Notes: (1) There will be (much, much) more to When It Rains, but not today because (2) I signed up for an awful lot of holiday exchanges with rapidly approaching deadlines, which is further complicated because (3) I'm sick, (4) I need to make dozens of cookies, and (5) the only thing I want to write is schmoopy sex which (6) this story is not. Thank you all for your lovely comments! :)
Day to Day
rosabelle
He likes her legs. She sees him sometimes, watching her. He sends her little sidelong glances when everyone else's attention is elsewhere. Sometimes she finds herself dressing to tease him, wearing skirts that accentuate the curve of her hips and pants that lengthen her legs.
He strolls up to her, when they are alone in the break room and slides into the seat opposite her. "You look nice today, Captain," he tells her in a low voice.
She hums, pleased, and smiles into her tea. "Thank you, Lieutenant."
She doesn't kiss him at work.
That's one of her rules.
He agrees, in principle, that they need to remain professional at work. But he also sees nothing objectionable about locking the doors to her office and drawing the blinds, just for a few moments. Just to talk, just for a little privacy. It's not like he's asking to have sex on her desk.
Which is good, because she's fairly certain that the desk has already been defiled in that particular manner.
It takes him a moment for comprehension to dawn upon his face, but when it does his horror is priceless, and then he goes and proves her point by snickering to himself whenever Agent Howard makes an appearance.
Okay, he says. Maybe she's right. No, she's definitely right. It's a bad idea.
He does know what she likes to hear.
She is more relaxed when they with their friends outside of the office. Not enough to kiss him there, either, because she's never been particularly demonstrative or openly affectionate in public spaces, but they're all touchier when they're out celebrating after a case. It's taken Provenza six months, but he no longer sighs and prays for death at the sight of them. Amy always smiles at the pair of them and, unexpectedly, so does Julio, though his are quieter and more subdued. Mike says nothing and treats them both exactly as he always has.
At restaurants, she sits thigh to thigh with him and, sometimes, she curls her little finger around his beneath the table. He rests his hand lightly on her knee and helps her into her coat at the end of the night. When they leave, he walks her back to her car with their arms linked together.
Sometimes, he follows her home.
And that is the other reason she won't kiss him at work, because when they arrive back at her condo at the end of a long day of watching without touching, when she closes the front door firmly behind her and turns to him, when he grasps the collar of her coat in his hands and draws her closer, when he kisses her like he is starved for her, his fingers warm and steady against her skin as he cups her face in his hands, her tongue caressing his and her arms twined around his neck, and they kiss until the quiet noises in her throat become whimpers—well, that is something worth waiting for.