Author's Note: I don't think this story will end here; I think it will probably be a three-shot. I'm not sure where I'm going with it, but my imagination will be working on it!
"You can't handle the truth!" Penelope Garcia yelled in sync with Jack Nicholson. She placed her wine glass on the nightstand next to her bed. There was nothing like unwinding after a rough day at the office with A Few Good Men. She shook her head in appreciation as she dug into the bowl of popcorn on her lap. She was in a hotel room—which in itself was a rarity. She actually got to travel with the team this time due to the state of the art equipment housed at the FBI headquarters in Boston, Massachusetts. Their gear was so impressive that if the entire BAU would follow, she'd probably put in for a transfer.
A commercial break came on, so Penelope made her way over to the window and studied the thick white snowflakes falling from the sky. It snowed occasionally in Virginia, but she'd never seen anything like this before. Snow at home was minimal and disappeared pretty quickly. It was this nor'easter that had grounded their plane and forced them to spend another night in the city.
She jumped at the sound of knocking on her hotel room door and resisted the urge to shriek. Their last unsub had been hitting hotels alphabetically, so Penelope's first course of action was to look through the peephole—it didn't matter that he'd been caught. She grinned as she opened the door. "Hey ya, handsome."
Morgan was standing there with a grin on his face. "Hey, sweet stuff."
"Come on in," she said, as she turned around and made her way into the suite. Due to his notorious late nights, they'd put Morgan by himself, with Reid and Hotch in another room. And because the only vacancy in the entire hotel when they'd booked Morgan's room had been a double suite, Penelope had called dibs on the adjoining room so she could have some privacy. She was notorious for her snoring. "This is an early night for you," she teased.
Penelope waited for his response, but Morgan didn't say anything. She turned around and he was so close that she brushed up against him. Her hand flew to her throat. "Oh, my," she said.
"Garcia," he said, leaning down so she could feel his breath on her ear. "I remember," he whispered.
She jumped back. "You remember what?" she asked breathlessly, taking a few steps back.
He matched her step for step until she reached the bed. When the backs of her legs hit it, she fell into a sitting position. He gave her a knowing look.
She cleared her throat. "I…don't know what you're talking about," she said evasively.
"I think you do," he said as he pulled his t-shirt off.
"Morgan!" she scolded, standing up and giving him a solid shove backwards. She picked his shirt up and shoved it at him. "Put this back on!" she ordered.
He lifted an eyebrow at her. "Don't like what you see?"
"I didn't…say…that," she said, her cheeks reddening.
"Miami," he reminded her. "Six months ago."
"Wha—" She took a deep breath. "I have no idea what you're talking about," she repeated insistently. She walked over to the door that led to his half of the suite and tilted her head towards the opening. "I think you've had too much to drink. A good nights' sleep will do you good."
He shook his head. "I know what would do me better."
"Morgan…" she said longingly.
"I haven't had a drop, Garcia."
"Then why were you down in the bar for so long?" she asked.
"I was thinking," he admitted.
She stood there for a minute, frozen.
He spoke first. "Don't you want to know what I was thinking about?"
She shook her head furiously. "Not even a little bit."
"I was thinking about Miami," he told her. "And I was wondering…why I woke up alone the next morning."
Her eyes widened. "How do you even know about Miami?" she asked in a rush.
"I was there," he told her.
"Yes, but you were so drunk! I mean—did you just remember? You haven't said anything in the past six months."
He shrugged. "I didn't think you wanted me to."
He tilted his head to the side. "Rematch?" He looked her up and down appreciatively. She didn't quite look sexy, but she was definitely adorable in her purple t-shirt and striped capris pajama bottoms.
"I…don't…believe this," she said, putting her head in her hands. "This could only happen to me!"
He walked towards her and she threw the door closed and walked swiftly to the other side of the bed so that there was a barrier between them.
"This is unprofessional," she told him.
"And Miami wasn't? You took advantage of me," he said with a grin. "I'm impressed, Garcia."
"That was a mistake," she said. "I'm sorry."
"Don't you dare apologize," he said as he made his way to the opposite side of the bed. He put his knees on the bed and started moving towards her.
"Morgan," she said in a small voice.
When he reached the edge of the bed, he put his hand out and grabbed the fabric of the purple t-shirt that served as her night shirt. "What?" he asked softly.
"Morgan…" she said again.
He pulled her to him and placed his lips at the v of her t-shirt just above her breasts, moving his lips upward until he reached her neck. He could feel her pulse racing beneath his kisses. He lifted his head for just an instant. "What?" he asked again.
She moaned. "Don't…stop," she begged, wrapping her arms around his neck.
And that was all he needed to hear. He lifted his hands so they were framing her face and brought his lips down onto hers. She opened immediately, and he plunged his tongue inside of her mouth. He groaned at the taste of her, with just a hint of wine mixed in.
She pulled away frantically. "No!" she said firmly. "We can't do this."
He put his chin down so it was resting on his chest and gave a heavy sigh. "Fine," he said, as he sat down on her bed and picked up the remote. He looked at the television screen. "Tom Cruise?" He scoffed. "Pussy."
She rolled her eyes and made her way to the other side of the bed, sitting down next to him. They both had their feet on the bed and were sitting propped up against the pillows. "I was watching it for Jack Nicholson," she explained, trying to catch her breath. The man really knew how to kiss. Morgan—not Jack. She grinned at the thought.
"Good," he said, as he took her forgotten wine glass off of her nightstand and downed it in one swallow. He put it back down and turned the television off with the remote. He turned to her. "The way I see it, we owe it to each other to have sex again," he said.
She rolled her eyes. "Give it up, Morgan."
"No, seriously," he told her. "You didn't even get to see my best moves."
She burst out laughing. "I'll survive," she said. But she wasn't sure if she was trying to convince him or herself.
"I am waaaaaaay better when I sober," he told her.
"How do you know that?" she asked with amusement.
"Well, the events of that night are hazy," he admitted. "But I do remember that it was pretty…quick. I need a chance to redeem myself."
"I'll tell you what, Casanova. If we ever get stranded in a snowstorm again, I'll let you redeem yourself."
He sighed. "You're breaking my heart, Garcia."
She grinned at him. "Yes, but I'm sure there's another woman right around the corner waiting to put it back together for you."