These violent delights have violent ends

And in their triumph die, like fire and powder,

Which as they kiss consume. William Shakespeare.

- 1 -

This was a horrible case. No, that wasn't right, Penelope thought. It was a disgusting case. Gross? Was it gross? The unsub, whoever he was, didn't do the usual stuff which made her want to spend a month hugging her Star Wars Funko Pops while rocking in a corner, but still. What he did was horrible enough.

"So, my lovelies," she started, before she remembered that Luke was at the table now, and was it appropriate to call him her lovely? Had it always been wrong? Was she wrong? Had she been sexually harassing her team the whole time?

"Garcia . . . " Emily's gentle voice brought her back to the room, and she felt her face grow warm.

"Sorry, guys. This one's . . . nasty." Penelope saw Rossi raise his eyebrows.

Sure, she knew that it didn't have the blood and guts they were all used to, but in this case, the unsub was destroying more than their bodies. He was wiping out their families' memories of them, in a way which she found even more repugnant. Or maybe she was just being naïve.

Penelope sighed, and put the pictures of the victims on the screen. On top, six smiling faces, with no pictures as couples. Underneath – three couples, all dead.

"Three men, three women – notice I didn't say three couples – at first thought to have committed suicide, complete with notes, 'because we can't be together . . . yada yada . . ." She sighed again. "Each so-called couple worked at the same company, in the same department or office."

"Are you saying that they weren't suicides? How can we know that?" JJ was being sceptical; not like her, Penelope thought.

"My first clue was the last case; Roanoke, Virginia. Big tech company, two of the I.T. staff disappear for a few days, and are found dead, with a suicide note for the both of them. Except – he was gay, and closeted at work. She was happily married, two months pregnant after trying for a baby with her husband for the last five years."

"Ah." Rossi seemed convinced, at least.

"The cops still didn't believe the families, said they were just trying to justify their affair, trying to salvage their reputations. But one of the detectives didn't completely buy the suicide story, and flagged it. I did some checking, and found another two quote-unquote couples; when I checked the medical examiner's notes, I found signs of restraint on one of the men, and bruising on one of the women."

"Hmm." Reid sounded sceptical, now. "But these cases still weren't flagged."

Penelope narrowed her eyes, resisting the impulse to glare at her team. This was not going the way she'd visualised it.

"No, because apparently, when cops see ligature marks they think 'kinky sex'. Bruises mean rough sex," Penelope said, trying to keep the sharp tone out of her voice. "And you know how the police hate the weird ones – they were just happy to get rid of the open cases and call them suicide."

"Garcia?" Prentiss had been scrolling through the reports on her tablet. "Was there any forensic evidence suggesting sexual assault?"

"Therein lies the rub," Penelope answered, "as the immortal Bard tells us. Or at least, I think he does. The only DNA recovered was each other's. Which is why the police bought the affair story so easily."

She pointed to each picture in turn. "Orlando. Atlanta. Roanoke."

"He's moving North," Rossi said, deep in thought. "But these people are from different cities. And it's too organised to be a drifter – he's keeping them for a few days."

Prentiss was chewing her lip, and she gave Penelope a worried look. "If there is an unsub," she said.

Penelope immediately opened her mouth to protest, but Prentiss waved her off.

"I'm not saying there's nothing here. I just need more. What did these people even have in common? They all work in different areas."

"I'm glad you asked," Penelope answered, trying hard not to sound smug. "All of them have come to a conference in Washington D.C. in the last six months."

A few people around the table seemed to want to interrupt, but Penelope rushed on. "I know that seems to confirm the affair theory, but listen – there are plenty of conferences all over the country. All three conferences were based here, and now, six people are dead."

"Cause of death?"

"Different each time. Sometimes gunshot wounds, slashed wrists, hanging . . ." Penelope played with the scrunchie around her wrist, nervously. This was one of the weak points of her theory. All their wounds could have been self-inflicted, but they could have been staged like that, too.

Reid shrugged. "That's really incidental. New studies into serial killers have been made, showing that signature murder techniques are used in about 65% of known serial killings. What with the popularity of forensic techniques on tv shows, and . . ."

Penelope stopped listening when she realized that Reid was going to keep talking for another five minutes, at least. She loved the kid like a brother, but once he started, nothing short of a nuke would stop him. She took the opportunity to check one of the searches she'd started, comparing the victims' social media presence, checking if she'd missed something.

Prentiss was tapping her lip, and seemed to come to a decision. "Fine. Fine! Rossi and I will take the jet to Florida, Tara, and Reid can check out Roanoke. If anything, we need to exhume the previous victims – see if there's something the first autopsies missed."

Alvez looked puzzled. "And me?"

"You and JJ can check out the conferences here. Hotels, organisers, etc." JJ nodded, and Penelope strode to her lab, feeling great.

She hadn't expected it to go so smoothly, but she was sure she was right. Even though that meant the 'couples' had been held against their will for days, forced to do God knows what to each other. She shuddered. Whoever this guy was, he needed to be stopped. Though, wait a minute – there was something missing.

