AN: So, this is not exactly a sequel, but, hopefully, you will find it enjoyable.
Disclaimer: While I do own Becky, I do not own Raylan or Sherlock BBC. Darn it.
Raylan was a light sleeper; so, when Becky slid out of bed in the middle of the night, he woke up. He turned his face into the pillow and listened to the sounds of his wife moving quietly through the dark. When he heard drawers open and shut, he realized that she was getting dressed. He meant to ask where are you going but his tongue was heavy with sleep and it came out more like, "W're ya go'n'?"
She slid on her shoes and leaned across the bed to kiss his temple. "I have to run an errand."
He looked up at the clock; bright red numbers making him squint and blink. " 'S 2 in the morning." He started to sit up, more awake than his pronunciation would lead someone to believe. "If you need to go to a crime scene, I'll come too."
She laughed quietly, and gently pushed his shoulder. "I just need to run over to the morgue and pick up a few things. Go back to sleep."
"Okay," he mumbled, laying down and immediately conking out.
He woke up again at 6 when the alarm blared loud in his ear. "Shit." He was not one to hit the snooze, so he got up and trundled out into the kitchen in his boxers to make coffee.
He found Becky at the table with her chemistry set taking up every square inch of the oak surface. She did not acknowledge his presence, her head bent over a beaker filled with some sort of viscous material. But she had made him a pot of strong blend, so he did not mind.
He poured a mug and took a tentative sip, turning away from her to make a disgusted face. How could it be, that a woman capable of incredibly complicated chemistry experiments, and who could keep hundreds of formulas stored in her head, was incapable of making a decent pot of coffee? It boggled the mind.
Still, coffee was coffee and he had drunk worse (though not recently). He added a liberal amount of cream and moved a few empty beakers. She glanced up when he did, expression annoyed, but she said nothing.
"Good morning to you too," he mumbled, coffee tasting even more bitter for some reason. He got out a plate and put some leftover hash brown casserole (she could cook, why no coffee?) on it, then opened up the food microwave, the one clearly marked "FOR FOOD ONLY, NO EXPERIMENTS ALLOWED" in big, bold letters on the door.
He started for a moment, then, calmly shut the door. "Becky."
"I'm in the middle of something."
"There are human fingers in the food microwave," he continued, still calm, although being dismissed was not sitting well with him. "We agreed…no body parts in the food microwave."
"I have a sheep's intestine in the other one," she replied nonchalantly. "I can't move it until my cultures start growing."
"I guess I'll get a sausage biscuit on the way to work then," he groused. He went to put his plate next to his cup on the table and realized that he did not have room cleared away. "God damn it!" He slammed both plate and mug onto the counter hard enough to chip china, and then slammed the bedroom door hard enough that it failed to latch and actually swung open again.
He was getting dressed in tense but smooth movements, radiating tension, when Becky asked quietly. "Are you angry?"
"Brilliant deduction, Becky," he snarled, grabbing his hat from the bedside table.
"Because of the microwave?" She sounded like he really did not get it.
"Yes, because of the microwave! And not being able to sit at my own damn kitchen table!" He tugged on his boots and shrugged past her, pretending not to see the hurt look on her face.
It was Raylan's bad luck that work was slow on that particular Monday. It gave him time to think. To think about the look on her face and those big, confused, gray eyes.
Work was boring, but he stayed late anyway. For the first time since meeting Becky, he did not want to go home. He even went out for a drink with Tim just to put it off a little longer. They had fought before, but this spat felt different somehow.
She was the one who put the goddamn fingers in the microwave he used for his eggs. Why did he feel guilty?
It was nearly midnight when he finally got back. All of the lights were off, which was unusual since Becky was such a night owl. He hung his hat on the peg in the hall and made his way blind into the kitchen. He turned on the bulb above the sink.
Everything was put away, including the clean dishes. The food microwave was clean, the experiment microwave was clean, even the mold sample from the counter was gone. There was a post-it on the food microwave-which smelled like vinegar-with a single word Sorry, written in Becky's beautiful handwriting.
Panic rose up in his throat. Wynona had left a note when she left herself, both times. That had hurt enough. Losing Becky would be so much worse.
She was not in the bedroom, but her clothes were. The panic died down, replaced by confusion. He ventured into the living room. Becky was lying on the couch under her ratty afghan, but her eyes were wide awake and clear.
"What are you doing out here?" He leaned against the door-jam, hands in his front pockets.
"According to Google, this is what I am supposed to do, sleep on the sofa."
"You've never done that before."
She sat up and looked down at her wooly-sock-covered toes. "I've never been entirely in the wrong before." She said it so quietly that Raylan almost missed it.
Any trace of anger he might have retained vanished like smoke. "Aw, Beck." He sat down next to her and wrapped her up in his arms. She hid her face in his collar. "You wouldn't have to sleep out here, even if I still were pissed."
This was not like them, vulnerable and open, but, hey, they could be. Sometimes.
"I cleaned," she mumbled.
"I noticed. Thanks."
They stayed that way for a very long time. Raylan's arm was starting to go numb by the time she spoke again. "I don't do those things to spite you. I just get…focused."
"I know."
"I can try to do better."
"Just, keep the experiments in the right microwave."
"What about the chemistry equipment?"
He shrugged. "That was a little out of line for me. I'm nobody's neat freak."
He though he felt her smile against his collar. "True."
He flicked her arm, gently.
She bit his collarbone, less gently.
"Kinky," he mumbled, tangling his hands in her curls.
She snorted. "I'm not the one who gets horny every time I wear a lab coat."
Raylan laughed. "That has less to do with the lab coat and more to do with the fact that you wear nothing under the lab coat."
She thought for a moment. "I concede."
He kissed the top of her head. "I love you, Becky."
"Love you too."