I know I already did an ep-insert for 6x17, In the Belly of the Beast, but this randomly came to me.
She takes his offered hand, lets her fingers gently envelop his, lets him carefully help her to a standing position.
They both know she's strong enough to do it herself. They also both know that he likes taking care of her whenever he can, whenever she lets him.
Now, she lets him.
The memories of the day she wants desperately to put behind her are not faded. She has a gut feeling that she'll never forget the mixture of horror and shock that had swept through her on multiple occasions that day. She knew she'd never forget most of it.
Like when Harden pulled out his gun in the small, cramped elevator and she knew she had nowhere to run to. She knew she had to listen, or she'd be a dead woman. She'd always remember realizing in that very moment that Elena was more than just a delivery girl for the drug ring, much more.
And she'll never forget the fear in Espo's voice when he heard her on the phone, the hint of relief that had been there as well as he and everyone else realized she was in fact still alive. She remembers the fear, the anticipation, the horrible adrenalin that had run through her veins as she watched the door, waiting for it to open, waiting to be caught dead in her tracks.
He pauses as she shudders at that specific memory, their slow and leisurely walk to the bedroom interrupted. He turns to look at her, eyebrows raised slightly in questioning, eyes wide with worry. One corner of her mouth raises in an only slightly reassuring, crooked smile. He mirrors her expression, the slight upturn of the corner of his mouth giving off only a small glimmer of relief.
She knows he's still scared. She knows he won't let her out of his sight for the next few days, if not weeks. She knows she'll let him—she'll get annoyed, but she'll let him—because she knows that the last thing she wants to go through is being in his position. She's pretty sure it would be almost as bad as being the one whose head is being dunked into ice water.
Another shudder runs down her spine at even the simple thought of standing in the precinct with no idea where her fiancé is, or if he's even still breathing. That would be torture.
She doesn't bother with the reassuring smile that time. She simply lets him lead her down the hall, to their bedroom. Really, there's nowhere else she'd rather be right now than wrapped in his warm, safe, strong arms. So she forces her feet to move, placing one foot in front of the other in small, careful steps.
She did the same back in those woods. Well, she tried to, at least. Her small careful steps had been interrupted by Harden's shoves against her weak body. She had stumbled, she had fallen, she had rolled down the hill and she had walked until she was left kneeling in front of him, begging for her life like she never had before. She remembers the way her chest had burned, her body shook with the chills that ran through her. The water had left her freezing cold and wet and kneeling on the forest ground with the cool wind blowing against...she hadn't been that cold since that time in the freezer. She hadn't been that scared for her life since that day on the roof, and hanging off it.
A chill runs through her as she remembers those two separate occasions, the few moments where she knew she could die, and she knew she wanted to live, and why. She wanted to live for him, for their future, for the wedding, the family they may have one day. And, as she told him, that was the only thing that had kept her going when she wanted to give up, when she let her eyes roll back into her head and she, for a split second, wondered if maybe death was better. And then an image of him watching as she walked down the aisle had popped into her mind, and even though she fell onto the floor, onto her side and choked on the air she was trying to breathe in, she had known she had to live.
Her hand clenches around his as he lets her step under their bedroom's threshold in front of him. His free hand moves to her lower back as he gently, carefully, lovingly leads her into the room they share. She almost sighs in relief at the sight of the warm, comfy bed, the duvet and the sheets looking so welcoming a few feet from where she stands. She's still week, still tired, and she wants to curl up against him and let his touch wipe away the pain of the day, his words turn her mind off the past and onto the future. Its all she wants. Its everything she needs, right now.
She remembers yearning for him, for his warmth, for his comfort as her head got dunked into the icy water for the first time. She remembers the way she had fought against the hand in her hair, holding her down in the cold that was already causing her pain. She remembers the way her muscles clenched and tried to create some kind of heat, as she shivered within the coolness that surrounded her. She remembers her relief when he pulled her out of it, the gasp of air that she had breathed in as soon as she could, the weakness she could already feel consuming her, the knowledge that it could go on until she was lifeless, laying in a tub of cold water to one day be found, or never be found. She still doesn't know how she found the energy to spit the spiteful words she had thrown Simmons' way. That man would forever enrage her like very few people could.
