AN: Happy belated Rollaro day! I tried to get this up just in time, but I'm a little late but hopefully, y'all can forgive me after reading this story. This was originally going to be part of my Good Cop, Bad Cop one-shot series based on an anon prompt: the first time they hooked up. Not much to go on, really. And I almost was tempted to redirect anon to Chapters 8-9 of Tres Amores because that's how I imagined it to go in my headcanon. But I decided to write it anyway, and it kind of took a life of it's own.
I just want to throw a shout-out to leavesandkings and oucellogal, who've written Rollaro fics in a similar style, where they show several scenes where X did/didn't happen and then one scene where it did/didn't. So I just want to give them credit for the idea. But all this... 10,000+ words is mine, and I want to share it with the lovely people who support and celebrate Rollaro.
The First Time
Amanda
Stop it, Amanda.
If only it were possible not to look like a lunatic slapping the side of my head, I would be doing it now. I'd do just about anything to get these wickedly pornographic thoughts out of my brain. It's only been a few hours since my partner left the precinct with the new guy. Well, he's new to the squad; but he's definitely not green. Being a second grade detective is impressive, but it isn't the only thing impressing me.
Cool it, Amanda.
I bite down on my lip as my eyes scan the text on the reports. All I see are black squiggles that might as well be hieroglyphics. But then instead of stacks of paperwork, I'm picturing the new guy with his scruffy beard, those dreamy dimples, and chocolate brown eyes fringed by thick, dark lashes. Oh god. Was this a sign from the universe? A cruel joke by the NYPD? Why did they have to send this sex god to this particular squad? I'm still settling into this new environment, and now I have to deal with this sex detective… I mean, sex crimes detective.
It's bad enough the reason I left Atlanta was to get away from the rumors of inappropriate office involvements, which, by the way, was just that – rumors. But now, I have to work with this new guy who has me questioning my unyielding rule not to ever get involved with a man with a badge. This is going to be hard.
And I bet his body is really hard under that black t-shirt.
For Christ's sake, Amanda, you just met the guy. You barely exchanged two complete sentences and you already want to jump his bones and bang his brains out.
My head snaps up as I get an earful of my partner's discernible voice. I really like Fin. Sure, beats my old deadbeat partner in Atlanta. I have a feeling my partnership with Fin is going to extend to a friendship outside of work; and he also seems like the kind of no-nonsense guy that's going to keep me from doing something stupid like getting involved with the new guy. Speaking of new guy, my partner returns to the squad room with him in tow.
When Captain Cragen told him to clean up, I felt a tinge of disappointment having to say goodbye to the sexy Serpico look. Now, I don't know if Benson was trying to be snarky with that comment, but I thought it was actually a compliment. I lean back against my chair to get a better look at the him. He's shaved off the beard and trimmed his jet-black hair. I expect him to look hotter with the beard as it's usually the case with most men I've encountered; but, no, the new guy is even sexier without it. And it's crazy because I always thought I had a preference for the rough, unshaven look; not these clean-cut, pretty boy types. But damn.
You're staring, Amanda. Quit staring.
He catches me laying eyes on him and he gives me a shy, lopsided smile. Boyish and charming, and so not my type; but that smile sends a shiver through my spine. Just the idea of sharing those wicked, pornographic thoughts with pretty boy is making me really hot. The room feels balmy and my cheeks are flushed. I cross my legs as a silent prayer to stop my body's betrayal.
New-guy-sex-god-pretty-boy is talking but I can't process a word he's saying. I pick up on something I missed earlier when Captain introduced him. There's a distinct accent of a born and bred New Yorker, without being too brash. He slips some Spanish in between words and my legs feel like Jell-O.
Dios mio, Amanda.
I quickly realize that I must look like I'm lost in my own world and inattentive to the new developments in our case. Averting my attention to the rest of the squad, I inwardly sigh, as everyone seems to be absorbed in what pretty boy is saying. What's this case about again? Oh yeah, Stevie Harris who was sexually abused by his basketball coach when he was playing for the Baby Barons. Pretty boy makes a dribbling motion with an invisible basketball, and something shiny flashes across my eyes.
A glint of silver catches the light.
Did I not see it before? Was he not wearing it when he came in? I shook his hand, didn't I?
No, you, idiot. You shook his right hand.
I blink and narrow my eyes to study his left hand and sure enough, he's married.
Amanda
The last place I expect Amaro to take refuge is at Duffy's, a bar in Kips Bay that's both seedy yet intimate. So, of course, he's here when I walk in. I look around the dimly lit bar and pray to god that my bookie hasn't arrived. Pulling out my phone, I send a quick text telling him we should meet somewhere else. Somewhere where my sad-looking co-worker won't get wind of the fact that I'm a messed up girl with a gambling problem.
I turn towards the door and push it open. The bell chimes.
"Rollins?"
Stopping in my tracks, I steel myself before I turn around to see Amaro's curious, glassy eyes studying me. He seems just as surprised to see me. I give him a tight-lipped smile as I walk towards him. He pats the leather seat of the barstool next to him and knocks on the faux-granite counter of the bar.
"What do you drink?"
"I can't…" I trail off. I only meant to say 'hello' and depart to meet with the guy, who's essentially pocketing my paltry salary. "I need to get going.
He furrows those perfectly shaped brows – almost too perfect for a straight man, but they're always like that so I have to assume Amaro's been blessed by the eyebrow gods. As a natural blonde, I can't help but feel a little resentful.
"But you just got here," he almost whines, and that's when I realize Amaro's drunk. I suppose I could stay for a drink just to see what my stick-up-the-ass co-worker is like when he's wasted.
The bartender approaches us and I ask for what he's having, because whatever he's having looks like it's working. It was only a few hours ago when his wife stormed into the squad room and shoved his paperwork on the floor. We all stood around awkwardly, listening to them yelling but pretending not to listen (because we're "professionals"). When Amaro came out of the cribs he was visibly rattled, but like the rest of us, he tried to assert that predictable professionalism.
But now, seeing him at Duffys, I can see that professionalism has dissipated somewhere between his fourth or fifth glass. Amaro has a rueful smile on his face as lifts the glass to his lips. The amber liquid empties out and he slams the glass down on the counter – a wordless indication to the bar staff that it's time for another goddamn refill. I chase my drink down and feel the scotch burn against my throat.
