Uncertain Edges
Sometimes she thinks she can grasp this lingering feeling that's always between them. But it's a lost hope because one of them is always leaning in the wrong direction. It's their curse and she thinks they've accepted that by now.
But there are times when he's leaning in too close and his fingertips are brushing against her lower back. He does it on purpose because it seems to be the only way he can actually touch her without second sort. It's accidental and has nothing to do with unsaid words and unanswered questions. They drift in and out of this limbo and sometimes she's so frustrated – by both of them – that she walks to the gym to beat the crap out of one of her colleagues.
It leaves an almost morbid satisfaction in her chest and then she thinks she's getting better. That is until she sees him again.
It's easy for her to blame him. He shouldn't bring her coffee. He shouldn't charm her with Lilies on her birthday or movies to take her mind of the fact that's it's the day her mother died. But he does and she can't tell him to stop because losing him would be worse than anything she can think about.
She can't remember why she agreed to come because it's a dangerous game they're playing.
"This is a bad idea…", she mutters.
Her keys are heavy in her hands and it's the one thing she can hold onto while she's knocking on his door. It's late and she doesn't know how she'd even found the courage running across town sometime between midnight and 4 o'clock in the morning.
Her heart is beginning to pound.
The seriousness of her actions almost falls from her shoulders when he opens the door in Tweety & Silvester PJ bottoms and a Serenity T-Shirt. His hair is messy and she resists the urge to ran her hand through it.
"Beckett?"
"I'm…"
What is she supposed to say? She doesn't even know why she's here. Kate Beckett isn't the person to be afraid of anything but the opportunity he provides is scaring and she's tempted to run away like a coward. But he's faster and she asks herself if he might actually know what's up.
"Come on in."
He grabs her wrist and pulls her into the warm Loft. Her skin tingles where he's touching her but she doesn't say anything. She wishes that there was a bar somewhere, the scotch in her drawer, and something that makes an excuse for this credible.
They're sitting on his couch and she's watching him, her eyes red. She looks for signs of someone else. She's it. It scares and thrills her, confuses her and makes doubt seem too easy. He knows the rules of her attention. Her own issues stray far from this, but in her head, she can hear Josh and his sigh, see him shake his head, grab his bag and leave for Malawi.
She should never be left alone. Her mom did it and it almost left her shattered. Now she doesn't know. She's floating in between because she couldn't stand watching him leave. But she can't stand not to be with him anymore either.
She comes to him. There's no end or beginning; it's about changing systems, what works and what fails and what she's going to give.
"Kate?"
She knows she's supposed to say something but she's at a loss of words and this game is going on too long. They've almost said it all.
He watches her say nothing, dropping his gaze to her fingers. He wants to understand all of it because he's not the same person she met five years ago. She changed him – she moved him and she doesn't even have a clue. He put his feelings in his books – the dedications - but she still couldn't make up her mind and they both know it's always been about one of them making a wrong decision at the right time.
She's being self-indulgent with stupidity.
The room is quiet and she tries to tune out the sound so the city. It's easy to pick them out – there's the hallway, the occasional person passing, the cars on the street, the music in the apartment next to them. She hears a door open, a soft whistle and she wonders if Alexis is there and it makes her want to hide under the table. She lets her hand rise. Her thumb slides over his wrist.
"Do you need something?"
He's worried now. Almost afraid to ask any further question. She opens her mouth and closes it. Open. Close. The words are there – in her head – but she doesn't know what to say.
I need closure.
"I think…", she finally says, "I should've thought this trough before I dragged you out of bed at 3 am. Maybe that's my problem."
He obviously doesn't know what to say, but he doesn't want to let her leave either, because his fingers curl around her hand. It's a strange connection, one she almost never allows. But she came and she has to give him that – at least.
"I had a dream like this once –" She stops again, but she's looking at him and he's looking back, watching her carefully.
"Me too…"
"Yeah… I dream. A lot."
She smiles because this seems to be one of the rare times where they don't try to hide behind lame jokes.
She still can't read him and she's not sure if she's ready to. Sometimes he punishes her for them – they both understand that, the play-by-play that sort of writes itself, back and forth and with little or no control given to either of them. Maybe it's why they've never really walked forward into something where there's more. She doesn't care about definitions anymore. He's her best friend and she sure as hell knows he would give her everything.
"What are we going to do?"
It's his question and the only one nobody can answer.
"I don't know."
It's the most honest she's been with anyone, including herself, and the I don't know feels exceedingly strange slipping from her mouth. She swallows, sighs, and blinks as she peers up at him again.
"I don't know," she says again, firmly.
He doesn't say anything. No one can ever tell when they're a subject of interest, he's extremely unpredictable and it's exhausting. It's always been exhausting.
But she doesn't expect the kiss.
Something is pressing into her back and he swallows a whimper, when his teeth sink into her lips. He keeps kissing her and she keeps kissing back because she doesn't know what else to do. Suddenly she's overcome with want, craving the need to make him breathless, to push him beyond the brink.
He breaks away and they're staring at each other. She can taste him on her lips. Cinnamon and Whipped Cream? His eyes are huge and she wonders if he's afraid.
Her fingertips are touching his cheek. The soft stubble is comforting and it seems that this is everything it takes for him to make up his mind because a second later he's on top of her, kissing her senseless and she's moaning his name, pressing herself against his solid body.
Maybe they have the tendency to speak to many languages at the same time.
Her eyes close.
He says nothing. And neither does she.
The end.
A/N: I'm from Germany so please excuse any kind of bad grammar. D: Just a little bit of nonsense.