Captain Alexander Morrison sits at a large desk crowded with folders, stacks of paper and various electronics that malfunction regularly, carefully sorting through cases everyone thought were closed. His fingers are thick and strong but nimble, experienced with the gentler side of law enforcement. Even calloused skin can have a soft touch.
His ears are still sharp and he hears the door slide the moment it's pushed, and a second later is looking up into the eyes of one of his best detectives. There's a spark of wary curiosity among the grim determination he's grown accustomed too, and the grief she pushes back like everything else.
"Can this wait?" Leaning against his doorframe with crossed arms and mussed hair, defiantly resigned to his answer.
"No. Take a seat."
"I'm fine." Curt and sharp, and any other time he might roll his eyes but now he only nods, allowing his voice to soften slightly.
"At least come out of the doorway."
She sighs, clearly irritated and knowing full well he doesn't give a damn, no matter what she's in the middle of – they both know she'll get it done one way or another. So she steps forward, letting the door swing shut behind her. Her posture remains the same, along with her closed expression.
His eyes never leave it as his hands lift from the precious papers to clasp upon them, studying her in a way he would a victim, and he knows she hates it. "You know why you're here."
Her jaw tightens briefly, hands clenching at the material of a shirt he's seen a thousand times. "So we're skipping the small talk? Good, because I can't see how we'd go from 'shitty weather' to 'my father was murdered last week'."
It's an effort not to wince. As it is, his fingers press against tough skin hard enough to bruise as a different kind of pain fills the silence, one much harder to bear.
"You shouldn't be working, Kate. You should – "
"What?" she interrupts, voice sharp as her eyes flash. "What should I be doing, captain?" It's a challenge, and one he's willing to take.
"Taking time to grieve."
He can see the rebuttal on thin lips, twisting into a faint scowl as he watches; "He never did."
But she can't say it, so she doesn't say anything. He does instead, because he has to. "You can't tell me you're fine. We both know that's not true."
"I already did."
"You haven't even taken a day, Kate – "
"I guess I got caught up in all those unsolved homicides on your desk." She glances down briefly at the stack of papers in front of him, as if she needed to clarify.
He got used to those kinds of barbs back when he worked with her father. They won't distract him now. In fact, it might have given him some ammunition.
"I was actually in the middle of – "
"They still don't have a suspect?" Quite and sombre and her mouth snaps shut as if against poison, and he can't tell if she's trying to keep it out or in.
For the first time he sees naked, horrified grief in her eyes. He knows that she wants to look down, and that she won't.
"No. Nothing." He sees her hands tightening, and it must hurt but she doesn't say another word. He can't see anything in her eyes anymore.
He used to appreciate this stoicism, even admire it. Not today. Today it only strengthens his worry, and thus his resolve.
"Must be drilling you every day."
"They should be." Coldly sincere, and there's no hope to lift the words; they sink down into the emptiness she's trying to bury herself in.
This is the first time he's ever seen Kate Lockley give up on a case.
He allows himself to sigh, raising his hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. It hides the frustration, and more importantly, the fear.
When he looks back up, they barely breach the surface. Goes to show they've learned a lot from each other.
"Look. If I can't convince you to go home, can you at least talk to Dr. Morgan?"
She raises an eyebrow, lips curling into a faint scowl before parting before disdainful words. "You remember what happened the last time I talked to a shrink?"
"The one issued by Wolfram and Hart, you mean." He's just as versed in the art of irony as she is, and the grudging reply of "Point taken" almost alleviates inevitable defeat.
"I'm not talking to a therapist." Stern and final and he knows he won't get anywhere so he moves on. If he forces her into it, it will just end in resentment and quite possibly the resignation of a respected psychologist.
"All right. Then talk to someone else. Anyone else."
"Like who?" The question is supposed to be hard, rhetorical, but there's desperation underneath, a yearning she refuses to admit to.
"Me."
"Please." She lets her eyes roll to the ceiling to hide the gratitude in them. He keeps his tone gentle, devoid of pressure.
"Stay after work. Come in early.: She tends to do both anyway, so it won't exactly encumber her schedule.
Kate bites her lip, and he can see her fight to keep her emotions at bay, positive and negative and unwelcome either way.
"I'll think about it."
"Come soon."
She never does.