"You kicked out of your place, too?" he chuckles darkly, tilting his head to the side to study my face.
"Nah, just don't wanna be home," I rest my elbows on the bar and turn to smile at him. "Not enough excitement."
"Oh," he knocks another one down like it's a shot. "So this is your idea of excitement?"
I knock mine down, too. I've never been one to let a boy win against me; and it's not like we're competing against each other like college kids during rush week. But let's be real, my relationship with Amaro is something akin to a friendly rivalry. Ok, sometimes it isn't so friendly; but only because he's got a tendency to be a pain in the ass. It's hard to hate him though, especially when he comes into work looking like a sad, adorable puppy.
"I've got five," he announces, holding up his hands and raising six then eight fingers, "maybe seven drinks ahead of you. So you got some catchin' up to do, Rollins."
I giggle at his pathetic attempt at kindergarten-level math. He's bopping his head to the music – some cheesy song from the 1980s. I'm definitely not regretting sticking around to see this side of Amaro. His mouth twitches up into a sheepish smile as he realizes I've just caught him. He presses his lips together. A pink tongue pokes out and licks the perimeter. Biting on my lip, I realize I'm staring and mirroring his moves.
The bartender sets the bottle of scotch down on the counter and raises his brow. Nick snaps out of our shared gaze and nods toward the bartender. He raises his palms in surrender. "Fine, put the damn thing on my tab," he slurs, rolling his eyes.
He leans toward me and his mouth is so close to my ear; I can feel his breath against my skin. I feel that current of electricity shoot from the top of my spine down to the tips of my toes. My face remains unchanged and I try my best to play it cool, because this is Amaro. And he might be a cute guy in a bar and I might be wondering what it would be like to taste the remnants of alcohol on his lips, but this is Amaro.
And Amaro is off-limits.
He does a fine job of reminding me, too.
Throwing his wallet down, he pulls out a credit card and hands it over to the bartender. His face inches closer. "Joint account… wait 'til M sees the bill."
M…? Oh, right. Maria.
The wife.
Nick
Harsh fluorescent lights line the deserted halls of IAB headquarters. We step out of the confines of Tucker's office. His eyes are still studying Rollins, still speculating whether that recording on my phone is legitimate, still doubting her innocence juxtaposed against her littler sister's sins. If Tucker weren't the man responsible for disciplining guys like me who stepped out of line when I was on duty, I would have punched that son of a bitch.
We walk down the echo chamber and all I hear are footsteps and stifled sobs. I'd never seen her break down like that, and it's then that I realize that Amanda's worst fears are confirmed. Kim really did play her. Her sweet-talking, doe-eyed baby sister lied about her pregnancy, cried rape, and set her up to shoot and kill Jeff Parker.
And for what? For a couple large checks from an insurance company?
Kim told me money wasn't always easy to come by growing up. When she walked in the squad room, looking for Amanda, I offered to get her lunch while she waited for her sister. Kim looked thin and she looked like she was jonesing – something I'd seen too often during my days in Narcotics. So, we ended up getting Chinese take-out. And within the first couple minutes talking to her, I realized that Kim's more of an open book than her older sister.
There were stories about their childhood. Most of it was funny and had Kim pining for those simpler days, but there was a suggestion that it hadn't always been a bed of roses. Kim recounted the story of Amanda shooting one of her mom's many boyfriends with a squirrel gun; after she found out he was stepping out on her. Kim waxed nostalgic about that time their father snuck them into the horse races. He told them they couldn't be seen, so the two girls hid in the stables and played with the horses. Kim giggled at the memory of Amanda running away at sixteen after a particularly heated argument with their mother. When I asked her why she thought that particular story was amusing, Kim told me that Amanda ran 40 miles outside of town before she dragged her ass back home because she had nowhere else to go.
I still can't figure out why it was so damn funny.
"Captain Cragen," we turn around to see Tucker's head stick out of his office. "I need a word." Captain nods in our direction, and tells us he'll meet us at the lobby before he retreats back into the room.
I'm walking silently with Amanda, trying my best not to say something that could hurt her. Looking at her now, she looks so fragile – nothing like the headstrong, tough, ambitious detective I've known for a little over a year now. She's always played up this tenacious exterior, but I see she's hiding behind walls, concealing the kind of pain that hurts the most. It's the betrayal of one's own flesh and blood; and it's the kind of pain I know all too well.
My index finger presses the cool metal button. The down arrow lights up. Amanda composes herself; she wipes her tears with the back of her hand and her breaths release at a calm, steady rate. The elevator doors slide open and we both step in. Still, no words are exchanged between us and I think – I hope - she's grateful for my silence.
When the doors close, I hear a whimper. In the confined space that's even more of an echo chamber than the hallway we came from, the sound strains in my ears. Tears spill from her eyes. I have a haunting sense I know what's just happened. She tried to keep it under control upstairs in front of Cragen and Tucker, but in this enclosed box, she finally lets go. Her body is rocked in sobs that are fierce and violent. It's like she forgets I'm even here, and she allows herself to let go completely.
Her torso leans sideways and she rests her hand on the railing to keep herself from falling to the floor. My body is frozen only for a second, and I don't even give myself the time to think about the implications of what I'm about to do or the fact that we're in IAB territory and I'm about to do something that is sure to raise a lot of red flags.
I pull Amanda towards me and wrap her in my arms. She resists but my embrace encircles around her waist and tightens around her heaving back. Her fists ball up against my chest. Finally, she relaxes. Amanda releases all that trapped pain and betrayal as muffled cries into the lapel of my jacket.
The elevator jerks to a stop. Amanda peels herself from my grasp and my arms fall to my sides. She's standing in front of me but there's a cold distance in her demeanor. She's still afraid to meet my eyes. All this time, she can't even look at me, like she's ashamed that she was deceived. I want to tell her it isn't her fault. That I know what it's like when you so badly want to trust family and believe them when they say they've changed, that they want to make up for their mistakes, that they want to prove to you that their love for you is stronger than the demons that overcome them.
