He was a good man. He had been a cop for a very long time. He still remembered his first undercover assignment – how green he had been, how he had had to learn how to compartmentalize very soon, before he ended up with a bleeding ulcer or a hole in his head.
Fact was, he was good at what he did. It had come with a price, of course: no family, very few friends, an empty house and pretty much chronic insomnia. Compartmentalize only really worked while he was under – that was probably the reason why he had spent so much time working. Declan Murphy was a good man: he still believed in justice, he still believed in what he did. And he believed in second chances, he believed in redemption; he knew all too well what it meant to get closer and closer to the edge.
He knew that good people could make mistakes, could fuck up but they didn't stop being good. When he saw Amanda Rollins for the first time, he knew he had to think very quickly – his first instinct, one he later would refuse to dwell on, was to let her in, even before he made sure that she wasn't dirty, that she could be trusted. Trust was a tricky thing in his line of work. He could not afford to trust anyone; his life depended on it. It was hard enough as it was, relying on other people could make the dif ference between living and dying.
What he had known was that Amanda Rollins wasn't dirty. Not really. Desperation made people do stupid things, but he had seen the integrity, the decency underneath it all. Even when she had offered herself up as a way out. He had decided right then that the charade had gone on long enough. He had known that if he didn't do something Amanda could be lost, could fuck up her life for good – and he had seen it happen too many times. And he could not let it happen to her too. Even if he hadn't known her.
Later, much later, he would wonder what had been so different about Amanda, he would wonder why he had made sure that she came out of that assignment with flying colors and understood the hard way just how slippery the slope she had been walking to was.
Later, he would remember how easy it had been working with her. He would remember how they had found a rhythm right away, because they were both pros, they were both good at their job. He would remember stolen seconds, in the dead of the night, in a dark car, whispered conversations while both of them looked anywhere except that at each other, because they needed to be careful. Perhaps that was the reason why he found himself outside her building, sitting on the steps, waiting for her to come home.
Because she had asked him what no one, except for the shrink he had to see and his supervisor, had asked him in a very long time.
Was he okay? He had been under for months, making a name for himself among the scum of the Earth – trying to save innocent girls, kids and boys from being trafficked, sold and used like objects. He had survived that long because he was good at thinking on his feet, he was good at making plans and strategies. And yet he hadn't been able to really answer Amanda's question.
Was he okay? No. Not really. Despite what he had told Amanda he was not fine. He was exhausted, he was angry – and he was in too deep to call it off. One year before it had been Amanda, deep in some murky waters.
"Can I trust you?"
There weren't traces of the woman he had met; the one who had challenged him with her eyes even while in her bra, the woman who had got to her knees and had looked scared and resigned (and how fucked up it was that she had been ready to slide between the vee his thighs with *that* look in her eyes? As if it was nothing new, as if she hated his guts but would do what she had offered to do, and he could go and fuck himself ).
She sounded tired, she sounded young and vulnerable and honest.
"Yes. But I'm not a miracle worker, Rollins." He whispered.
Amanda closed her eyes, resting her head against the headrest.
"They raped a woman – and we –"
"Rollins." He said in a stern tone, stopping her before she could go on. He did not touch her. Not while they weren't under. He could get into her space, play the creepy bastard while they were working (and she never shied away, she rose to the challenge every single time), but he had never touched her outside their assignment. And he wasn't going to. Even if – even if part of him wanted to. "Not now. Keep it together!"
Amanda nodded. She opened her eyes and gave him a look. "I need to go – "
There was something about Amanda that made him feel different; that made him be even more convincing on the job (because if things went south she would be the first one going down and he would be damned before he let that happen .)- and he knew that he had left bruises on her arms, he had seen them, and he had to fucking keep it together!
It looked like she wanted to tell him something, maybe making him promise that the ambassador's wife would get justice, that a rapist would go to jail and stay there. He wished he could do that.
He wished he could reassure her that they were not responsible for what had happened and that justice would be done.
He had soon learned not to make promises if he wasn't sure he could keep them. And Amanda deserved more.
