the moon is hiding in
her hair.
The
lily
of heaven
full of all dreams,
draws down.
cover her briefness in singing
close her with intricate faint birds
by daisies and twilights
Deepen her,
Recite
upon her
flesh
the rain's
pearls singly-whispering.
-e.e. cummings
He watches her sleep.
Not from beside her in the bed, like he usually does. He's just come home, walked into his—their—bedroom and found her, already asleep.
The moonlight trickles in, washing her in a white, ethereal light.
And he stops, and he watches her sleep.
Because he can't not watch, her sprawled out in their sheets, resting against their pillows—well, mostly his, and he doesn't really know how she ended up on his side of the bed, anyway.
He pictures her dreams, light and happy and he's there, and she's there, and her parents—both of them—are there, and his mother and Alexis and maybe even their little possibility, and they're all happy and laughing and a family.
He pictures her nightmares, where her mother's discarded in an alley or at the bottom of a pile of cases looming on the edge of her desk at the precinct or simply up on her murder board, forever trapped in her collapsed, cold, vulnerable state. And he's there, too, pushing when he shouldn't or ignoring her when she needs him or keeping the wrong secrets for all the right reasons.
He watches this, all of this, and realizes he never had a chance.
He was in love with this woman from the moment he met her. Before he knew about her mother, before he knew she reads all his books, before she helped create Nikki Heat and everything in between.
He's always loved her.
And he simply falls in love with her a little more every day.
He loved her a little more the time when they almost died together—all of the times—and when she came to him that night, which seems so long ago now, when she was rain-soaked and finally wanted him and just him. He loves her a little more when she smiles after he brings her coffee, or when she brings him coffee, or they solve a case because of her inherently brilliant detective skills. He loves her a little more, now, just watching her sleep.
He lets a smile tug at the corner of his mouth as he sheds his jacket and toes off his shoes, undoes his restrictive leather belt, sliding it out of the loops and haphazardly dropping it to the carpet. He climbs in to the bed, slow as he can, trying not to wake her.
He watches her sleep, from beside her in the bed—from her side, but he doesn't care—and the moonlight seeps into the caramel tresses across his pillow.
"Kate," he murmurs. "I love you, Kate."
He watches her sleep. He watches her eyes flutter and open like theatre curtains and he watches her smile as she finds him next to her.
"Rick," she whispers sleepily, dreamily, "Love you, too."
And she closes her eyes, and he watches her sleep, again.
A/N: FLUFFY. FLUFFY FLUFFY FLUFFY. You're welcome. Reviews are accepted in place of cash, but I also take debit cards, , and ritual sacrifice.