But my words are tangled and trapped behind my lips. And that's when I notice her own lips quivering, parting slightly like she wants to say something, too. Her eyes drift up to mine and I survey the expanse of sadness arising from the blue depths. Amidst all that sadness, there's a flicker of gratitude. Her lips turn up to a rueful smile and a tear falls on the corner of her mouth. I resist the urge to wipe it away with my thumb… or a kiss.
And as the doors open and she steps out, my head returns and takes over my heart.
Nick
Amanda's shot. Straight through the shoulder, clear blow through skin and deltoid muscle. Doctors say she'll recover to a hundred percent as long as she goes to therapy.
There's a psychotic serial killer on the loose, shooting people who have ties to Fin. She's his partner. It should be him flipping out right now. It should be him stressing out about Rollins getting shot. But I can't question how he's dealing with this, because I know he's just as traumatized; he's just a lot better at masking it.
I work with her, so it's normal to be concerned. We argue a lot, but it doesn't change the fact that I'll always have her back. So, yeah, I can justify this… I can rationalize why I'm doing what I'm doing right now…
But there was that one time, after the Kim fiasco, when I held Amanda in my arms. There was that brief moment when I wanted to kiss her.
Step on the brakes, Nick.
I remind myself that I might be separated from my wife, but legally speaking, I'm still a married man. So, morally speaking, these notions cropping up in my brain should be obliterated immediately.
Yet, I find myself at the hospital long after visiting hours.
We were all here earlier, standing over Amanda's bed. She was under a heavy dose of morphine, laughing cryptically but telling Fin to get the son of a bitch who shot her. As I stood by her bed, I felt like there were a hundred different things I wanted to tell her but I couldn't for multiple different reasons; her being doped up notwithstanding. So, I made a silent promise, like Fin, to catch the son of a bitch who shot her because I couldn't go through that kind of mental and emotional trauma again.
Sneaking into the hospital isn't that hard. All I have to do is pretend I'm family or an expecting father. If a nurse asks, I tell her I just need to stretch my legs. They look at me doubtfully. I disarm them with a smile, and they let me through.
Amanda's at the trauma recovery unit of the hospital. 1-PP is scrounging every last dollar, so they won't even spring a private room for her. I can't complain though, because it works in my favor, as it's easier to locate her. I pull the curtain open and she's in bed. I'm expecting her to be asleep because it's well past midnight but she's wide-awake. Her mouth is twisted in a troubled frown, but when she sees me, her smile sweeps across her face. My chest tightens, heart lurching against barriers that are supposed to contain it.
"It's you!" She cries out
I press a finger to my lips and my eyes dart back out, through the curtain, to see if she's woken up the entire trauma wing. Turning around, I approach her and observe that infectious smile and the bubble of drowsy, dopey delight she's in. I chuckle, realizing she's still under some heavy painkillers. Maybe a new dose to help her get through the night, but Amanda manages to be restless while still lethargic. I won't be surprised if she tricked the nurses into giving her caffeine instead of antibiotics in the IV fluid.
We talk for a while. It's mostly her rambling on about inane but entertaining topics like reality television. I nod my head, trying to process all this new information. She tries to explain this show called American Diva, which I've seen Zara watch on occasion. She tells me they go from city-to-city auditions, elimination rounds, and a live show in LA. A blush creeps up on her cheeks and she reveals she's a frustrated singer. I tease her into singing a tune, but she wryly informs me there's not enough drugs in the world to get her to sing for me.
I contend that she's never been to the Narcotics division's evidence vault.
When I ask about her shoulder, there's a flare of panic in her eyes. She's forgotten that she was shot; and I feel like a dumbass for bringing it up.
"Hold my hand," she says, the initial shock and panic waning off only to be replaced by a need for comfort. "I'm afraid the bullet hit a nerve or a major blood vessel or something and I'm gonna stop feeling anything."
I take her hand in mine. It's clammy and it feels small against my closed fist. With my free hand, I scratch the back of my head and look at her like she's nuts. I guess, in her dazed state, she kind of is. But I squeeze her hand anyway to assure her that everything's fine.
"I don't want them to cut my arm off."
"No one's cutting your arm off."
She tries to read the expression on my face like she doesn't believe me. "You promise?"
"I promise," I squeeze her hand again and she smiles softly, her eyes crinkling at the corners. My heart lurches against my chest. The rational side of my brain is doing everything in its capacity to keep me from leaning down and kissing the daylights out of her. Not only would that be incredibly ludicrous; it would also be insanely inappropriate, especially for an SVU detective, to make a move on a woman in a drug-induced daze.
No matter how pretty she looks when she's smiling at me.
Amanda
Duffy's would always be our place. It's not the kind of post-work hangout spot people frequent on Thursday wing nights or closed case Fridays (at least on the rare occasion that we can enjoy a weekend). I'm not even sure if they serve food in this joint, because the only reason Amaro and I are here is for those top shelf bottles of liquid amnesia.
If meteors were falling from the sky or if the earth were caving in and crumbling beneath our feet, Amaro and I would be sharing one last drink at Duffy's. If some son of a bitch named William Lewis kidnapped and tortured Olivia Benson, the squad would track him down, and rescue Liv; then Amaro and I would be at Duffy's. This bar is where idealistic thoughts and happy, hopeful memories go to die. This bar is where Amaro and I have a steady reserve of bottles for nights like these.
It's been three weeks since we arrested Lewis and got Benson back. She's on a leave of absence, which I'm secretly relieved about because I wouldn't know what to say or do if she were around the squad room. I'm not the kind of person who likes to treat victims like they're, well, victims. And I'm just afraid I'll say something too fast, too soon and I'll end up distressing her. So if ever Liv does come back – no, when she does come back – my plan is to overcompensate with the nurturing. Because my overcompensation is probably what most people would consider normal.
It's been three weeks and three days since Amaro's walked around with this colossal storm cloud over his head. I can't blame him though. I know I'm the worst at dealing with his 'woe is me' approach to life, but I think this time it's justified. His partner was kidnapped and tortured for three days and he couldn't do a damn thing about it. He couldn't save her; and that's all Nick's ever wanted to do – save people, like it's embedded in his DNA.
But he thinks he could have done something different. And I can see his mind turning, playing every possible scenario, recounting each step, and always coming to the same conclusion. He failed her. He wasn't there to protect his partner.
