White petals scatter when the arrangement hits his chest, defying gravity as they float through the air until they still around his feet. This woman is strong, he'll give her that. Already Rick can feel the sting of the vase's rounded edge. He's pretty sure that come tomorrow morning he'll have a bruise from the force with which it had been launched at him.
That's okay, he can always convince Chelsea to come over and tend to him. Kiss it better and nurse him back to health with that tiny white faux-leather skirt and even smaller red apron….
The resigned sigh that is released across from him is what ultimately dissolves the vision of young, blond nurses and Rick forces himself to focus. It's clear that this woman on his doorstep a little distraught, dark green eyes flashing a mixture of disbelief and anger that he's finding it a little hard to understand. As far as he knows he's never met this woman before and he certainly can't fathom the small attachment to him that she seems to carry. His days of being the life of the party and the guy every girl wanted to be seen with have slowly passed on.
These days he generally exists in a social setting on the invitations and well wishes of friend who still like him enough to invite him, and more physical pursuits are achieved with willing young women who usually aren't that much older than his daughter.
The choice of a younger set is practical, decided years before when most women his own age were more interested in status gained by a ten carat engagement ring and a fancy society wedding. Women with ticking biological clocks and hungry for a man to shape up and put to rights. His current companions are more suited to clean breaks, usually tiring of him before thinking to look for commitment. Generally they want nothing but a good time, becoming the very definition of a mutually beneficial arrangement.
"Sorry, this was a mistake," she mumbles, long fingers tucking one half formed curl behind her ear when it escapes the artfully messy bun he can just make out at the back of her head, "I'll just go…."
For Rick there's a split-second of being caught in limbo. The need to protect himself from further ridicule and failure urges him to just close the door, forget this woman with her sad eyes and haunted smile. The other part of him, the one that used to write five thousand words in one sitting and felt fulfilled by his seemingly singular talent, demands that he call out to her and snuff out the story.
At his core, even when saddled with crippling writer's block, he still believes that everyone from the bus boy at the restaurant to the Leader of the Free World has a story. Lives can be summed up through a line of dates, experiences and letdowns that craft people into their current selves. Once upon a time he was a master of digging into the lives of others, an astute observer who saw each careful discovery as a gift of sorts. His skill allowed him to understand what made someone tick, to somewhat immortalize them via paper and ink.
It's been years since anyone inspired that in him, maybe even longer since he truly believed in his capabilities as a writer. Standing at his front door, Rick remembers how it felt to be capable, to be in demand, to be the master of the words that insisted they be crafted and pay homage to his inspirational cast of contacts and informants. He's intimately familiar with the jumble of words and how they fill his brain, the buzz of anticipation filling him up until his fingers itch with it. Once, in desperation, he'd crafted three paragraphs for Derrick Storm's jaunt with African drug lords by using a combination of sidewalk chalk and spray paint in a dingy Spanish Harlem alley.
He'd also paid to have that wall painted, both to calm the unfortunate bodega owner who had one half of his property graffitied, and to keep a pivotal plot point from being broadcast by proxy of his impatient imagination.
"Wait!" The word is out of his mouth before his mind has recognized the desire to speak. Rick feels a little like a man possessed, every muscle vibrating in excitement and curiosity when he places the vase onto the entryway table and hurls himself out the door to catch up with this Kate Beckett. Already she's standing at the elevator, body oriented away from him and fingers repeatedly punching at the elevator button.
"That doesn't actually make it arrive any faster," Rick drawls, hoping the smile he paints onto his face is kind and reassuring when she finally turns to look at him, features strained with the obvious effort to keep her emotions in check, "Repeatedly pressing the button is just a way to trick your mind, make you feel as if you are in control of time. In reality time keeps moving at the same speed, regardless of what you or I do."
"Is that supposed to be funny?" the question exits her mouth with a harshness that surprises him because she's guven the verbal equivalent of a slap across the face that you never see coming, "Because it isn't," she adds softly, anger at him ebbing inward just as quickly as it came. A pulsating wave of what feels to him like grief and regret.
"I—what? No!" he stutters it out, so completely upended by this woman and her emotional armor. He's been around her all of five minutes and is equally intrigued, terrified and heartbroken for whatever has happened that could have possibly made her this way, "I was just making conversation, trying to get you to stop from getting on the elevator because you obviously know me and I don't —" Rick breaks off, releasing a long suffering sigh born from his own regrets and mistakes as any residual embarrassment for those life choices.
In fact, he needs another moment to compose himself and he settles on ruffling the carefully styled strands of his hair just enough that the slightly disheveled appearance accentuates his face rather than making him appear sloppy. It's almost unbearably vain that he can do it without using a mirror, but if that's his worst quality then Rick thinks he'd mark it down as a win.
