxxxxx
The sirens are close now. Red and blue lights begin to flash against the buildings. You can hear shouting, voices you know, footsteps pounding on pavement, but all of it is background noise.
You only see her.
Penelope's skin is too pale, her breath too shallow. You keep pressure on the wound with one hand, and with the other, you brush her damp hair back from her face. She's still conscious, but just barely. Her lips tremble when she tries to speak.
“Hey,” you say softly. “Eyes on me, okay? Just keep looking at me.”
"That's easy to do," She nods faintly. Then winces. Her eyes flutter. “I didn’t want this.”
“You didn’t want what?”
Her hand lifts, slow, shaking, and curls loosely in your shirt. It’s barely a grip, more a touch, but it’s enough to make your heart break.
“It to end like this,” she whispers.
“Penelope…” You lean in closer. Her breath brushes your cheek.
“I always thought... if I kept it light, if I was the fun one… the safe one… maybe I wouldn’t ruin anything.”
“Ruin what?”
She gives a faint, broken laugh. “Us. You. I love you, okay? I love you so much it hurts. And now I’m bleeding all over your shoes and this is- this is the worst first confession in the history of confessions.”
Your chest tightens so hard it steals your breath. For a moment, all you can do is look at her, at the way her mascara has smudged just under one eye, at the desperate hope barely hanging on in her expression.
She loves you.
And she’s saying it now, like it’s her last chance. Like she thinks you might not want it. Like she doesn’t know you’ve been in love with her for years.
You swallow hard. “Penelope-”
“I didn’t mean for it to come out like this.” Her voice cracks. “But I didn’t want to die without telling you. Even if it makes things worse. Even if you don’t feel the same. I just- I needed you to know.”
“Stop,” you say, voice shaking. “Don’t talk like that. You’re going to be okay.”
She tries to smile again, but it slips. Her eyes well up, one tear spilling down her temple.
“I’m scared,” she admits.
“I know,” you whisper, forehead pressing gently against hers. “I’ve got you. You’re not alone.”
Her fingers twitch, curling tighter into your shirt.
“I love you,” she murmurs again, barely audible.
And then her eyes slide closed.
“Penelope-!”
But the EMTs are there now, pulling you back, lifting her onto a stretcher with fast, practiced hands. You scramble after them, heart in your throat.
You can still feel her confession echoing through you.
It came like a storm, like a last breath, terrifying and true.
You just hope she’s still awake to hear yours.
xxxxxxxxxxxx
The ambulance is a blur of red lights and urgency. The siren wails, but you barely register it over the roar in your own head.
You’re holding her hand.
You won’t let go.
She’s not unconscious, not really, just somewhere between here and there. Her lashes flutter now and then. Her chest rises and falls, shaky but present. The paramedics work around you, calling out numbers, inserting IVs, trying to stabilise the bleeding. One of them tries to move you back.
“She stays calm when I’m here,” you protest, and something in your voice must land, because they let you be. They let you be to murmur your versions of 'I love you' over and over again, just hoping they get through to her. She has to hear your words.
The hospital doors fly open. She disappears behind them, swallowed by white walls and urgency. You stand there, frozen, hands sticky with her blood, your jacket abandoned in the ER bay, soaked through and useless.
And it hits you.
She said she loved you.
She said it like it was goodbye.
You don’t remember sitting down. You don’t remember your knees giving out, but suddenly Morgan’s there, crouched in front of you, and Hotch is saying something low to a nurse, and JJ presses a coffee into your hand even though it’s the last thing you want.
None of it matters.
Not until someone steps out, hours later, in scrubs with tired eyes and says, “She made it through surgery. She’s stable now.”
You’re up before they finish the sentence.
The room is too white, too quiet. Machines beep softly. There’s a bandage under her gown. A line of monitors tracing her heartbeat. She’s pale, but she’s here. Her eyes open when she hears the door.
And her first words are: “Were those ‘I love you’s real, or just CPR-induced delirium?”
Your laugh catches in your throat. You cross to her in three strides and sit at the edge of the bed, careful of wires and bandages.
“So real,” you say, and your voice breaks. “Inconveniently real.”
She smiles. It’s small, but it’s her.
You reach for her hand again. This time, it’s warm. Weak, but warm.
“I meant it,” you whisper. “All of it. And not just because I thought I might lose you. I’ve loved you for a long time, Penelope. I just didn’t know how to say it. And now I don’t care how late it is. I just care that you’re here to hear it.”
Her eyes shine, and for once, she doesn’t deflect - doesn't crack a joke. She just lets the truth settle between you, soft and certain.
“That’s a good line,” she murmurs. “You should write it down.”
You chuckle, brushing a thumb over the back of her hand. “I will. I’ll write it all down, if you want me to.”
“I do,” she says.
xxxxxxxxxxxx
The first night after surgery is the longest of your life.
You refuse to leave the hospital.