I know that shit's eating him alive.
But what Amaro doesn't know, as I'm sitting across from him in this tiny booth, is that I could have done something differently, too. I was the one at the park. I was the one who heard the outcry of the two tourists. I was the one who commanded Frannie to chase after Lewis. I brought him in and called in the rest of the squad on a Sunday, all because I got a bad feeling out of him. I might as well have introduced them to each other, "Olivia Benson, this is William Lewis. He's going to fuck up your life in a few days so better keep an eye out, ok?"
I chuckle darkly and Nick's sad, brown eyes drift up to meet mine. He cocks his head to the side, but I dismiss him with a pathetic wave of the hand.
So, here we are at Duffy's. The music is crooning a melancholic guitar solo but the buzzing crowd drowns it out. People are laughing and exchanging high fives because the Knicks just scored – not that it matters; it's not like they have a fighting chance of making it to the playoffs. The dark shadows under Amaro's eyes tell me that he hasn't been sleeping much at all. I'm thankful for the makeup industry investing in the science behind a good heavy-duty concealer. So what if this flesh-colored paint cost me $40? It hides my sleepless nights.
It hides how much this shit is eating me alive, too.
You know what would be a really good cure for insomnia? Sex.
I'm one of those people who can really drift off after sex. When the guy's really good at it, I might be able to squeeze another round or two before I pass out from exhaustion. But regardless of the man's skills in bed, any kind of sex can just drain all the energy out of me in the most blissful way and send me off to the most tranquil slumber. I crave that. The sleep. The sex.
I glance up at look at Amaro. His right hand is drumming the table to the music and his left hand is propped up to carry the weight of his head. That's when I realize that the silver band on his left ring finger is missing. My brows crease but he's too spaced out, and probably too intoxicated, to notice the questions swimming in my eyes. I decide tonight's not the night to talk about his ex-wife. Tonight's about Benson. Tonight's about our silent, but shared wallowing and regret about what happened to her. Because this is just how we cope. Fin and Munch are better at keeping their crap under wraps; they've been working much longer than we have so they're probably veterans at coping. And Captain Cragen, well, it's not like we can invite him out to split the bill.
It's just the two of us wordlessly coping in the only way we know how. I mean, there's another way of coping I'm familiar with, but asking Amaro to do that with me is reckless. Besides, he's still a pain in the ass, even when he's just sitting across from me with that stupidly adorable, kicked down puppy face. I still remember all the little things he does at the squad room that annoy me. But here at Duffy's, he's my rock. And like a sea otter, I just want to take that rock, store it in a safe place, and keep it to myself.
God, Amanda, you are so fucking drunk.
Our glasses have been empty since we moved from the bar to the booth. There's a bottle of Glenfiddich between us, and Amaro lifts it up his lips to take a generous swig. His eyes close tight and they open to stare back at mine. Then I see his mind turning again and he's back to spacing out and drowning in a pool of his own guilt and misery. We've forsaken the glasses, and I'm not exactly sure why. Maybe drinking out of appropriate receptacles fails to adequately convey just how bad we're beating ourselves up over this.
He sets the bottle down and I reach for it; our hands touch for a second. But it's one second long enough to stimulate my nerves and send my heart beating into frenzy. I lift the bottle to my lips and I can taste the oak and malt of the scotch and something cool and fresh, like that winter mint gum he keeps in his desk drawer, glove box, and coat pocket. I swallow the amber liquid and lick my lips, lingering on all the flavors of Nick Amaro.
It's almost like I'm kissing him.
Nick
"Take Rollins with you," Captain Cragen orders. There's a trace of concern on his face when he mentions the name of my co-worker. My occasional friend. "And make sure she's ok."
I walk towards her. She still has that cropped blonde wig and she's drowning in an oversized NYPD jacket. It's a brisk October evening; her long legs are bare and she rubs her palms on top of her thighs to warm them up. I tell her Cragen's orders and she doesn't say a word, but she rises from the bench and follows me to the car.
The ride back to the precinct is quiet. We don't really talk much anyway; at least not when there's a bottle between us. But tonight, it's an eerie kind of quiet and she has that distant look in her eyes. My mind drifts back to the look of concern on Cragen's face. It makes me wonder if this short undercover stint – Amanda playing a drunk and disorderly girl outside a club – was really the best idea. Well, they got Officers West and Quinn in cuffs; so in that respect, the plan worked. But was it really the best idea for her? For Amanda?
I cast a sideways glance to the passenger seat. She's staring out the window, sinking into the chair, and losing her neck and chin under the collar of the jacket. There's something troubling her, but I know better than to ask her now. So, I go for an alternative route and maybe, just maybe, she'll consider it.
"So… Duffy's tonight?"
Her head turns to me and she gives me a blank look. I don't know what I'm supposed to make of that. I almost prefer if she flat-out said 'no' so I wouldn't be holding onto that shred of hope that maybe, tonight, she'd share our bottle and whatever the hell it is that's got her so spooked. When she turns back to the window and stares out at the lights that whiz right past us, a furtive smile plays on my lips.
Rollins-Amaro.
That's the name we use to reserve our bottles at Duffy's. It's like we're a married couple or something. I can't remember what brand we have reserved at the moment, but I know whatever it is, it's going to cover up whatever wounds have been reopened tonight. So, I hope that Amanda takes me up on that offer because, for one thing, I'm curious; but mostly, I just hate seeing her like this.
No words are spoken during the drive and the lift to the squad room floor. I study her as she shrugs out of the jacket and hangs it behind her chair. My breath hitches in my throat as I see her standing in the middle of the room in her tight black dress and stilettos. She's a vision, and apparently I'm not the only one who thinks so because the other men in the room stop what they're doing and gawk. My first instinct is to tell them to piss off, but I realize that I'm just as a Neanderthal as they are.
She lowers her head, but I catch a millisecond glimpse of a sheen of tears threatening to escape her eyes.
Benson and I listened to the wire Rollins wore. Cassidy was only pretending to touch her, and West never even got a chance to put his slimy hands on her.
She wasn't hurt, was she?
But she's distraught. I feel that gnawing in my gut, begging me to listen to my intuition, pleading for me to open my goddamn eyes and take a closer look because there's something she's not telling me. There's more to this UC operation and it's dredging up something in Amanda's past that she's worked so hard to repress.