She remembers the second dunk and the third and the fourth until she was too weak to fight underneath the hand that held her down. She remembers trying to keep faith, to be hopeful that some miracle would come her way and she would live. Fear had run through her, making her heart beat as fast as it could under the strain of hypothermia and the water she had breathed in. She had felt all sense of life escape her, only the faint beating of her heart remaining, the images of a potential future with her man the only thing keeping her going, keeping her broken and healed heart beating just enough to let her live, keeping her frozen heart just warm enough.
Its the squeeze of his hand that snaps her from her thoughts. She jumps in surprise and instantly feels the sting run through her muscles, the ache pulse within every single part of her being. She whimpers slightly. His eyes are on her, she can feel the worried gaze of her fiancé, can feel the fear radiating off him in waves. She's pretty sure she's never seen him so scared for her, the last time being...probably when she got shot, over two years ago.
She pushes back all memories of that horrible period, from Montgomery's death to the day she went back to precinct, the horrible year of her life extending to the day where she was thrown off the roof, nearly fell to her death and realized what she wanted, what she needed, as she believed she was counting down the final seconds of her life. The last thing she needs right now is those images mixing with the ones from earlier today.
She closes her eyes, forces those images to go back to the dark corners of her mind where they came from, and takes a deep breath, a futile attempt to clear her head. His hand squeezes hers gently, and she draws what strength from it she can. She needs him. And he's giving her exactly what she needs.
She lets her eyes flutter open again. She watches as he pulled back the sheets and duvet that were neatly settled over her side of the bed. Her pillow looks fluffy and cozy and warm and she aches to lay down on it. It looks so much more comfortable than the floor of that basement had been. With his hand on her back, he helps her crawl into bed, watches as she settles in. She can still feel his gaze on her as she closes her eyes and breathes in the scent of the room, the scent of home, the faint scent of his that lingers of her pillow from the few times they've shared hers rather than his. She marvels in it, thanking every single other-worldly being that he believes in for the chance to lay here at least one last time. Earlier, she doubted she ever would see him again, be home again, lay next to him in their bed again, make love to him again.
The last one on that list would not be happening tonight, though, and they both know it. She's way to drained, way too weak. Her mind is running wild with horrible memories and thoughts of Bracken and what might happen next time they end up in some kind of fight or life or death situation.
No, making love is not going to happen tonight, she realizes. But maybe tomorrow he'll the chance to show her how alive she still is, how much he loves her, and to make her feel like he'll never let her go. Part of her doubts he ever will.
As if on cue, his fingers release hers. Her eyes snap open at the sudden lack of his touch. She needs to feel him again. She needs to know that she's safe, with him. He always makes her feel safe, safer than anyone ever has. She searches the room for him, almost tries to sit up before she feels the dip in the mattress next to her. The worry that had swelled up within her dissipates immediately, fades completely as his hand moves to take hers that's laying between them. She closes her eyes and lets her head fall back against her pillow.
Part of her wants to get mad at him, to tell him to never do that to her again. But she knows that sounds pathetic. All he really did was let go of her hand so he could lay down next to her, like she wanted. Still, her heart beat was still slowing from that short moment where panic had once again taken over her. Hadn't she had enough of that today?
His thumb runs over hers, calms her until her heartbeat slows and she opens her eyes again. The room is dark. Its already late and they never bothered to turn on the lights. Its relatively quiet, too. The sounds of traffic on the streets below muffled by the time they make it to her ears, her clouded mind barely processing them. Really, all she can do, all she wants to do, is feel. She needs to feel him. She needs to feel safe and at home. She needs to feel warm and loved. And that's exactly what he's making her feel.
