Set somewhere early season 5, before Murder, He Wrote.
He hears her before he saw her.
He'd made it in no problem – told the desk sergeant that he left something upstairs, made it through the empty bullpen to the stairs without running into whichever uniform got the night shift. When he'd reached the top of the steps, he heard the grunts coming from the gym.
Exactly where she said she'd be.
It's nearly 10 at night and he can't even imagine why anybody else would be there. As far as he knows, there are no open cases at the moment (he suspects that will change in an hour or so), but he knows they're the only people on the floor. He makes it to the door of the gym, pushes the cracked door open and slips inside, letting it rest gently against the doorframe instead of closing it, not wanting to interrupt her.
He watches her in the dim light of the precinct gym, the bag in front of her moving with a dull thud as her taped fists hit it, the movement causing her entire body to tense.
She's not mad at him. He knows that. He tries not to let it hurt that she chose to handle it on her own, but he's not surprised. This is still so new to both of them and she's trying. She told him where she was going - She's not hiding.
This is Hastings' fault.
Hastings – the young woman he knows she sees herself in – Hastings with her own writer. When Paul stopped into the precinct, a surprise "because I love you" coffee in his hand, giving her a kiss before he left, leaving Hastings looking so happy and content that he felt like he was intruding on an intensely personal moment between the couple. He had turned around and found Beckett, a remark about how they better be invited to the wedding for all they'd done for them, but she was still staring past at Hastings.
He said her name quietly and when she looked at him, slowly pulling her gaze away from Hastings, he saw the longing in her eyes before Ryan and Esposito joined them, and she had to hide it.
It's not really Hastings' fault. It's not Paul's fault or his fault or her fault.
He watches her like he always has. She lets out another grunt when her fist hits the bag, a quiet, controlled sound that breaks free on her lips as the muscles in her arm ripple from her wrist to her shoulder. It's not the precise combat he's used to seeing from her – she's running on emotion, fighting more for catharsis than for victory. He watches though, struck once again by her strength, unable to stop himself from appreciating her body in her workout clothes because now is not the time and the precinct gym, as much as he wishes, is not the place.
He thinks she must sense him there because the force of her punches wanes, her shoulders not as tense as the fight drains out of her. She lifts herself onto one leg and twists backwards to kick the bag, but she puts too much weight on the ball of her foot and she's not paying attention – when her foot connects with the bag she falls with it. She twists and lands on her back with a quiet huff. She slides herself away from the swinging bag and sits upright, her hands coming up to brush the hair out of face before she leans forward and rests her forearms on her knees.
He walks forward, knows better than to run to her when he knows that she's okay even though it goes against every one of his instincts to keep her safe, the mats on the floor squeaking under his feet and letting her know, if she didn't already, that he was here.
Her eyes slip shut as he settles next to her, an inch or two of space between their hips, her chest flushed and heaving under her tank top. He doesn't say anything, waits for her to catch her breath and sort through her thoughts. It doesn't take long.
"I wish we didn't have to be a secret."
He knew – he knew what she was going to say and her exhausted honesty still makes his throat close up.
The one thing she's willing to admit she wants and he can't give it to her.
He loves her. He's still excited that she chose him – that his love means something to her. He wants everyone to know how happy he is, how incredibly lucky he is. No more fake dates or people thinking they're going on vacations with different people. He doesn't want to keep lying to his mother and his daughter; he doesn't want them to have to keep lying to the boys just to make sure they can still work together. He doesn't want to keep pretending that he's not hopelessly devoted to his partner in every sense of the word.
He wants to hold her hand in the car. He wants to put his arm around her when she's frustrated at the murder board. He wants to kiss her goodbye when he leaves before her. He wants to show up at crime scenes together.
He wants to be able to love her in public and he's not allowed.
She lets out a sigh at his silence, knows that their secret is necessary, but it doesn't make it hurt either of them any less. She drops her head forward, her body curling into itself in exhaustion and he doesn't know if it's from her workout or their relationship.
He figures it's probably a little bit of both.
He knew it wasn't going to be easy; he just didn't think it was going to be so exhausting.
Exhausting, but still worth it - always worth it.
He reaches out and tugs on the end of her ponytail gently. She looks up at him and he does the only thing he can do.
He smiles.
It's small, more than a little wry, but she matches him – that crooked little smile she gives him that he pretends doesn't mean I love you. She closes the distance then, leaning sideways so she can rest her head against his shoulder. There's no one here, no one to catch them, so he tilts his head, presses a kiss to her hairline, the natural taste of her mixing with the saltiness of her sweat lingering on his lips. She lets out a sigh, a soft barely-there breath that has her sinking into his side, her body demanding a moment of rest. He doesn't wrap his arm around her, doesn't want her to start overthinking and move. Instead he rests his cheek on the top of her head, lets his eyes slip closed. He feels her fingers start to play with his, and he opened his palm to her, unable to refuse her anything.
He'd give her the world if she asked but he knows she won't.
So, for now, he can give her this.
It's enough.
For now.
This love is taking all of my energy.
- Energy, by Keri Hilson