Something's wrong.
It's confirmed when she swipes her cheek with the back of her hand. She rushes to the hallway leading to the cribs until she's out of sight. I stand frozen like a statue unable to think of what to do next. I hear Cragen's words reverberating in my ear, "make sure she's ok."
My steps are firm and determined as I walk towards the bunks, but when I get to the door, I hear the sobbing. She's crying. My heart shatters into a million little pieces as I release a heavy breath. It takes a lot for me to pick up the pieces and find the mental fortitude to be there for Amanda. To be her shoulder. To be her rock, as she once called me after a particularly boozed up night at Duffy's. My grip twists around the knob and I slowly push the door open.
She's standing by one of the bunk beds with her back turned. She's gripping the steel bar and her neck is cowered as she's crying. Everything else I see stops me in my tracks, and I know I'm not welcome. I shouldn't be here.
Amanda's black dress pools at her feet. Her alabaster skin contrasts the black lingerie that covers the small slivers of unexposed skin. My eyes trail the dip of her shoulders, the slender back, the sunken curve of her waist, the womanly bow of her hips, all the way down to a pair of long legs. I swallow hard. And I take an inaudible step back before I close the door.
My pulse accelerates and picks up momentum. Blood pools between my legs and I curse my body for succumbing so easily to such basic desires. I shut my eyes and cross the hall to the men's room. Hastily turning on the faucet, I splash cold water to my face, willing the image of her to be cauterized from my brain forever.
It's bad enough that I have these intermittent thoughts about wanting to kiss her. But after what happened to her tonight – whatever that was that made her fall apart like that – I just… I can't.
I can't do this to her.
Even if it's all just in my head.
Amanda
"I might have something that can help." Nick says, dropping a folder onto the counter. "Taverts' testimony at a military hearing."
Barba's eyes bug out of his skull. "Stop! No, stop talking."
"Ok," Nick furrows his brows. "You all right, counselor?"
"You almost tripped over the garrity rule," Barba replies like that's supposed to make any sense to us lowly detectives. But even Liv's nodding her head, and now I know I've royally screwed up. "Everything in this file is dirty."
The words 'Game Over' and 'Mistrial' are ringing in my ears, taunting me, reminding me that everything I touch turns to shit.
Did King Midas ever have a little sister who was the black sheep of the family? Because that would be me.
It's been a couple minutes since Barba and Benson left the two of us at the bar. Those two aren't happy with Nick and I playing rogue cops and getting those good-for-nothing statements from the military hearing. Barba said it would lead to a mistrial, and all our work, and Amelia Albers' justice would all be for naught.
Nick is sitting on the stool next to mine, and he's nursing a glass of Jack in his hands. He's thrown off the case because he's already taken a peek at the files. Barba mentioned something about a set-up and poison in the well, and my first jealous impulse is to point fingers at the former Mrs. Amaro. But that lasts for all of two seconds before I realize this is my fault. If I hadn't opened my mouth and suggested he talk to his ex about pulling strings in the Pentagon, then we wouldn't be in this mess and Nick would still be on the case.
His brows are creased and his jaw is clenched. I know he's pissed off at me. He tried to play it cool while Benson and Barba were here, but now that they're gone, I can see how he's really feeling. I know he's blaming me.
I'd be blaming me, too.
"Nick," I call out softly, reaching for his arm. He tenses under my touch so I pull back. "I'm really sorry."
He chuckles darkly and swirls the amber liquid in his glass. "Easy for you to say," he mutters under his breath. "You're not the one thrown off the case."
I bite my tongue, knowing not to throw any more kindling to the flame. He's just upset; he'll get over it after tonight. And if not, it'll wash away when this case is over and ensign Albers gets her justice.
I don't know where it comes from but there's this overwhelming need to make things right with him. In the back of my mind, I know we both tripped and fucked up. I planted the idea in his head, but he asked his ex to pull those files. We both deserved those outraged and disgruntled looks from Benson and Barba. We were like two insubordinate children being punished by their parents. And even though I know this isn't all on me and he's acting like such a brat right now, there's still that crushing feeling that I need to fix things with Nick.
And what's scary is that I'm almost willing to do anything to make it better.
And it's a familiar but unsolicited willingness to do whatever it takes to sweep it under the rug. It envelops my body and wrings me out to this pitiful heap of flesh, bruises, and bite marks. My hands shake. I plant them on my knees, hoping he doesn't see me falling slowly into a quiet state of panic – the kind where I feel trapped inside my body unable to scream.
I look sideways just to make sure he doesn't see me. His profile is taut. The dim lights of the bar outline the angles and planes of his face; and although they might be sharp and unyielding, the storm inside me pacifies as I remember this is Nick. He's not… He's not the reason I left Atlanta… Nick would never…
The glass hits the counter in a heavy thud. Nick pushes himself off the stool and turns to look at me. His eyes are cold and his mouth is twisted into a scowl. "See you at work," he says begrudgingly. "Gotta get home to my wife and kid."
I furrow my brows, waiting for him to realize the error in his sentence. I see the faint flicker of recognition as he remembers she isn't his wife anymore. But his eyes flash back to bitterness before he finally steps out of my line of sight.
He never corrects the mistake.
Nick
The bell chimes as I step inside my little nesting hole in Kips Bay.
There's a new girl working behind the bar. She's a tall, tan brunette and her eyes light up when she sees me. I suppose I should be flattered that someone like her, who's 25 at most, is still interested in someone like me; but I can't think about any of that right now. Not when the only woman who's occupied my mind as of late is the same feisty blonde detective who yelled a litany of low blows to my face.
Amanda spoke the truth though, so I can't fault her for that.
I advised her not to go to Lena Olson's trial to hear her thirteenth-stepping boyfriend, Nate Davis, testify. Of course, in pure Rollins form, she refused to listen. Maybe if we were still in the sixth grade, I would've told her 'I told you so'; but all I really wanted to say was 'sorry'.
I shrug out of my jacket and loosen my tie. The brunette smiles at me and asks me what I'm drinking tonight. I decide to go for what's on tap, at least until Rollins gets here. If Rollins gets here. I sent her that text half an hour ago but she still hasn't responded. I stare at my phone as if the longer my eyes burn through the screen, the higher the odds the woman, who hates my guts, will actually come out to meet with me.