"Yeah –" He said. "Me too. I need to go back."
She looked surprised when she saw him. God – she was beautiful and perhaps he was more tired than he had thought, because he was usually very good at pretending he didn't notice how attractive Amanda was.
He had been her boss, he had worked with her for months, and if there was one thing he was good at was pretending. Instead he couldn't think about nothing else in that moment. She was beautiful – she was damaged, in ways he felt deep in his guts, but she was also a strong and decent woman.
"What are you doing here?" She asked.
She spoke in a soft voice – and she didn't sound or looked upset, which was a good thing, because he was honestly too tired to make up an excuse, or having to explain himself or do anything more than ask for a place to crash in. He didn't even realize, at first, that he was smiling (and that was beyond fucked up: mastering the control of his body language was one of those things about his job he was proud of. He was good, very good. He was a chameleon.) and when he did his voice came out low and hoarse, "I didn't know where else to go. I – I can't be alone right now."
Amanda looked around (old habit, muscle memory from when she was with him) and said, "Let's get inside then."
Another man, a better man (and he was a good man, he was. He was a good cop, he helped people. And yet he felt dirty. Used. Tired. Lonely.) would get the hell away; because the last thing Amanda Rollins needed was someone like him in her life; because he knew that she had issues, stuff that ran deep, that had left scars – because they had been alone in that room, that night, and she had not bluffed.
Apparently he was not a decent enough man, because he followed Amanda inside, and for the first time in so long he felt like he could breathe.
He had never been to Amanda's house. It said something about how tired he was that he didn't even think about looking around and tried to gather as much information about a person as he could by looking around, as he was used to do. He was not on the job.
He was – out. Just for one night, just until he could catch a breath and go back to be a sleazy bastard who didn't blink an eye when scumbags hit teenage girls or passed them around like candy.
"Are you hungry?" Amanda asked.
Declan started, forcing his mind out of those thoughts.
"No. No, I'm good." He said, and tried to be convincing.
He would usually be. But Amanda – he hadn't gone to Amanda to lie, to be convincing, so he shrugged his shoulders and said, "I'm not very hungry. Can't eat."
"Water, then?" She said.
He noticed that she didn't offer him any coffee or tea or anything with caffeine in it. He hadn't looked in the mirror for the past few days. It was something he did when things got like that, when he went in too deep. His mind played tricks on him and there was too much at stake. Compartmentalize was all fine and good, but sometimes hating what he saw in the mirror or, worse, not recognizing the bearded man he saw made it all a moot point, so he didn't.
He waited until things got better, because they usually did.
"Yes, thanks." He said.
He felt suddenly self conscious: of his height, of his clothes, of the gun he was carrying, of the however many days he had run on fumes. Amanda didn't tell him he could make himself comfortable, and he didn't move. He couldn't help a little smile when a dog came trotting in the living room, followed a few moments later by Amanda.
"She likes you." Amanda said.
She was smiling and she looked a fraction more relaxed than a few moments before. Declan smiled back at Amanda, accepting the glass of water she offered him. She sat on the couch and he followed her, only sitting when she gave him another smile. God, he felt about a hundred years old. He could not think. His mind was blank; it was not the first time it happened, but he usually found a hole to squat in, he forced himself to sleep and spent a day or two recharging his batteries. But that time he just couldn't- perhaps because right before that nightmare of an assignment had started he had been a real cop again: he had had a squad, people he had come to trust and rely on; the cases were the stuff of nightmares, his agents were filled with issues, but he had loved working with them, he had loved watching their backs, and knowing they were watching his.
He drank his water, realizing how thirsty he was. How long had he waited for Amanda, without moving, without uttering a sound? Hours and he honestly couldn't remember what the hell he had thought, he hadn't noticed the time going by. Fuck! He needed time, he needed a few hours – and he would be as good as new.
"Are you okay?" Amanda asked and Declan noticed that he had been staring at her. She didn't seem upset, she looked – worried. Which pissed him off, for some reason. Even if he didn't have a leg to stand on.
He had gone to her, hadn't he? He had told her the truth, so there was no point in lying, now.