"Isn't anyone going to say 'wheels up in twenty'? Guys?"

A few hours later, Penelope stretched back in her chair, trying to work out the kinks in her back. Even though she felt like she needed a deep-tissue massage, she was deeply satisfied. The conferences had all been set up by the same company of event organizers. She'd even found some names on their website – it was disappointing that each conference had been organized by someone different. Still, it was worth looking into.

She walked quickly into the bullpen, tapping on her phone at the same time, talking rapidly. "So, I've sent the names and addresses to your phones, so you and JJ can check out the event organisers . . ."

Penelope trailed off as she looked up and realised that Luke was the only one in the bullpen, and he was talking to Prentiss using his tablet.

"Where is everyone?" Penelope looked around her – the place was empty; was it some kind of holiday? Whatever – focus on the case, Garcia, she told herself sternly.

"I was just telling Prentiss – JJ had to go home; Henry's in the hospital, they think it's his appendix." Luke sounded apologetic – he knew how much she loved Henry.

"Oh my God!" Penelope covered her mouth, and Luke rushed to reassure her.

"JJ just sent me a text – he's going to be ok. They're just keeping him overnight, to see if they have to operate."

She could see Prentiss on his tablet screen, looking at her phone, and nodding.

"I can go and check out those event organisers, Prentiss," Luke continued. But Emily shook her head.

"No way, Alvez. No-one goes without a partner."

"I can go with him," Penelope said, and immediately wanted to swallow her words. What was she thinking? She wasn't a field agent. Her traitorous tongue wasn't finished, though. "The conferences were all organised by different people, so I think it's a dead end, anyway."

Prentiss cocked her head, and Luke seemed to be doing the same. What? She was still an FBI agent. Ok, Tech Analyst. The best Tech Analyst. She willed herself not to blush, and squared her shoulders instead. The corner of Luke's mouth was twitching in what looked like an involuntary smile and she narrowed her eyes – was he laughing at her?

On the tablet screen, Prentiss looked to the side. "Listen, guys, I gotta go – I think Rossi found something. Fine, Garcia, go with Alvez. But if you feel anything's not right, call for back-up."

An hour later, Penelope started wishing she hadn't been so insistent on going out into the field. They'd gone to the office building first, but none of the people they needed to see had been there. Two were on leave – one medical, one on vacation. The third had already gone home, and so they were on their way to see – Penelope went through his file on her tablet again – Jonathan Koppel. Late forties, average height, average build, brown hair, brown eyes. Average, average, average, she thought. He didn't seem like a guy who was good at organizing conferences. She looked through her notes again, and read a part out loud.

"So, this guy organised the tech conference – the one the I.T. couple went to. Shoot, I'm calling them a couple. They weren't a couple."

Her tone must have been strong; she noticed Alvez taking his eyes off the road to look at her for a second. He was driving, of course. Like any guy'd let her drive one of the fancy SUVs. One day, she promised herself. She almost missed Luke's answer.

"You're kinda taking it personally, chica." Even if Penelope hadn't been looking at him, she'd have heard the smile in his tone. Then she really heard what he'd said.

"Stop calling me that!"

"I'll stop when you stop calling me 'rookie', and noob," Luke answered, with another of his easy smiles.

"Ugh, you're the worst. About the case – I don't know why. Maybe it's the way the unsub makes them look bad; oh, I can't word today." She chewed on her lip, and then the words burst out of her. "It's just – it's bad enough he's holding them prisoner, and making them . . . you know . . . then he makes it look like they were cheating, and then their families can't mourn . . ."

She glanced to her side and Luke was nodding, but before he could answer, they'd arrived.

Jonathan Koppel's house, in the suburbs, looked exactly like all the other houses in the neighborhood, and she wondered what they were doing there. When he answered the door, she wondered the same thing. She hadn't thought it possible, but he looked even more bland and boring in person than in his picture. Well, they were here now.

"Mr Koppel? We're with the FBI. We'd like to ask you some questions about a conference you organised." As Luke rattled off the dates and the venue, Penelope was surprised by a growing sensation of unease. Something was wrong, but what?

It certainly couldn't have anything to do with Koppel, who sounded even friendlier when he spoke. "Please, come in. I'll take a look at my records – I'm so busy, I'm not sure which conference is which anymore, heh."

He walked into an inner room, which looked like a home office, and opened up a laptop. "Ugh, this is so slow," he complained, as he started it up.

Unable to resist the siren call of tech in need of upgrades, Penelope followed him into his office. Luke was still in the entrance hall – something must have caught his attention. She looked towards him, and realised he was staring at a pile of correspondence, like he was frozen, and she felt a sudden chill down her spine.

Something was wrong, something was horribly wrong. Where was the guy? She pretended to be still staring at his laptop, but any second now he was going to call her bluff. Oh God, he was the one, he was behind her, and she wasn't armed. Not really armed. She had her fingers on her smartphone in her purse, and started tapping out a sequence which she had practised so much she could do it blindfolded, which she practically was. It was her failsafe, her safety net. Ever since she'd been shot by Battle she'd planned for this, and if only it worked . . . please let it work.