"You waiting for someone?" The brunette asks, leaning against the counter, her ample bosom making a casual invitation to ogle. Instead, I focus on her eyes – a deep blue bordered by long, thick lashes. "It's just, you've been starin' at that phone since you got here."
A tight smile graces my face and she smirks back. "Just someone I work with," I reply.
"Oh," she says, resting her elbows on the counter. She licks her full lips, tinted a cherry red. "This someone… male or female?"
"Female," I reply simply, lifting the pint to my lips.
There's a flare of disappointment in her features, but she quickly goes back to that playful, almost flirtatious air about her. It's all for the tips, I remind myself.
"So, this female co-worker of yours…" she trails off. "She all work and no play?"
I chuckle before I take another swig of my drink to buy some time to ponder the question. On paper, it's definitely all work between Rollins and me; but I'd be lying if I said I'd never thought about… play. I'd never actually do anything about it though lest Cragen transfers my ass or IAB kicks my ass to unemployment. Besides, Rollins thinks I can't stand to see anyone happy. She thinks I'm jealous. She thinks I'm addicted to my own misery. Oh, and she says I'm not her father, which I hope to god I'm not, because one of those Maury Povich you-are-the-father bombshells is all a man can take in one lifetime.
A sardonic smile plasters against my face as I think back at just how much Rollins hates me. And yet, I still await her arrival.
"So?"
"It's not like that," I tell the brunette, but her eyes narrow into perceptive and mischievous lines.
"But you've thought about it," she says.
I twist my mouth and furrow my brow. This woman – this bartender – is working the wrong job. She should be a detective. Hell, she should take my job so I don't have to come into work and add to my collection of Rollins-supplied deathly glares and verbal put-downs.
But I'd still like it if she showed up tonight.
The bartender refills my drink and I'm impressed by her ability to limit the amount of foam on the surface. Looks like she'll be sticking around Duffy's longer than the others. Or maybe her talents are better served in greener pastures where black plastic is the preferred payment. "Is she hot?"
The beer bubbles in my throat and I nearly choke.
"So she is hot," she sighs, snapping her fingers. "Damn… so why haven't you hooked up with her yet?"
I bite down on my bottom lip to suppress the stupid grin that wants to spread across my face. "It ain't happening," I shake my head.
"Why not?"
"For starters," I say, chugging the rest of my beer down. "It's ill-advised." The bartender bends down to retrieve two shot glasses and pours tequila. I cock my head to the side and give her the same inquisitive look I've used in interrogations hundreds of times. She flutters her lashes and sweet-talks me to shooting the tequila. We tilt our heads back and slam the glasses down on the counter. "Second," I continue, "she hates me."
The bartender pours another ounce of tequila into each shot glass and lines them up. "Last one, or else my boss is gonna kill me," she says, leaning back to make sure the coast was clear. "You really think she hates you?" she asks before she takes the shot. Her face winces at the taste of devil's piss, but she doesn't even reach for a chaser. She's a pro. "Or you know," she pouts her lips. "It could just be sexual tension."
I down the shot, hoping I didn't just hear what I thought I heard.
I glance over at the door. The stupid bell rings, but it's not her. Sighing, I knock on the counter and the friendly bartender lady refills my beer.
"Ok, let's say this hot female co-worker of yours came in here right now," she starts. "What would you do?"
"Apologize," I mutter, tracing the condensation circles on the faux-granite surface. "Tell her she's right about everything… but I'm sorry she wasn't right about Nate."
"Nate?"
I crinkle my nose feign disgust.
"Ah," she exclaims, "so we don't like this Nate."
I lift my glass. "No, we do not."
"And then?" she asks, surveying my face with her curious blue eyes. They're not the same bright, cerulean blue like Amanda's. And now, I'm picturing her and imagining her walking through that door. I glance down at my phone and there's still no message. I scoff. And sine we're just pretending and the woman who hates me is never actually showing up, I decide to participate in this hypothetical scenario.
God knows where Amanda Rollins is right now.
So, I pretend because, maybe, telling this stranger about it is a lot easier than facing what I'm feeling. And it sure as hell is a lot easier than telling Amanda.
"So, she walks into the bar and you apologize…"
"And then if she forgives me," I say, my eyes zeroing on the door. "I'll kiss her."
Amanda
"You want some more?" I tilt the bottle on the rim of his wine glass.
He turns to me. "No, I'm good."
"Nick, come on," I smirk. "Don't you get tired of being the choir boy?"
"Choir boy?" He raises a perfectly arched eyebrow. My smirk spreads into a full smile as I pour the wine into his glass. "Good."
We're in Benson's apartment to celebrate her sergeant's exam for the umpteenth time. Fin might be complaining, but I'm not. Not when there's a free dinner and lots of vino to go around. I cast a sideways glance at Nick, who looks really good in his light blue shirt. He also smells really good, like clean soap, a faint earthy musk, and a hint of spice.
Fin mentioned something about waiting for Amaro to finish punching the bag in the precinct gym. He must've snuck a shower before heading here. I'm almost tempted to sneak into that musty basement gym one of these days just to see Nick work up a sweat… Almost.
Captain Cragen is talking and I snap back in time just to hear him make the announcement. Liv's our new sergeant. Hallelujah.
When the announcements and congratulations are over and we resume back to small talk, my partner chugs his wine and peaces out. Cragen, his lady friend, and Liv are talking about the recipe for the brussel sprouts. Nick wanders off to Liv and Brian's collection of CDs.
I figure I have a lot more to say about Liv's fondness for Harry Connick Jr. and modern jazz than leafy green vegetables.
"Hey," I stand beside him and follow his gaze. "I doubt Cassidy has The Sister Act soundtrack in his collection."
Nick stops scanning the rows of CDs and turns to look at me; the expression on his face is priceless. "We're doing this again?" He says, pointing to the few inches between us. "I'm not letting you make this 'choir boy' thing stick."
I chuckle before I sip from my fourth glass of wine. "Nah, I'll keep the nickname to myself," I say. "No one else in the squad needs to know."