With a sigh, one that holds the slightest hint of contentment, a sprinkle of love and a bucket-full of relief, she rolls onto her side. He's looking at her, his eyes glossed over with unshed tears. She can only imagine how hard this is on him, remembers the near death experiences she's seen him through, saved him from, the most recent being when he almost got shot in the chest a few months ago. She remembers how worried she had been about him walking into a hostage situation. She remembers how scared she was when she heard the shot, and when she walked in to see him lifeless on the ground.
He had woken up mere seconds after she saw him. She had known where he was the whole time. They were listening in on pretty much everything. She knew what was happening, back then.
He hadn't known. He had been stuck at the precinct waiting, hoping, praying that she was still alive out there. He didn't know what was going on. He didn't know where she was, who she was with, what she was doing. He hadn't even known she was alive until she called them and told them where she was and that she needed them to come get her.
She'll never forget the amount of fear that had been replaced with pure and utter love and relief the moment he saw her.
He smiles at her almost sheepishly, the upturn of his lips countering the wetness that remained in the corner of his eyes. She smiles back. His hand releases hers again, but the time she doesn't panic. He opens his arm to her, setting it on the bed between them, waiting for her to crawl into the safety and warmth of his embrace. She does, weakly shifting and letting her head fall onto his chest. His arm instantly wraps around her, hand finding her waist, holding her against him. She nuzzles against him, into the fabric of his shirt, against his chest. She breathes in his scent, trying to burn the mixture that is purely Rick into her mind, hoping she'll never have to wonder if she'll die without it again.
She knows its a pointless wish. Its her job to walk into dangerous situations. Everytime she arrests someone, she's standing in the personal space of a violent, crazy person that could hurt her. Everytime she kicks open a door with the heel of her stilettos, she's risking being shot be whoever's on the other side. Fact of the matter is, she will be in a life or death situation again. She will, one day, be barely holding onto her life by a thread and longing for him to be there for her, with her, to hold her when she dies.
"I wrote you a letter" she tells him. It escapes suddenly, words flying from her mouth before she could really think it through. A blush rises to her cheeks, she feels the heat of it, the blood rushing up her neck, to her face and the tips of her ears. She buries her face in his chest, taking in his scent again as she tries to hide her blush from him. She really hadn't wanted to tell him that way. Really, she still isn't sure she had even wanted to tell him about the letter.
The letter was a goodbye, her last words to him before she died.
But she isn't dead.
She's alive and in his arms. Her heart is beating wildly, so fast in comparison to how weak it had been earlier that day. The blood is still rushing to her face, her cheeks burning. She's alive. She feels his arm tighten around her. She feels his lips press to her head. She feels his chest rise and fall with every breath. She hears his heartbeat. She's alive. She's very much alive. She feels his love. And she feels her love for him.
She blames that thought for the sentence that escapes her next, once again tumbling from between her lips without her permission.
"It was...a goodbye letter" she tells him. This time, his arms tighten around her a lot, pulling her hard against him. It stings a little, but she doesn't try to pull away. She can feel his breathing growing less steady under her head, can tell that tears are welling in his eyes. She knows him well now, can tell how he's feeling, the look on his face, whether or not he's looking at her without even looking at him. She's accustomed to his body, the small things that tell her every she needs to know. And now is no different. She feel his hand tighten around her waist, feels his fingers dig into her skin. She understands what he's doing. The idea of saying goodbye to him, of reading a letter from him saying goodbye to her, forever, would have her clawing at him, desperate for his touch like never before.
So she lets him hold her tight, lets him take what he needs. Lets him hold her in the silence of their bedroom, his slightly shallow breathing the only thing to be heard.
"What did it say?" he asks her after a long moment of silence. She can hear the slight shakiness in his voice, can hear his heart pounding in his chest, can tell that he's crying. She tightens her grip on his in return, pulling herself tighter against him, gripping at the sinewy flesh of his side, noting only then that her hand had slipped underneath his shirt at some point. She presses a kiss to his chest through his shirt, a kick peck, and then looks up at him. She meets his watery gaze, can feel the tears pricking at her own eyes when she sees the tears in his, the few that have fallen down his cheeks.