"I don't know." Declan admitted. It was probably the most honest he had been for the past six months. "There was this girl – " He said after what it felt like hours (it couldn't have been more than a few seconds, but time, he had learnt, could be weird, could play tricks on him). He took another sip of water and continued, "she couldn't have been more than fourteen. Looked even younger when they brought her in. They broke her – and I had to watch, pretend I approved, I didn't stop them. I couldn't, it was too risky, for both of us. I watched them beat her, rape her. If I had moved, if I had intervened, they would have invited me to the party – I dodged that bullet so far, but it's only a matter of time."
"God…" Amanda whispered, but a distant part of Declan's brain couldn't help registering that she hadn't shied away from him. He didn't hear disgust or contempt in her voice. He hazarded a look, and he only saw understanding in her eyes. Which was worse, somehow.
"I couldn't stop what happened. But I had her removed a couple of days later. I've been under too long, Amanda. I'm tired." He closed his eyes and mumbled, "I don't even know her name, you know? I made sure she was taken away, but I didn't want to know her name."
"Have you talked to someone about this?" Amanda asked
. And – was she talking to him as if he was a victim? Really? And it didn't even make him mad. He didn't even know what he felt.
"Yes, I have," He said and it hurt to admit it, "but I can't get out of there – not now. I'm in too deep and with the vacuum of power going on, this is the only chance we have."
He felt Amanda's hand on his arm, but he didn't open his eyes; big shows of emotions were not his thing. Amanda though – she was different. There had always been something different about her and there was a connection between them. It was something that had been there, unspoken, since the very beginning, it didn't matter how hard he had ignored it.
"What can I do?" Amanda asked, after a moment of silence, and Declan could feel the warmth of Amanda's hand through the fabric of his shirt; she smelled good, of soap and perfume, nothing too showy, but it suited her. He finally opened his eyes and looked at her.
She looked tired, yet there was a small smile on her lips. "Sorry I crashed here, Amanda."
"It's okay." Amanda said, "Look…can you spend the night here?"
His eyebrows shot high, and Amanda seemed to catch up with her words. The fact that both of them looked away and the moment of awkward silence that fell between them spoke volumes about – things, those things that were there, had been there since the very beginning and, apparently, hadn't disappeared. He had told her she had a blind spot for men in positions of power. It had been something he had told her due to the case they had been working on, but it had also been an attempt to put distance between them.
It had been necessary, it had been self preservation – because it was something he was exceptional at. Because there was something about Amanda and he that spelled disaster waiting to happen. Because he was too old, too jaded, too damaged, too everything that she didn't need, to even dwell on what might bes. Amanda was there, though – she had been there, for him, even at the precint (and it had been perfectly fine, for him, that she had been the one who had handcuffed him, twice.)
"Yes." He said, answering to her question. They were adults, they were colleagues, he could spend the night on her couch and recharge – he could ignore his attraction toward her, or the fact that their bodies, for some reason, always seemed to gravitate toward each other's. He just needed something good, something real, something that didn't make him want to start smashing things until there was nothing left, until he could look again at the man in the mirror and see himself.
"Cool. You can stay here as long as you want." Amanda replied.
She took the glass from his hands, and squeezed his right hand for a moment, "I mean it. You look like shit, Declan."
Declan shook his head, not caring that she had dropped the formalities; feeling rather comforted by it, on the contrary. But despite what he thought he needed, the truth was that he could not stay there.
He would put Amanda at risk if he stayed; he risked his cover – and yet, for some reason, he couldn't bring himself to get up, to thank her and tell her he was better, and leave, hole up in some motel room, maybe even taking some xanax or valium and sleep until he felt halfway human again.
"I'll just crash here for the night." He eventually said.
He had to survive. He had to find a way to pull his shit together and go back and do his job; things were moving fast – and if things went according to the plan he would leave the States soon, he would be granted access to people and information that would bring one of the biggest sex trafficking rings in the world to its knees.
"Look," Amanda said, "why don't you take a shower, relax a little? I'll make myself scarce, you need the rest."