"Oh," his lips part and he studies my eyes. "So it's our little secret, then?"
Fire shoots up from my rapidly beating heart and burns into a crimson flush on my cheeks. The wine is intoxicating, but not nearly as much as our proximity. My mouth feels dry. In the background, I can hear familiar voices but they grow distant by the second. It's like tunnel vision and I can see him in the horizon. I lower my head and a bashful smile turns up at the corner of my lips.
"Guess so," I say, lifting the glass halfway. His dark eyes are trained on mine as I empty out the last of my wine.
He clears his throat when Captain comes to join us. I peel my eyes away from him and figuratively throw a bucket of ice water in the fire burning between us.
When Nick says his goodbyes, it takes me a minute to realize I've got no reason to stay behind. Not that I dislike these people, but it's always awkward being in social situations with my superiors; and with the exception of Captain's lady friend, they were all above me on the totem pole. I take the elevator down to the lobby and I catch sight of Nick opening the front door and heading north.
I sprint up the street until I fall into step with him. "You drive?"
"Yeah," he says. He's checking sports scores on his phone and I catch a glimpse of the final score of Hawks game. I'm inwardly leaping and pumping my fists in the air because I've just made $600. "Can I drop you somewhere?"
"Yeah, just the F train on sixth," I tell him. "That ok?"
He scrolls down on his phone before he shoves it into his coat pocket. "Yeah, sure."
I tuck my chin into my scarf and inhale deeply. "Liv's our new sarge." I observe his reaction and a small smile tugs at his lips. "That's cool," I add.
"Better than having to teach some baby-faced boss the ropes."
I chuckle softly. "They gonna give you a new partner?" I ask.
"How would I know?" He scoffs. His strides are longer than mine so I feel like I have to play catch up with him. "No one tells me anything. It's the NYPD," he emphasizes each letter.
"I know right?" I say incredulously. "Never yielding perpetual dickaround."
He smiles and a soft chuckle permeates the air between us. Nick turns to me, his dark, soulful eyes sparkling under the faint glow of the streetlamps. I'm actually a little keyed up and beside myself that he's dropping me off at the station. Maybe we can pick up on that conversation about his new nickname. Maybe I'd end up preferring his company to a pack of smokes and a deck of cards. I know it sounds absurd, but my conscience is telling me I could use a distraction.
If my bank account could talk, it would probably tell me to seize the distraction. There's this pressing urgency running through my veins, imploring me to do act on those thoughts that have kept me up for countless nights. This is not the first time this has happened. I remember the first time we met; I already wanted to jump his bones. Then I saw the wedding ring, and my perception of him turned a complete one-eighty. Sporadically, these impulses would come back but I knew better than to act on them.
Tonight, as we talked by that shelf of CDs, I saw something in his eyes that told me this wasn't a one-way street. Maybe Nick's got the same impulses, too.
And, right now, this brand new information excites me more than the melodious shuffle of cards.
"I hadn't heard that one," his voice breaks into my reverie. "You make that up?"
I smirk, proud of the fact that I can always rely on my sass to get a smile out of Nick.
"Police! Stop! Stop!" Tires screech and a horn blares. We turn around just in time to witness a cab collide into a police officer.
Nick
Remember back when I was at Duffy's talking to that brown-haired, blue-eyed bartender? Her name's Jen, by the way, and she's actually really cool. She listened to me vent and she let me play out what would happen in the hypothetical scenario where Amanda would walk into the bar.
"I'll kiss her."
But since Amanda never came, I kissed Jen instead.
Nah, I'm kidding.
But yeah, Amanda never came, and it turned out my hunch that something was wrong had proven to be correct.
I smile wryly as I walk down East 29th, my hands shoved into my coat pockets. When it comes to matters of the heart, I really know how to blow it; but when it comes to my gut, it seems I need to learn how to trust it more.
The reason why Amanda never showed up that night, after the Lena Olson trial, was because she had relapsed. It had gotten so bad that she got backed into a corner, working her debts off for an illegal gambling club. It doesn't do any favors for my rep to track her cell and follow her to the abandoned shipyard, but I couldn't take any chances; not after what happened to Liv.
But the evidence was damning. Rollins stole a gun under the guise of a retired detective. She covered the rape of a diplomat's wife. It all seemed to point in the direction that she was complicit. I remember having the wind knocked out of me when I watched that surveillance tape, but deep in the recesses of my brain I couldn't believe it. I refused to believe it. I knew she must've gotten into deep and whomever she was working for was just using her for their dirty work. She was collateral.
Then the truth came out, and Amanda was working for Vice all along.
None of it makes any sense. How did Vice even find her? How did she end up working undercover in an illegal gambling club?
I have about a hundred questions monopolizing my mind, but none of these questions are quite at the forefront, because the only thing I can really knuckle down on is the fact that she's safe. Amanda gets to keep her shield. Amanda's always been the person I thought she was; not this stranger… this corrupt cop… this hopeless case that I feared she'd become.
When my partner lets it slip that she has to show face to IAB tomorrow to go over her statement with Murphy, I know there's something I have to tell her. I don't want to catch her off guard in case Murphy reveals it in the report. I can't chance her getting pissed at me, especially after what happened last time with Nate. She doesn't appreciate it when I intrude into her personal matters; and she absolutely loathes it when my misguided hero complex breezes into her life.
As thankful as I am that Murphy turned out to be Vice, I still feel sick to my stomach when I remember those words he used in the alley.
"You the boyfriend? Huh? She's not half bad. Once you get past the used part."
It's been an exhausting day and I can really use a stiff drink. I've been trying Rollins' cell. I even passed by her apartment, but she wasn't home. My gut is churning, thinking she's back to her old habits…
I stop in my tracks.
Two pairs of blue eyes fix their gazes on me.
"Nick," Jen greets, smiling broadly. "The usual?"
I shake my head, my eyes never leaving the bright, cerulean blues that belong to Amanda Rollins. "No beer for me tonight," I say. "I've got a reserved bottle. It's under Rollins-Amaro."
Amanda sets her beer bottle down and she pats the leather seat of the barstool next to her. She twists her mouth into a nervous smile. I take the seat and pick up her bottle and polish the rest off. Jen sets down the glasses; she looks from me to Amanda and a small smile adorns her face. She knows.