"I have an unfortunate history of decisions that sometimes mean I don't remember faces or names," he says, blue eyes locking onto those of his temporary companion so that she cannot misunderstand him, "So if I've done something to you, or if we had some night together that you thought meant more than….."
"We did not," Kate hisses at him, her voice lowering so that her words almost exit her mouth in a growl. She's both intimidating and unquestionably hot, making him take a step backwards while also considering how much bodily harm she could inflict on him if he just kissed her senseless.
She was already stunning. She's something infinitely more astounding when there is heat flaring in her eyes.
"So what happened? I can't apologize if I don't know what I've done!" Rick hears the slight whine that accompanies the higher pitch of his voice, the same tone he gets whenever he and his mother inevitably argue over household expenses and his ever dwindling savings account.
"You….I…..nothing," she huffs, one hand tossing blindly up into the air, "It's stupid and you wouldn't believe me if I told you. I don't even believe it myself."
Well, that's intriguing. Rick can feel his interest skyrocketing, adrenaline fizzing through his veins as it always will when he's presented with a good mystery. Intentional or not, Kate Beckett has gotten her hooks into him and his mind is already ablaze with theories of international conspiracy, memory wipes, alien abductions. Anything and everything that could have happened and amounted to his being able to not recall her.
He hopes is nothing as mundane as too much alcohol and a one night stand, if only because he's been there and done that.
"Try me, I'm very open minded," he replies, doing his best to keep the little boy excitement from his voice and that too eager grin off his face. That proves hopeless when she shifts to draw her arms across her chest, exposing the edge of a NYPD police badge underneath her blazer.
He doesn't mean to gasp, but it falls out anyway, earning the curious lift of one eyebrow from Kate while she sizes him up and opens her mouth.
"Darling, are these flowers for me?" Martha's voice echoes down the hall with the elocution and drama befitting her two Tony's, six Drama Desk awards, and lone Emmy. Rick knows his mother, remembers not-so fondly all those moments in his life where she's interrupted for dramatic effect, and it takes herculean effort not to bang his head against the wall in frustration.
"Mother," he sighs, slumping just a bit as she parades toward them dressed in a navy blue and kelly green ensemble that makes her hair seem even more vividly red, "How nice of you to butt in…."
She ignores his quip, instead opening her arms with the grace of a ballerina to gently embrace Kate and place one quick peck against the woman's cheek to the surprise of both of them. "Captain Beckett, lovely to see you again. What on earth has Richard gotten himself into now?"
"You're a police captain?" Rick's back at attention, eyes wide and mouth twisted open in excitement. The character is practically writing itself in his head, tough and no nonsense, completely sassy and devastatingly sexy. There's a string of names rattling around for what to call her. Short, spunky names like Roxy, Alexa, and Nadia.
Nikki.
That's a good one.
The moniker strikes him in the same instant that his mind catches up to the real world, the implication of his mother's greeting implying that somehow, someway, Martha Rodgers and Kate Beckett have crossed paths without him knowing. "Wait, you know my mother?" Rick can't even care that he sounds like a confused child. Specifically one that is annoyed his playmate has picked another friend over him.
"Richard, really," Martha sighs and makes no effort to hide her exasperation from both he and the Captain. He's used to it with his mother since eye rolls and 'what can you do' gestures are as much her trademark as the red hair and sage advice, "You just spent two days pestering this woman and the very kind officers that work under her command. They were very gracious, all things considered, not to charge you with trespassing and impeding an investigation. Just say thank you and let her get back to work. I'm sure there are more ways to research a book than becoming her shadow, no matter how well intentioned."
He isn't surprised that the grand dame of Broadway retreats into the elevator or, really, that it opens on cue when she places herself in front of the stainless steel doors. Even elevators know better than to defy his mother, just as his mother knows when best to make a grand exit lest she upstage herself.
"Darling, please don't forget to remind Alexis to bring my dress for the party when you come to the theatre. And do not be late, the curtain will rise on time," she trills, turning on a wide smile for Kate as the doors slide closed, "Nice seeing you again!"
After ding of the descending metal box there is silence, though Rick can see the small jut of her lips and how carefully she's trying to hide the amusement from her eyes. For all of the frustration that his mother usually brings, she seems to have breezed into their conversation and managed to turn the cart back to its proper side. The tension is gone, replaced by what he tentatively feels might be resignation.
Rick decides he's going to pretend its hope, that somehow Kate is convinced to share her story because he certainly has questions. They're filling him up, drowning out the need to craft pages of prose. After all, he didn't meet her two days ago, he hasn't been in a police precinct in months. He spent two days shacked up in the Hamptons, sulking about and brooding at his poor attempts to write.
"Could I interest you in some coffee, Captain Beckett?"