NEVER LET ME GO
…
Promise I won't hurt you kid,
Hold me really tight until the stars look big,
Never let me go.
…
Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock.
She freezes, lowers the bottle of Jack Daniels that had only just been attached to her lips, sets it down on the coffee table and turns to the door.
Peering through the peeking hole she sees him standing there, looking down at his own hands. He's wearing worn jeans and a leather jacket. That black one, the one that makes her heart flutter every time he wears it. His face is unshaven, like it was this morning at the precinct.
They haven't had time to go home, the case had taken up all of their time.
He had stood with her, helped her, brought her coffee and food when she forgot that she was still human, still needed nourishment to keep functioning.
Suddenly the need to get changed, brush her hair, fix her make up, takes over. She wants to look good for him; hot. But he's seen her like this so many times. He doesn't care.
She wants him to care.
She straightens out the oversized hoodie she's wearing and looks down at herself; black leggings and bare feet. Her hand is shaking when she reaches for the doorknob, and she is unsure if he is the cause of that, or that it was the long days, the fatigue, the raw emotions or the alcohol buzzing through her veins.
The door creaks slightly when it opens.
They don't speak; don't move.
Finally, he drops his hands down to his sides, and looks at her.
''What do you want?'' she says, ruder than she meant to. Her voice is hoarse, and she knows he can see she's been crying. She doesn't really want to pick a fight, but inviting him in, being nice to him would feel like weakness, and that is the last thing she needs to feel right now. Right now she needs strong; in control, even if it is the farthest away from the truth as she could be.
She isn't angry with him; she isn't, she isn't, she isn't. Except she is. He left. He left her. He told her it wasn't worth it. Told her to stop. Told her to let go.
He was always the one who understood her; who understood that this drove her; who didn't judge her; who never told her to back down, that her mother wouldn't have wanted her to do this.
But today-
''I-'' he says, in that low voice of his that normally would make her shudder, now only sends cold, uncomfortable shivers down her spine. ''I don't know.''
She is silent; waits for him to continue.
''I want… you.'' His voice is low and rough, but tenderer than she's ever heard it.
Her heart skips a beat, and she silently berates herself; she is not a teenager anymore, this is not a crush.
This is not love.
And her eyes shouldn't light up like this at his words; she shouldn't feel so hopeful.
''W-what?'' she says, voice unstable.
''I want you to forgive me.''
Her heart drops, but she could- should have known.
''I didn't mean to hurt you. Look, I just wanted to protect you, kid. I don't want you to get hurt anymore than you already have.''
''I am an adult. You don't have to protect me. You are not my father!'' she fumes, now even angrier than before. Her nails are digging sharply into her palms and she hisses.
''You are just as much as an addict as he is, kid. Someone needs to save you from yourself.''
''No.'' Her voice is full of betrayal and repulsion. ''No. Fuck you! Don't pretend- don't you fucking pretend like this is about-''
He cuts her off by stepping over the threshold and kissing her. He spins her around, backs her up against the wall; holds her tight; flush against him.
When he pulls back, she tries to speak, but he silences her with another kiss.
''You've been drinking,'' he groans when they break apart; their lips still mere inches away from each other.
''Yes. Do you care?'' she pants, rebelliously, daring him.
He doesn't answer, just lets her wrap her legs around him and carries her to her bedroom.
…
When she wakes up, the bed is empty, but the door to the balcony is open and his shirt and jacket are still lying on the ground.
She sits up, pulls her long hair back and ties it in a bun. She gets up from the bed, pulls on her black lace underwear and silently pads to the balcony. It's a hot night; she doesn't bother to put on any clothes. (she tells herself that he has nothing to do with it)
He's leaning on the rails, shirtless; a cigarette loosely dangling between his fingers. He doesn't look up when she stands beside him.
He still doesn't flinch when she reaches for the cigarette and takes a drag. He just blows out some smoke and takes another drag; the tip of the cigarette glowing bright orange in the dark.
''You don't smoke,'' he eventually says.
''I don't,'' she nods as she blows out the smoke.
''I thought you hated it,'' he says after a few minutes of silence.
She wants to answer, but she doesn't know what to say. Doesn't really understand it herself. Instead she takes a drag of the cigarette and closes her eyes.
He lets her have the cigarette and reaches for the pack of Marlboros and the lighter in his pocket. He lights a new one and watches as she taps off the ashes from hers.
They don't speak; don't look at each other until she kills the cigarette by putting it in the earth of a plant. He's been stealing secrets glances at her half-naked body, but they don't look each other in the eye.
''Captain gave me the weekend off. More like forbade me to come back before Monday,'' she murmurs as she runs her hands up and down his bare back. His skin is hot and smooth; forbidden.