"Are you mothering me, detective?" Declan asked, realizing only a second too late how, despite his words, how laced with flirting his voice had been. Damn! He had kept things under control for such a long time and now – he must really be even more tired than he thought.
Amanda smiled, "Not really. Not mothering. That would be…weird." She said.
"I'm not here to –" Declan interrupted her.
Amanda touched him again, a light brush of her fingers against his, and said, "I know. Look, it's late: go get a shower, get some sleep. We'll talk tomorrow if you want, okay?"
Declan nodded and slowly got up from the couch, allowing himself to look around for the first time, but refusing to let his mind dwell on what he was seeing. He wanted to just be, for a few hours.
Amanda showed him the bathroom and said, "Go, take your time."
"Thank you." Declan said. He appreciated that Amanda didn't tell him that she owed him one, that he had seen her about to hit rock bottom the year before, so she was only returning the favor. He didn't turn on the lights in the bathroom (another habit he had picked up recently.), he showered in the dark, grateful for the hot water – he hadn't realized just how cold he really had been.
He heard Amanda telling him that she had left some clothes outside the door (and he really didn't want to know to whom those clothes belonged. It was none of his business. He had no right to ask. No right to know.). He turned on the lights when he was done with the shower, avoiding to look in the mirror even while he brushed his teeth with a new toothbrush he found in a drawer. He didn't need to look at the man in the mirror, not that night. It was too soon, he wasn't ready. He just needed to get some sleep, to close his eyes and feel safe, to not have to sleep with one eye open, alert to any danger.
When he got out of the bathroom he noticed that Amanda had placed blankets and a cushion on the couch, she had also dimmed the lights. The bedroom's door was closed, so he used the privacy he had been afforded to quickly put on the clothes she had given him. The clothes fitted, they were clean and Declan felt suddenly exhausted.
He looked around for a moment, and with a sigh went to what he assumed to be Amanda's bedroom. It took him a moment to knock at her door, his knuckles still against the door, his heart hammering in his chest (and God, how long it had been since he had felt his heart beating in his chest like that, for those kind of things?)
"Declan?" Amanda said from the other side of the door. And Declan was more grateful than he could say for that gesture.
If she opened that door, if she – touched him, he was almost sure he would crumble down that night. And that was a luxury he could notafford. Also, he would not do that to Amanda. God knew that woman had her own problems, her own issues to sort through. The last thing he wanted was to burden her with his dark moments. She sure as hell deserved more.
"Is everything alright?" Amanda asked, and Declan knew she was right behind that door: he had heard he get up and take a few steps.
Oh, Amanda…he thought. "Just wanted to say thank you." Declan said.
There was a moment of silence which Declan felt deeply, he felt the blood rushing through his veins, and he had to force himself not to touch the handle of the door.
"You're welcome. Good night, Declan. Try to get some sleep." The woman whispered, but Declan heard her clearly, his senses were completely focused on her.
"Good night, Amanda." He said after a moment. His voice was steady, it did not betray any of what was going through his mind: the need he felt to see her, to feel her, so suddenly overwhelming that it took his breath away.
He was a man of discipline: it was hard ingrained, stronger than anything else. It was one of the things that had kept him alive, it was what kept him together in moments like these, in nights like that one – when he was coming undone at the seams and he refused to take the easy way out and become a cliché like so many colleagues he had met through the years.
He smiled, knowing somehow, that Amanda was still there, behind that door and went to the couch.
He had thought falling asleep would be hard, that he would spend the night staring at the ceiling, trying to move as little as possible not to disturb Amanda. He fell asleep the moment his head hit the pillow.
He looked younger in his sleep. Amanda had heard him trashing in his sleep. Declan Murphy was not the kind of man who moaned in his sleep while having nightmares. No. But he moved, he closed his hands in fists and creased his brows, while – he saw, relieved whatever scenario his mind had come up with. And God knew whether he must have some serious stuff holed up in his mind, ready to come out and haunt him at night. They all had.
