Author's Note: Alrighty, so. We've ended this little arch and my romp around in Gotham. That being said, I've decided to evolve June into her own character in her own, feature-length story. No idea how it'll go, but, I love her and Harv and want to play around with them a little more. If you're curious and have enjoyed this, stick around, because her story will up in two shakes of a lamb's tail. Favorite, like, follow, review, whatever ya gotta do and I'll see ya around.
Been a ball, ya'll! Love you (and Harv does too). xoxoxo.
Walk the Line
Fever
XxxX
When he wasn't shitfaced, he actually had a pretty decent memory. Maybe it came from spending your life rolling in the same filth everyday like some Godforsaken swine, or maybe it came from the paralyzing fear of dying in a no-name street you couldn't remember. Ultimately it didn't matter–he'd remembered where Preacher lived.
His frickin' car smelled like peppermint and soup, which was a gnarly combo, but made his gut growl regardless as he threw the car's shifter in park and leaned heavily against the bench seat. Draping an arm over the seat, his other arm rested along the window as he watched the front doors of the complex. Contemplating. Spinning his wheels.
He could leave now. He could do it. Take Stella's gifted food home and stuffing his face would've been the easier of the two options. Just peel from the curb like a bat outta hell and drink himself into oblivion. Like he did all the time. But no. He had to be worried about Preach, and had to grow this conscience from out of nowhere.
Harvey scratched through his beard, looking down his nose at the front stoop of the complex. Why he had this bug up his ass he didn't know. Jim had said it, June was an adult. A big girl. For all he knew her days off were mandated by Cap and not voluntary. Wasn't unlike Essen to order time off after an ordeal, and almost getting your head blown off by a psychopath nutjob certainly qualified. Maybe she hoped they'd seek therapy in the days off since the precinct didn't offer an in-house shrink.
He didn't run after Jim when things got tough. They clapped each other on the back like men, maybe drowned the PTSD with a brewsky or something equally masculine. He didn't park at Jim's and feel nervous.
Heaving out a strong sigh from his core, somewhere in him he knew that June wasn't Jim. She wasn't like them, hardened and jaded and burned by the job. She was the shiny new cadet in heels and pretty dresses that had blinding optimism for the future, for what Gotham could be. She wasn't Jim, she wasn't Essen, and she wasn't him.
That's why he cared.
He didn't want June to fall down into that pit he'd been basking in for the last decade. Someone needed to have hope, have optimism for this place, for people like him, and not roll over to the beast. Someone needed to wash off the grime and sin. And maybe that someone was June. Maybe a part of him suspected that on some Freudian level and that's why he was parked at the curb of her apartment complex.
Or maybe, he was just worried about a friend that just so happened to work with him. A friend that looked like a knockout in a skirt and could walk in heels. That wasn't afraid to go toe-to-toe and dance the dance. A friend he'd imagined fucking on his desk on more than one occassion.
Easy there, Harv. He swiped the fedora off his head. Had the sudden itch to not look like his usual level of disheveled slob. Tilted the rearview for a better view. Swiping fingers through sorely unkempt hair, his gaze narrowed at the reflection staring back at him. Wondered where time had gone, when he'd started turning gray, when he'd lost the edge as an attractive middle-aged guy. No wonder he wasn't getting laid.
"Ah shit," he pushed the mirror away, rolling his eyes.
Leaning against the door, he stared at her front stoop, trying not to be aware of the two directions this could go. It could just resolve in June being fine and promising to come back to work, needing a few days to work off her nerves. Just a simple, this-is-what-friends-do type deal. Or–or–it could look like something else entirely. Something else that kicked to life a pain in his side behind his ribs, made his blood sing. The taste of lipstick and whisky was still alive in the back of his mouth.
This was why he didn't do 'friends' with women. Not only did he hate being friendzoned by females that he obviously wanted to slide into, he hated the idea of the aftercare, the "define the relationship" that always came after. You never really were just friends with benefits––there was always a hook, a catch. He was more of a get in, get out, let's-not-make-this-complicated kinda guy.
Reaching for his hip flask, tossing back a hard pull, he was aware of every drop of the hot whiskey chasing down his throat. Harvey tried telling himself that he'd do this for anyone, that there wasn't an ulterior motive, but he knew his own bullshit—there was motive.
Motive that scared the pants off him. Hell, he was overthinking.