The liquid swirls to the bottom of the glass and we clink them together.
"I hear you're going to IAB tomorrow," I start, setting my glass down on the counter. "Amanda, there's something I need to tell you."
She tilts her head to the side. "Nick, if it's about you tracking my phone and following me, Benson already told me." She chews on her lip, avoiding my gaze. "I put you in a tough spot and when she explained to me that you didn't want to take any chances, especially with what happened with Lewis… Nick, I get it."
Her eyes drift from the liquor to my eyes. "I'm sorry for having to lie to you guys," she says. "I know it's gonna be hard to gain your trust back, but I'll work on it."
I take a chance and rest my hand on her knee. She doesn't pull away so I give it a gentle squeeze. "You haven't lost my trust."
She blinks back surprised to hear me say that.
"There's one thing though," I start. "I need to tell you before you hear it first from Murphy… I followed him and gut punched him in an alley… told him to stay away from you."
Amanda's eyes widen and her lips part to release a quiet sigh.
"Why?"
Running my hand through my hair, I stare down at the stained wood floors. I've known that I was going to admit to the punch, but I never even stopped to ask myself why I'd done it. What am I supposed to tell Amanda? I don't even know the answer. Maybe I'm just too much of a coward to face the cold, hard truth. That maybe when Murphy asked if I were the boyfriend, I wish I could've said, "Damn right, I am."
Her hand rests on my arm and I lift my head up to see her eyes. We share this look like our minds are meeting and we're finally understanding that it's ok to talk about this. To talk about whatever's going on between us. She squeezes my arm and she leans forward to whisper. "Why'd you do it, Nick?"
"Because I didn't want you to get hurt."
"Fin wouldn't want that, too," she challenges in a hushed and gentle tone. "But he didn't go through all that for me."
"What do you want me to say, Amanda" I ask, my mouth and throat suddenly feeling parched. "That I was scared shitless something bad was gonna happen to you? That I was angry that you were gonna lose your shield… probably end up in prison?" I swivel on the stool so my body faces her. "I don't know why I did it. But what I do know is that I… I… I care about you."
I know it's not enough. Those four letters, 'care', don't seem to sufficiently express just how I feel about her. I can think of another four-letter word that might do a better job, but that wall is just too insurmountable right now. Besides, if that look Amanda gave me was any indication, then maybe if we get to see where things go then maybe I'll get to use that word down the line. If I do use it, I want to be absolutely sure of it. I wouldn't be pussyfooting like I am now.
Right now, I'm not so sure, but I do have a feeling we're on the same page. So, I settle on 'care' because that's at least a step forward that I've withheld myself from taking in the last year and a half. And if the word doesn't spell out just how much she means to me, then I guess I'll just have to show her.
Amanda stands up and she avoids my gaze. And I'm thinking, man, I screwed up. Maybe I can backtrack and tell her I care about her in a completely platonic way; but she's already heard the depth of my words and she's seen the sincerity in my eyes. I expect her to leave me there, our bottle barely touched, like a parting gift of what we could have been. What we never were.
Instead, she takes a step forward and stands between my legs. Her hands reach up to my face and the cool touch of her palms leaves me rooted in place.
The kiss catches me off guard, even when I can kind of see it about to happen in slow motion. It sort of represents the restraint leading up to this moment; that is anything but restrained now that it's happening. She cradles my face in her hands and my arms instinctively wrap around her waist. I lean forward and she meets me the rest of the way. It's nothing like I ever imagined, which is insane because, I swear to god, I've imagined this way too many times than I'm willing to admit. My lips part and she curves and interlocks hers over mine; and I'm thinking, I never want to let go. Her tongue smooths along mine and we engage in a soft duel that ends when she pulls away to suck on my bottom lip.
When I open my eyes, I see her lips are a shade of pink that matches the flush that fans out her cheeks.
"I've always wanted to do that," she admits, licking her lips like she wants a taste of it all over again. "Even when you were being a pain in the ass, I've always wondered."
"So, did I live up to your expectations?" I ask, chuckling softly.
Pink lips curl up into a mischievous smirk, and that's the only answer I'm getting out of her. After all, this is still Rollins and she's not going to stroke my ego that easily. Her cool fingers slide to the back of my neck as she tugs on the short strands. Her eyes are gleaming and a sheen of tears glaze over the darkened hues of her irises.
"Amanda?"
She presses her forehead to mine and closes her eyes. "Kiss me again," she whispers to my mouth.
I know she's trying to distract me from asking about the transient light of vulnerability. But after having just tasted her, I'm weak-willed. My lips press against hers, this time a little more fervent, a little more ravenous. Her nails dig into the back of my neck, leaving crescent-moon indentations on my skin. I scoot forward to feel her body pressed closer to mine. The taste of hops and malt triggers my taste buds, and there's also the faint flavor of something ripe and sweet. The more I kiss her, the closer I feel to finding out what it is; and as a detective this thrills me.
And the more she melts into my arms and the more she returns and deepens this kiss, the more I want to investigate and explore every single dip, curve, and bow of this captivating beauty.
So, I break the kiss. And we're gasping for oxygen.
I turn to Jen, who's got the biggest shit-eating grin on her face as she pretends to wipe down the bar. A customer beside us looks peeved that we were just engaging in such public display of affection. I don't care.
"We'll save the bottle for another night," I tell Jen and she nods, her grin folding down to a knowing smirk.
Amanda slips her hand into my palm and our fingers intertwine. The floorboards creak under our feet, but an electric guitar solo ringing from the speakers drowns out the sound. She bumps my shoulder, and I bump her back as we're heading towards the door.
"Your place or mine?" She asks, a playful twinkle sparkling up those oceanic blues.
"Yours" I say, leaning down to kiss her again. This time, it's short, sweet, and full of… care. And she returns it; silently agreeing that four-letter word would be enough. For now.
"It's closer," I add, referring to her apartment and punctuating my words with a sly grin that evokes the kind of mega-watt smile I'd only seen that one time she was under a heavy dose of morphine. So, turns out, it wasn't a one-time thing. And it looks like I'm lucky enough to see it again.
We steel ourselves at the exit and I push the door open to hold it for her.
The bell chimes, just like the first time.