This will be a two-shot!
It's hard letting go. I'm finally at peace but it feels wrong. Slow, I'm getting up. My hands and feet are weaker than before.
"I love you Kate," rings in his ears, sometimes loud and unrequited, sometimes quiet and sorrowful, but just as painful and it kills him. His ears bleed and blister as his heart melts to a nothingness at the thought of her alone, at the selfish thought of her not feeling the same way as he. Otherwise why hasn't she called? It's been two months since she was shot. She said she a couple of days and this not knowing how she's doing is literally killing him, drowning him in a wakeful blinding.
He can't eat, can't sleep, can't think, can't do anything other than long for her.
But he needs to let her go. In every relationship there is always one who cares more than the other and he guesses it's him. Kate never really cared for him did she? Even after all he's done for her.
What's harder? Letting go or moving on? Letting go of a woman you've been in love with for three years has got to be the hardest thing he's ever done. But he has to because she doesn't care for him and he's tired of wallowing around the loft, his mother and daughter sending him pitiful expressions and Gina's been giving him shit about the book.
Shit.
Why does it feel so wrong then? Why does it hurt so much to let her go? Because of always? Because he loves her? Because he has hope?
He's done nothing but help the boys at the precinct until Gates kicked him out and now he just lays around all day. Occasionally writing when the words come to him but he hasn't done much this summer.
His heart is breaking more and more everyday she doesn't call. He hears it with very crack in his back, wrists, and ankles. He's getting old, he knows and the way he feels alone does nothing but emphasize it, makes him feel older than what he is. He misses her. He's been missing her since their fight the night before the hangar. She consumes his thoughts, influences his decisions: tea instead of coffee, water instead of whiskey, writing instead of wallowing.
At midnight, the darkest hour, he's up wondering where the hell he went wrong.
It's like this every night.
And you are folded on the bed, where I rest my head. There's nothing I can see, darkness becomes me.
He walks back to his office after getting a cup of tea to do some more writing, get his mind off of things.
But then she's there, waiting for him in his bedroom. But it's not really her. It's a black silhouette, like the Nikki Heat novel covers, but she's different. Curvier, sexier. It's Kate.
It's dark, the only light coming from his laptop and the window in his office. Otherwise his bedroom is cast in shadow, can only see the contour of objects. But Kate. He knows her from a mile away even if he can't make out any details.
"Rick," she whispers sweetly, but a hint of lust floats between the 'R' and 'K'.
He swallows thickly, looks away and walks back to his desk. He's hallucinating. From lack of sleep the past few weeks and food. It's not the first hallucination he's had. Since she was shot he's seen the blood on his hands, dying bodies, and lifeless Kate Beckett's. But usually it's only for a second. This "Kate" is still sitting on his bed and he doesn't know why. It's cruel and uncalled for. His stupid fucking heart still loves her and so his stupid brain conjured her up to look like Nikki. Fucking great.
"Rick," she says again and there's this hint of longing in her voice that draws him in. He can't resist her, never could have even in the land of hallucinations.
He won't be able to write now knowing he has a Kate resembling Nikki in his bed. (Nikki resembling Kate? Nah.)
There's nothing I'd take back. But it's hard to say there's nothing I regret. Cause when I sing you shout I breathe out loud. You bleed we crawled like animals but when it's over I'm still awake.
"Rick," she calls again and it's in that relaxed Beckett voice she uses whenever they're alone together. "Com' ere." It's heart wrenching and hot at the same time and just the thought of what she could possibly want him for has his member hardening and his imagination running wild.
And even if this fictional Kate did want to bed him he couldn't possibly let her because it's not really her. Knowing how she moves, how she sounds, how she looks, how she feels, and what she likes when it's not the real Kate is a waste of time. He doesn't want to pretend.
God, why does it hurt so much? He wouldn't take back what he said to her before and after she was shot. He meant the things he said and he'll tell her again, maybe with less anger and a less fearful expression on his face. But just because he wouldn't take back his 'I love you' doesn't mean he doesn't regret the circumstances in which he said it.
"Come. Here. Rick," she demands and he's standing inert in the middle of his office while staring at the delicious outline of Kate Beckett his mind has conjured up. And even in his head he can't deny her.
He sets his mug down on his desk and walks over to the bed where she's sitting suggestively on the edge. Without any light he still can't see her. No details available for him to take in.
She takes her hand and presses it lightly against his chest then she reaches up pressing her lips delicately against his neck. "I want you," she whispered, her warm breath tickling his skin. But he's disappointed with the lack of sensation that comes from her. "I want you," she says again.
"No."
"Yes!" She commands, suddenly behind him when she pushes him on the bed. She flips him to his back then straddles him all in one move. Then unanticipatedly she softens, her touch less rough, her voice less flushed. "Don't you want me?"
"Of course. Yes Kate. More than you could ever know." He strangely believes she smiles but he doesn't know because he can't see her. She's just a projection, a silhouette of his Kate that his mind conceptualized. Fuck this.
That's when she stripped off all his clothes and placed his shaft inside her center. But he couldn't feel her. He couldn't feel anything. Is she warm? Wet? Tight? He doesn't fucking know. She moves over him and starts chanting his name, moaning and grinding and loving him in the most intimate way. Except she doesn't love him, she'll never love him the way he does her.
When he reaches out to touch her he feels something wet on his hands.
It's blood.
She flips them so they're in the same position as they were when she was shot. Then she rests her hand gently on his cheek before whispering "I love you too."
Then he wakes up.
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