Chancing a look in the rearview while his fingers went to pop the latch, he puffed out a breath and kicked open the door to his rig, Stella's goods in his other hand. Swatting the door closed, he spun the keyring on his finger, chanced a look up at the gray sky, and plucked up the balls he needed to take the first step up on the curb.
Lucky for him he didn't need to buzz in, he caught the door as a mother and her two kids were leaving. Slipped inside like a shadow. His feet found the stairs, found her front door, without much thought. He was glaring at 277 hammered into her door, standing on the mat, wondering how in the hell two years of June Preacher had brought him here.
Leaning an ear into the door, he heard the muffle of TV, but no signs of life. He felt a rush of hope that she could be sleeping, or that she'd left her television on as she ran out—anything to explain that she was unavailable for whatever it was he'd shown up to accomplish. Get on with it, Harvey.
Stella's thermos of tea was heavy between his fingers so he lifted a fist to knock on the door. HIs knuckles didn't even connect with the wood before he heard the chain, felt the deadbolt hit home in his gut. How this was scarier than actually knocking on her door he didn't know, but he went bolt upright when the door swung open and June Preacher was suddenly standing before him.
This felt like a stupid chick flick, like fate had written the moment into existence. He felt like a bastard. A shithead when her brow wrinkled and her head tipped to the side, considering him on her doorstep with her TV blaring FRIENDS in the background. He was about to speak, say something, but took a minute to look at her.
Harvey had never seen June not put together. Seizing the opportunity to look her over; black sweatpants, bare feet, gray tanktop that hugged just so, yellow fluffy robe that hung off a shoulder. Took everything he had to not notice she wasn't wearing a bra, but with a rack like it, it was nearly impossible.
He liked it when women didn't have to be put together to be beautiful, and she certainly wasn't put together in any way. But, Preacher was maybe even more beautiful than the other night. The more he thought about it, she had cut a pair of jeans pretty good. Harvey was speechless.
Fuck, what was he thinking?
"Harvey?" She leaned against the door, foot crossing over the other. "Wow, uh,hi." She balanced on one foot, using the door for stability. Harvey could tell she was surprised. "What are you doing here?" Then she thumbed over her shoulder, her voice sounding tired, "I was just gonna go get the mail."
Her eyes were drawn in that way that suggested pain or lack of sleep, inflamed and bloodshot with dark circles. She'd clipped her hair away from her face and was paler than he remembered, a sheen of sweat beaded on her brow. He smelled menthol, not in a cigarette kind of way but like a BenGay kind of way. Her cheeks were flushed. She looked sick.
Giving her a half smile, he stepped into the doorway, leaned an arm against the doorframe casually. She watched him do it. Didn't move, comfortable with the distance between them, brow popped at attention. Shifting his weight, he lifted his hand with the bag and Thermos, offering his best knowing look.
"I brought sustenance," his eyes narrowed, "Looks like you could use it, Preacher."
She blinked, looked at the bag, then smiled and opened the door for him while he stepped inside. The TV at full volume blared across the small space, and one sweep of the room told Harvey that she hadn't ventured out in the three days she'd been hookie. The bed was unmade, though she'd camped on the couch, and the kitchen was unkempt with dishes on the island, a couple of prescriptions, and empty bottles of Pedialyte. All signs that the woman was sick.
The click of the door produced June at his side, arms crossed in front of her, shoulders hunched as if she was embarrassed. Then she sighed boisterously, let her hand hit her thigh with a loud twap, "Sorry it's a mess. I've been…" she hesitated, "Lazy."
He snorted and watched her bite her lower lip. "Yeah, well, three days hookie does tend to produce a little laziness," he moved to the island counter and set the Thermos down. "Courtesy of Stella." Retrieving the container of soup, June moved into the kitchen to open a cupboard.
He knocked over a pharmacy bottle that rolled for the sink. "Shit!" He sprang for it but she was faster and caught it, two bowls in her other hand, smiling at him crookedly as she set it upright, and put the bowls down.
"Have a seat, Harv," she gestured to the barstool, "Want a beer or something?"
Before he could answer she was already in the fridge, grabbed two longnecks of Budweiser between her fingers like a pro. Kicking the fridge closed, she snapped the caps off with her fingers, tossing them in the sink. She scooched one across the counter to him.