The staff gives up trying to shoo you off after the fourth time. You curl up in a plastic chair beside her bed, clutching her hand like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered. Maybe it is.
She drifts in and out of sleep. Each time her eyelids flutter, you sit up straighter. When she winces, you squeeze her hand and murmur, “I’m here.”
You are.
You’re not going anywhere.
The team comes in shifts. Morgan brings takeout you barely touch. JJ kisses Penelope’s forehead while she’s sleeping and whispers, “Don’t you dare pull a stunt like that again.” Hotch doesn’t say much, but he stays longer than anyone, leaves a cup of strong coffee on the windowsill with a nod in your direction. Spencer shows up with a blanket and a book of crossword puzzles. “For when she’s awake enough to cheat,” he says.
But through it all, the quiet, the buzzing machines, the sterile hum of the hospital, it’s you she stirs for.
You, she looks for when she blinks groggily awake.
“You stayed,” she rasps.
“Obviously.”
She gives a weak smile. “Knew I picked the right person to confess to.”
You laugh softly. “You did. And you’re not getting rid of me now. I’m afraid it’s a whole new level of inconvenient love.”
Her chuckle turns into a wince. “Don’t make me laugh, I might rupture something.”
“Okay, okay, no jokes. Just… healing. And me. And rom-coms. And sneaking you things the nurses would kill me for.”
She perks up a little. “Coffee?”
“Eventually,” you grin. “We’ll negotiate.”
The days blur but this time, in the soft way.
You learn her schedule of meds better than the nurses. You fluff her pillows without asking. You argue about which movies to rewatch (she wins, obviously). She grumbles about the flavorless hospital food until you smuggle in soup from her favorite deli. She lets you help her brush her hair when she’s too tired to lift her arm, leans into your touch like she’s surprised it feels so good.
One afternoon, she catches you staring at her.
“What?” she asks, suspicious.
You shrug, eyes warm. “Just… still can’t believe I get to keep you.”
Her expression softens, all defenses forgotten. “You didn’t have to stay.”
“I know. But I wanted to. I always wanted to.”
She takes your hand, this time without hesitation, and brushes her lips against your knuckles. “No more deflecting?”
“Only into your arms, babycakes,” she murmurs.
And just like that, in a room that once held pain and fear, you feel something new take root.
Something stronger than a bullet.
xxxxxxxxxxxx
Recovery doesn’t happen all at once.
Some days are easy. She teases the nurses, flirts shamelessly with you when they’re not looking, and insists her hospital gown is a 'bold fashion statement.' Other days, she’s too tired to joke. Her body aches. Her hands shake. Sometimes she stares off into the distance, somewhere far away from you, her thoughts darker than she wants to admit.
You stay for all of it.
You learn what she needs before she asks. A blanket when the AC kicks on. A new playlist when she’s sick of reruns. The perfect amount of sugar in her coffee (which you continue sneaking in, despite the nurse’s death glare). You bring her things to do: crosswords, books, a glittery notebook labelled 'Revenge Plots & Recovery Plans.'
She loves that notebook more than she admits.
“Did you write this one?” she asks one afternoon, holding up a handmade card tucked into her lunch tray.
“I plead the fifth.”
“It’s got glitter and a pun.”
“I know what you like.”
She beams. “You’re disgustingly adorable.”
“I learned from the best.”
Her smile fades a little then, goes soft around the edges. She reaches for your hand.
“You know… it doesn’t scare me. That you saw me like that. Bleeding. Broken.”
You squeeze her fingers. “I was scared enough for the both of us.”
“I know.” Her thumb brushes over your knuckles. “But it means something, doesn’t it? That I didn’t have to be sunshine for you to stay. Right?”
You lean closer. “I stayed because I love you. Even when you’re scared. Even when you’re quiet. Even when you’re throwing Jell-O at the wall because they forgot the whipped cream.”
“That was one time.”
You smile. “So far.”
She laughs and this time, it doesn’t hurt.
Later, when they finally clear her for a short walk, you help her down the hallway. She leans into your side, grumbling about ugly slippers, IV poles, and the indignity of hospital socks. But when you pause at the window and the light hits her just right, golden and soft and alive, she goes quiet.
“You okay?” you ask.
She nods. Then, “I almost died. I almost didn’t get this part.”
You don’t look away. “But you did.”
She turns to you slowly. “Can I kiss you now? Or do I need a doctor’s note?”
You grin. “I can always forge one.”
And when she leans in, careful, tentative, warm, it’s everything. All the flirting, the jokes, the near-misses, the missed chances… it all melts into this one, quiet kiss.
Soft. Sure. Real.
She sighs against your lips. “Definitely not delirium.”
You laugh. “Welcome back, Penelope.”
She grins. “You’re never getting rid of me now.”
You press your forehead to hers. “Good. Because I wasn’t done loving you yet.”