There's a scar on his left shoulder, and a whole bunch on the right side of his defined abs. She doesn't know the stories behind them; had never seen them before, but the one on his shoulder looks a lot like a lot like a bullet wound. She's heard whispers of him getting shot once. She wants to ask, but she knows she can't; he'll instantly close up again. They're way too alike.
She tenderly kisses the one on his shoulder.
He gulps.
''Beckett-''
''Shhh…'' she hushes him, as if she's comforting an upset child. Now, she's not even sure anymore if it's really him and she wants, or just the power that comes with finally having what's she wanted for so long. The thought makes her a little dizzy, but she pushes it down and continues to kiss his skin tenderly.
He groans, as if in pain, but eventually gives in; throws down the small stump that's left of his cigarette, puts it out, and turns around to capture her lips in a kiss.
His hands roam over her back, up to her neck and to the bun on the back of her head. He pulls the elastic band out.
''Let your hair down, kid.''
She just moans, lets him do whatever.
…
She wakes up again a few hours later. Her body is still heavy with sleep and the weight of the day, and it takes a moment for her to turn around to look at him. He's not lying next to her anymore, and for a second she thinks he might have left, but he's awake; sitting in bed with his head in his hands. His legs are still under the sheets, his body bent over; closed off.
''You ok?'' she asks him.
''Fine,'' he tells her, but his voice in uncharacteristically unsteady and his posture defeated. ''Go back to sleep, kid.''
She does.
…
She makes him breakfast the next morning, but he doesn't meet her eye the whole time, and they mutter not more than the necessary words.
The daylight is confronting and they both know he should leave; that this is so wrong, but neither of them wants this to end just yet.
…
She serves him a beer with breakfast and he doesn't question it or hesitate for even a moment before downing it quickly. He smiles at her thankfully for the first time that morning and watches as she takes a swig straight from the bottle.
She is in no way trying to get them drunk – doesn't want to think of her father, but a little liquid courage; a little bit of forgetfulness is almost more than she can ask for now.
They watch the news and see how yesterday's killer gets dragged away into court. She sighs and tries not to think of how badly she wants that for the bastard who took her mother, but before she has time to give it more thought his rough mouth is on her neck; his hands all over.
…
He still hasn't left, so they order pizza. She would cook, but it's too personal, too real. Pizza is neutral; pizza is precinct dinners with other cops. Pizza is okay.
When the doorbell rings Kate jumps up from the couch – off of him. She grabs her wallet from the coffee table to pay the pizza-guy, but when she opens the door she doesn't meet the young man's eyes. Mike hides away from the view, and she knew that the fact that he wasn't wearing a shirt had nothing to do with that: what happened behind these doors was never meant to get out.
…
When they're out on the balcony having a smoke, she finally dares to ask the question.
''Where did you get these?'' she murmurs quietly as she runs her fingers lightly over the scars on his body.
He turns his head towards her, smiles sadly. All this time, they have only spoken quietly, almost inaudibly soft whenever they weren't completely naked. It's like they are even afraid that the neighbours will hear, that the walls will tell, that everything will get out.
''Oh,'' he says, shaking his head, ''-it's nothing, really. Others have much worse.''
She doesn't say anything, uses her silence to force him to continue, like he learnt in the interrogation room.
Then, he sighs and lets out a small laugh, realization that she's using his own techniques against him.
''I, uh-'' he chuckles uneasily. It's one of the many things they have in common; they don't like to talk about themselves, about their weaknesses, their accidents. ''A junkie did this on a case a couple of years back. The uh- gunshot was a long time ago. Guy just tried to get away and shot me.''
She kisses his jaw.
''Kate?'' A hoarse voice; a warm hand on her bare shoulder.
''Yeah?'' It's barely a sigh; her lips on his chest.
''Promise me one thing,'' Pulling her closer.
''Anything,'' she breathes.
''Don't ever get yourself shot. And if I'm ever gone, please take good care. You're worth way too much.''
She nods against his skin; doesn't let him see her tears.
…
When on Monday morning, she wakes up alone in her empty, cold bed, the first thing she does is strip the bed from all its sheets and replace them. She throws the dirty sheets in the garbage can. It doesn't fit and the can disappears underneath the dark purple slopes, but she doesn't care. She leaves the room without putting new sheets on the bed or emptying the trashcan, instead moves to the kitchen to clean up everything that would remind her of these last few days.
She really shouldn't feel so sad, so hollow inside. She shouldn't be disappointed; she knew this was how it would end from the beginning. She did. She knew it so well. Maybe a tiny part of her had hoped it wouldn't.
That same afternoon she cuts ten inches off her hair, and when she gets to the precinct the next day, they both pretend it never happened.
They don't talk about it ever again.
…
(I just really like Royce. And I must admit I shipped him with young Beckett just a tiiiny lil bit, hehe.)
I found this in my documents and decided to edit it a little and post it, I hope you guys like it. Reviews/criticism/tips/etc are very much appreciated! Thanks for reading (: