Most people would agree that loss is not a pleasant phenomenon. The key there is most people- as in, most people have experienced it. It's a talking point; it can form bonds between people. I lost my mother too. I know what you're going through. Call me sometime, we can talk.
But no. Kate wouldn't dare go that far, she would never ask a victim's next of kin to call her sometime. Even if she had a voice like rain and smelled like lilacs and somehow looked like she belongs on a runway even with her eyes puffy from tears. It would be unprofessional. Wouldn't it? Maybe she could play it cool, give her a business card. An open ended invitation, no pressure. And she really, really wants to see her again.
She does it, after the murder is solved. Gives Joanne her mother's necklace back and tells her that you never really heal, offers herself up if she ever needs to talk with a muted sense of longing. She shouldn't get her hopes up. Be realistic, she reminds herself. This isn't a fairy tale. (Although mothers do always die in fairy tales. No. Stop. Don't think like that.)
The call comes two days later. She's curled up in bed rereading a Derek Storm novel with a glass of red wine. Joanne's voice is even prettier than she'd remembered. They talk for a while, idle chatter. They make plans to grab a drink the following night.
Kate spends far too long in front of the mirror. Since when does she care so much about how she looks for things that aren't even real dates? She's found herself staring in her closet, exasperated and wearing nothing but a towel, twice in the past week.
Joanne beats her to the bar. She's already curled up in a booth nursing a beer when Beckett arrives. She's struck again by how goddamn stunning she is, blue eyes bright and slightly distracted, cheeks flushed. Her whole face lights up when she notices Kate, who suddenly feels like a few dozen butterflies are flittering around in her stomach. How childish. How cliché.
"Joanna was my mother's name, you know." She's not sure if it's a good idea; perhaps she shouldn't dive into the subject so soon. They've been talking about nothing for a half hour. Joanne bites her lip, picks at the label on her bottle with delicate fingers. Kate can think about half a dozen better uses for them. She should probably keep them to herself.
"I'm sorry." It's said sadly, like it might sort of be directed toward herself. "You remind me of her," Kate continues cautiously. The other woman lifts up her eyes, her head still bent forward, her hair falling across her face. "She was beautiful." She gulps. Shit. She should not have said that, and shit, shit shit-
"You think I'm beautiful?" It's uttered with heartbreaking honesty. For a second Kate almost feels like a predator, some kind of fucked-up older cop who preys on pretty little vulnerable girls. That's not what she's like at all, though. She doesn't do this.
"I do. I really, really do."
Joanne smiles for the second time that night. It reaches her eyes almost instantly. She breaks eye contact first, though, goes back to fiddling with her drink. The moment had dissipated. Kate's heart falls through the floor.
It's awkward, right after, but after a little while and a few more drinks they settle back into a comfortable rhythm. They get to know each other. Joanne likes the Knicks. Her favorite book is The Blind Assassin by Margaret Atwood. She goes to the opera. Her mom used to call her when she felt like baking. Her throat catches on that.
"You know," she begins, finally. "Maybe we should get out of here."
(It's not sexual, not overtly. Maybe it's not at all. But Kate is smiling so hard it hurts.)
They're quiet in the cab. They sit with their legs touching. The radio plays softly. "This was my mother's favorite song," Joanne says. She looks so sad, and she doesn't deserve it. No one does, of course, but especially not this porcelain doll of a girl. It breaks Beckett's heart.
They sit on the couch talking for hours. Kate loses track of time, pours them way too many glasses of red wine. They giggle and lean in close. She can feel the heat radiating from Joanne's body. She runs her fingers through the other girl's hair before she can help herself. The gesture is intimate, obvious. Instead of being taken aback, Joanne leans in. Their lips touch, and it is electric.
Her hands tangle deeper into her hair and she kisses back with everything she has. It is give and take; it is a dance. Their tongues flit around each others' mouths, exploring, teasing, memorizing. They stay like that for a long time, but eventually Kate's hands get the better of her and she slips one up the other woman's shirt. She feels the gasp more than she hears it. Her chest rises and falls underneath the probing fingers. Clothes fall to the floor.
Everywhere. Beckett feels everything, everywhere. Teeth and hands and tongues and skin. She feels every touch in every inch of her body. She thinks she's on fire. She doesn't even mind. She is only vaguely aware of where she's actually being touched. There's a thumb on her clit, she thinks. Two fingers enter her. She rocks against them. Every nerve ending in her body is burning. Curious, teasing touches become deliberate rhythmic motions. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Joanne finds a spot on her neck to suck on and nibble at and Kate comes undone. The orgasm rips through her and she shudders. The fingers are insistent, they coax out every possible aftershock before they are removed.
The noises Joanne makes are delectable. She licks at her clit frantically, dips her tongue between folds, helps her along with a finger or two. She wants to record the gasps and moans and listen to them on an endless repeat. It's almost a disappointment when her breath hitches and the countermotion becomes faster, faster, faster and Kate knows she won't last much longer. The final scream is the most splendid of them all, though.