What should she do now? Straighten up and pretend she hadn't noticed anything? But it was too late. From nowhere an arm slid around her neck and a gun was pressed under her chin, forcing her upright, turning her to face the door.

"Let her go." Luke appeared in the doorway, gun out and aiming at the man behind her – actually, aiming at her.

"Oh, I don't think so," Koppel hissed, pressing the gun painfully into her chin.

"I can shoot you before you pull that trigger," Luke said.

Koppel giggled, and Penelope's blood froze in her veins. "Sure you can, but you'll have to shoot through your friend, here."

She realized he was crouching behind her, using her body as a shield.

"You can shoot through her neck and blow my brains out. But then your Miss Penelope will be dead." She must have twitched. "Oh yes, I know who you are. I've been looking at your Behavioral Analysis Unit, and wondering who was going to visit."

There was a muscle jumping in Luke's jaw. When he spoke, it was through gritted teeth. "We're F.B.I. agents. No-one will believe we just disappeared. They'll tear the state apart to find us."

"Ooh, I like a challenge," Koppel said, and Penelope's heart sank. She was going to die here, because no way was Luke going to give in to this guy. There were protocols, and –

"So, if you're not going to shoot Miss Garcia, I suggest you put your gun down, nice and slow," Koppel said, interrupting her despairing thoughts.

Luke's eyes were darting from side to side, trying to aim at Koppel without hitting her, but she could tell that he couldn't. To her horror, he carefully lowered the gun to the ground at his feet, and straightened, his eyes blank.

"Kick it away," Koppel snarled, and Luke obeyed. "Turn around; put your hands behind your back."

Through all this, he hadn't removed his own gun from where it was, wedged under her chin – in fact, he pushed even harder, until Penelope couldn't even swallow.

"Now, you're going to take his handcuffs and cuff his hands together," he said, all silky smooth like he was pleased with himself. As well he should be, thought Penelope, as she did what he ordered. This was poetic justice for real. Her hands shook as she clicked the cuffs shut – they were rigid cuffs, and would probably be painful before long.

"Now, we're taking a little walk to my garage – straight ahead and to the left, yep, that's the door. Mr Alvez, if you're tempted to try anything, don't, unless you enjoy washing brains out of your hair. Not that you'll be doing much of that in the future." He gave another giggle, which chilled her more than his words. Was he decompensating, because they'd found him? Was this why he was going to risk kidnapping two FBI agents, why he'd even left something out for Luke to spot?

She went through the motions, following his orders in a daze of misery. This was her fault. If she hadn't insisted on going with Luke, he would have gone with someone armed, someone who could defend themselves. Not that she hadn't taken one or two self-defence classes, but Koppel was so fricking fast.

Before she knew it, they were in his garage, and if they'd known in advance that he owned a white van, she might have guessed that he was a freaking serial killer. She opened the door, while he stood far enough from her so that if she tried something, she wouldn't be able to reach him. He was still close enough to blow her head off.

"Get into the back and lie down on your side," Koppel ordered, his tone brusque. "Alvez first."

Luke hadn't said a word since he put his gun down, and Penelope wondered whether he was regretting not shooting Koppel through her. Once she was in the van, on her side, Koppel zip-cuffed her hands together, and wandered off.

"Where are you taking us?" she asked, trying to keep her voice steady, and he sniggered.

"You'll find out soon enough." He was eating it all up, her terror.

She wanted to sneer at him, tell him not to be such a walking, talking cliché, but managed to keep it inside. There was no sense in setting him off now, not when there was still hope they might get out of this alive.

Koppel climbed back into the van, and she saw, to her horror, that he was holding a syringe, which he squirted and tapped a bit, grinning at her, enjoying the effect it was having on her. Oh God, all this had been a charade – he was just going to kill them! Everything which she'd ever learned about serial killers vanished, her mind went blank, and all she could do was beg.

"No, no, please!" She wasn't ready, this wasn't right, why was this happening?

As from a great distance, she could hear Luke yelling and swearing, but Koppel just moved closer with his syringe, enjoying her terror. She cringed back, trying to move out of reach, but hit the side panel of the van, and squirmed so much that he had to hold her arm to inject her.

The world slowed down. Penelope tried to keep begging, to promise him anything, everything, if he only let them live, but her tongue stopped working. Sounds were muffled, like she was wrapped in cotton wool. Even her terror was smoothed down, until she wondered why Luke was shouting – everything was fine, and nothing hurt.

Notes

As this site doesn't allow for warnings and tags, I'll put it here: in the next chapter, the unsub is going to force Luke and Penelope to have sex. So if that's too much, maybe the story is not for you.

Not to say this has no plot. I still researched some stuff, though Reid's statistic about 'killer signatures' is completely made up. It's more based on something a character in Henry, portrait of a serial killer says.

Also, this has an eventual happy ending; which means Luke and Penelope sitting in a tree, KISSING, eventually. I'm just making them suffer, first.

From the second chapter, this story will be M rated.