"That I hoped you'd never have to read it" she starts, moving her hand even further under his shirt, caressing the skin of his side and abs, feeling him. His own hand sneaks underneath the blanket that's draped over her and under the shirt, his shirt, that she's wearing. His hand caresses her skin the way hers caresses his, gentle and comforting. His nod is slow, tentative, understanding. "But that I needed you...to know that you are the best thing that's ever happened to me. And that I love you, with all my heart" she continues, telling him the important points of the letter she had taped in the air vent. That's all she had wanted him to know. That's all she wants him to know, needs him to know. She might not be dead, but the words she wrote still apply, and he should still know how much she loves him, how happy he makes her.
She remembers that time, months ago, when she was standing on a bomb in their suspect's apartment. She remembers telling his there were no regrets, that she thought they had a great run. She told him she loved him for the first time that day, wanting him to know how strongly she felt for him before she was blown to bits. But the blow had never come. He had saved her, had defused the bomb. Even now, parts of her want to believe she would of been able to figure it out herself, but the vast majority of her being knows that he saved her life that day. And she had been able to show him how much she loved him. She had been prepared to die that day, because she knew he knew how she felt.
Earlier today, she had almost given up because she had known that he would know, as soon as they searched the mansion, how she felt about him, how much she loved him.
That she had almost died, and still all she could think about was him.
"Always" she whispers softly, half finishing the content of the letter, half thinking about the fact that every single time she was on the verge of death from here on out, she'd be thinking of him and only him.
His grip on her tightens again at the use of the word, their word. She focused on his eyes again, hoping to tell him how much she loves him with only her eyes. She wants him to know that she's never loved anyone as much as she loves him, that there will never be someone else. She wants him to know that he's her always, her one and done, her forever.
When she was laying there believing that the concrete she was laying on would be the last thing she ever felt, the basement she was in the last this she ever saw and the taunting voice of Vulcan Simmons the last thing she ever heard, he was the only thing on her mind. Her biggest regret was never being able to call him her husband, to kiss him goodbye, to feel his arms wrapped around her as her life left her body. It surprises even her that it had nothing to do with Bracken, getting justice for her mother. The girl she was years ago would of been thinking of that, not of the wedding she's never get to have.
She wants him to know how much he helped her, how much he still helps her. She needs him to know that he saved her life in so many more ways than defusing bombs or punching shooters.
His hand is still caressing her skin under her shirt, his palm warm against her flesh that had been frozen earlier that day. Tears are drying on his cheeks, his mouth open as if he wants to talk, but no words are coming out. She doesn't need him to talk. She just needs him to know. She needs him to hold her and keep her safe and warm. She needs him to love her.
And she knows he'll do all that. He already does, every single day. He always will, every single day.
"I love you" she tells him softly, tearing her eyes from his and resting her head back against his chest. The steady tattoo of his heart still beating beneath her ear. His hand stills for a moment and she feels his eyes on her. She doesn't bother to look up. She's used to him watching her, when she's sleeping, when she's laying in his arms, when she's doing paperwork, when she's standing at the murder board. She can feel the love in his eyes, feel it radiating off him in warm, comforting waves.
"I love you, too" he whispers to her, his hand resuming its movements against her side. She smiles and nuzzles into him, tightening her grip on him once again, pulling herself so she's laying half on top of him, half on the bed. She's warm, and safe, and loved, and that's all she needs right now. And she's getting it, all thanks to him. This is where she wants to be, always. She loves him with all her heart, always. He's the best thing that's ever happened to her.
His warmth stays with her until her eyes slip closed, her being falling into a state of oblivion. He keeps her warm, the memories of a freezing cold day fading away as the warmth of her fiancé replaces them.