Amanda was not the kind of woman who stared at sleeping men. She seldom did those kind of things even with men she had sex with, let alone former bosses who had looked one breath away from coming undone. It was not the fact that she owed Declan her career; he could have thrown her under the bus, he should have the year before; instead he had trusted her to have his back, to do her job, and in return she had found herself again.
She hadn't touched him. She knew better than that, she had stood in the living room, trying not to move, not to alert him – and had just stared at him, for no reason or, at least, none she could understand. Declan looked younger, he didn't look like the man she had met the year before: but she already knew he wasn't the man she had met in that club.
He wasn't even the man she had talked to, in those brief moments where she reported to him, during the case, the one who was dressed like the sleaze he was playing, but had kind eyes and didn't allow her to lose her focus.
He didn't even look like the man who had been her boss for a few months.
She didn't know a lot about Declan Murphy, but she knew that it must have cost him a lot to show up at her doorstep and admit that things were not okay. Thing was – she had always felt safe with Declan. She trusted him, in ways that she could not explain, not even to herself.
He had told her about that girl, and had spoken in a hoarse voice and Amanda had known that it was bad, that it had somehow done a number on him. It was something she suspected he couldn't just shake off as yet another case of "the end justifies the means".
He had trusted her, and Amanda wasn't sure he had been totally aware of what he had been doing or even saying. Not that she cared, the only thing that had really mattered was to make sure the man was okay, that he would not leave and do something that might endanger himself.
Just like she had suspected Declan Murphy was indeed not the kind of man who cried out in his sleep – she saw right away when the nightmares began again. She knew that she was not supposed to wake someone who was having a nightmare, especially if that someone was a cop – but she couldn't just stay there, staring at the sleeping man on her couch without doing anything.
She moved quickly, sliding on her knees in front of him. She ignored the déjà vu she was feeling. It was different, of course – she wasn't in any danger, they were not in a gambling club – and her life, her career was not going to hell in a handbasket. She shook her head, forcing those thoughts away.
It was not about her; it was about Declan – who had never mentioned, not once, what had happened in that room before he revealed he was a cop. No one knew how he had revealed his identity. No one knew that she had been ready to get on her knees to get out of trouble.
He had never told anyone – and he had pretended that it had never happened. And God knew whether she had learnt the hard way that being a cop didn't make necessarily a man, a good person. One who didn't take advantage and didn't take what they wanted. But Declan hadn't. not once. Not even when he could have. On the contrary, Declan had made a point not to touch her when they were not pretending, the year before; he had made it very clear, with no words (because he really didn't need a lot of words with her, he never did), that he was not Declan O'Rourke. He was a cop, a good cop, doing his job – and trying to save hers, as well.
She had been carding her fingers through his hair, without even noticing which was all kind of wrong, for all kind of reasons, but it all came to a sudden stop when Declan grabbed her wrist.
She looked down at him and met his eyes, smiling despite herself at the puzzled look on his face.
"I'm sorry –" She whispered. "I shouldn't have –"
Her fingers were still in his hair and he was still grabbing her wrist. She couldn't move, she couldn't do anything except stare at him.
She didn't (couldn't) say, "you were having a nightmare, and I didn't want to startle you, and I was thinking about that time you didn't take advantage of me, and how it reminded me of things and people I hate to remember – and you, you kinda broke my heart and I might have missed you more than I thought…"
She swallowed when she felt the intensity of the man's stare on her.
"Amanda –" He said.
His voice was thick with sleep and he was still gripping her wrist. She wondered whether he was aware of that; she shivered, but – she still felt safe.
"I –" She trailed.
"Thanks –" Declan said. She had no idea what he was thanking her for: letting him stay on a couch which would be hell on his neck when he woke up? Not mentioning the nightmares he was having? She didn't know. She wasn't sure she cared.
Neither of them moved, Amanda could feel time stretch and still around them. Her senses were completely focused on the man in front of her: she could hear him breath, she could feel his fingers wrapped around her wrist.
It was gravity, doing its thing, it was that undercurrent that had always hummed, just beneath the surface, between them, but she wasn't really surprised when she became aware of the fact that she was touching his lips with hers. Or he was brushing her lips with his. Same difference.
Silence, dotted only by the sounds of their breaths softly mingling, and of the city, outside. It was oddly intimate to share her breath with him, like they were doing more than sharing space, more than the soft, feather like brushes of lips.
She parted her lips, acting on instinct, when Declan fingers left his wrist and trailed up, slowly, teasingly over her naked arm, brushing her skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps behind.
Declan tasted of peppermint and sleep. His beard tickled her face – and she shivered with anticipation, thinking about how that beard would feel against her naked flesh – and she smiled against his lips.
She had forgotten her fingers were still in his hair, but when Declan mirrored her gesture she remembered, and God, it felt wonderful: the way they were teasing each other with their lips, with their tongues. It was intense; the way Declan angled her head to deepen the kiss, the way her heart hammered in her chest, making her forget that she was still on her knees in her living room, and Declan was kissing her as if his life depended on it – and Amanda could feel heat pooling between her legs, and she wanted more.
And she knew what happened when she wanted something that much. She didn't get it.
He was the one who broke the kiss. And she hadn't even noticed that she was breathless, she hadn't even noticed that he was too. She closed her eyes, taking in big gulps of air, and smiled when he kissed her forehead.
"Amanda." Declan said. It was a question, it was a warning, it was a plea. Amanda didn't know what he was asking, but she soon found out that it wasn't – that.
"Don't do that, darling…" He said, and she didn't understand. His thumbs were brushing her lips and they were close, too close, "it'd feel like a pity fuck."
"It wouldn't." She whispered. And it was the truth. It wouldn't be a pity fuck. Not with him, there was too much between them, a level of trust, of respect that she valued, treasured even. And he deserved more than that, they both did.
"I didn't want to wake you up." He said, changing the subject. And part of her, a childish part, perhaps, wanted to ask, "but don't you want me?"
And Declan would not lie to her – and that would be worse.
It would make her feel like damaged goods, like she wasn't worthy. Because she was not blind, she knew he wanted her.
"I – I wasn't really sleeping." She replied eventually. Because following Declan's lead was better than the alternative.
The man looked at her for a second, and she was sure he could see everything about her, and she knew she should get up, make up some lame excuse and go back to her bedroom. It would be better for everyone.
She had always sucked at self preservation in her private life.
Declan moved – and later she would wonder how on Earth they had defied the laws of physics and fit on that couch – and lifted the blanket.
"Not a word." He said, but the look in his eyes was soft, warm.
It was up to her. She could get up, go to her bedroom and it would be over. They would both pretend nothing had happened, and she knew Declan would never hold it against her. She would still have his friendship, his respect – and after a while she would truly forget that for a moment she had lost her head and how much she had wanted that man.
She didn't want to forget.
She didn't want to pretend that her lips weren't still tingling with Declan's kiss, that she could still taste him and still had goosebumps on her skin. Somehow they fit together, he bracketed her in his arms, and it was – worse, more intimate than some sex on the couch (or the floor, or wherever they'd have ended up).
She could feel, hear him breathing, she could feel his lips placing a soft kiss on the crown of her head and she closed her eyes. She had to.
"Whatever you're thinking? Don't –" Declan whispered and his voice was apparently connected to the pleasure center of her brain, because she shivered, and Declan (and when, exactly, had he become Declan?) held her tighter at him.
And could things get any worse?
"When I take you to bed, Amanda, it will be clear it is not a pity fuck. It will be just you and I – no baggage. Now sleep, darling."
"Did – did you call me darling?" She said, before she could say something that would embarass her.
"Did I?" Declan sleepily asked, but she could hear the smile in his voice, she could feel how his heart was beating fast in his chest, and how much he wanted her.
"Twice." Amanda said, and she smiled as well.
Declan's only reply was another kiss, at her temple, And that? That was worse.
That was infinitely worse than having sex, because she wanted that, she didn't feel like crawling out from her own skin at the intimacy and the warmth they were sharing, as always, she believed him.
She trusted him, implicitly.