"I'm on duty." She shrugged and he smirked. "Tryin' to get me fired, Preach?" She smiled, the beer tipped against her lips, and took a long pull before he snagged the booze and tipped it to her. Took a drink, condensation chilling his fingers.
Setting the beer aside, she pushed the two bowls toward him. "Serve that up, would ya? It smells amazing." Her tone was quiet, so unlike the June he knew, but she still had the same body language, the same accent he couldn't quite place, the same characteristics of the annoyingly energetic and eager Comms officer the precinct knew.
Harvey couldn't help but notice that she was the same old June Preacher, just, dialed back. Something pulled at the corner of her eyes, curbed the usual spunk that had become infectious. He watched her try to catch a cupboard door from slamming, but didn't quite make it. It closed loud, and she flinched.
His first thought was pain, and his eyes cut to the pill bottle. He slipped his leather off, draped it over the stool beside him. She tried hiding the fact that her eyes cut immediately to the leather straps of his holster. He noticed, and tried not to smile. Watched her blush when she knew she'd been caught, how it lingered on her face. Must've been a thing, a quirk, maybe a fetish. He liked it.
Stop noticin' things, Harv. Not making this any easier.
Rounding the counter she grabbed up the Thermos, tapped it with acrylic nails as she looked at it quizzically. Unscrewing the lid, she dipped her nose inside and pulled back sharply, blinking into the cloud of steam that rolled across her face. Even from here he could smell the peppermint as he popped the lid off the soup and reached for one of the bowls. Frick, there was enough soup here to feed an army.
She hummed, tracked down a mug from the kitchen, puppy guarding the Thermos like it was the grail. "Stella is a saint," steam rolled out of the mug as she poured herself some of the tea, "This will be perfec—"
A blitzing, loud alarm from the living room cut the air. Harvey looked up from dividing the soup, watched her hussle out of the kitchen like a linebacker with purpose. Killing the alarm, she swept back into the kitchen, her robe flowing as it followed her. Snatching one of the pill bottles, she didn't even check the label–unscrewed, dished out a pill, and popped it into the pocket of her mouth. A pull of beer and it was gone.
To say that Harvey was nosey was an understatement. He was a Detective. Details and knowing stuff was his MO, and he made a point to keep track of people he cared about, even when they weren't looking. Didn't put it into practice himself, but that was another thing. His brow arched skeptically when she recapped the pills, eyeballing his soup handling like a helicopter parent.
He had questions that probably could wait until later, but that wasn't his style. "Everything okay there, Comms?" He nudged a bowl her direction, she handed him a spoon as he eyeballed the pills. "That run in with Skolimski didn't put you off the bandwagon or nothin?"
Leaning forward to edge the soup away from him, he got a perfect view down the cut of her tank. Damn. She didn't see him peeking, but it wouldn't have mattered. Creamy skin screamed at him in the low light of her kitchen and sent heat into his blood. This didn't have anything to do with his desperate need to get laid. Shouldn't let a little thing like looking down a girl's shirt like a schoolboy turn him on. Maybe it wouldn't hurt to slide into some pretty little fling tonight and close his eyes and wish it was her.
He shifted when she leaned back against the opposite counter, not even trying to make it easy, unbothered by the fact that no bra and an open robe gave him a front row view to pert nipples and low-hanging fruit. Damn did it take willpower not to look at every part of her that workplace appropriate clothing hid; the flare of plenteous hips, a wide breastbone, milky skin peeking at him from where her shirt rode up from the waistband of sweatpants.
June spooned in soup like a starving person, leaning against the opposite counter. Shook her head no. "Pfff, you mean the pills?" She gestured with her full hands to the orange bottle and wrinkled her nose dismissively. "You're kidding, right?"
He put up his hands. "Hey. Heard it was your first near-death-by-nut job experience, Comms, I'm just lookin' out for ya." He pointed at the spoon, noticing a sparkle in her eye at his jibe. "Pills ain't the way to go anyway. Too addictive and hard to come by. Pricey. Booze is a way better coping mechanism." He would know.
She sputtered on the soup, trying not to laugh. "You would know, huh?" She laughed, "Migraine medication, Bull. I'm wound tighter than a freakin' clock and these help loosen me up a bit." She tapped the side of her head, tracing a line from above her eye to the top of her shoulder. "This muscle, right here. Kills me every time."
Eyeing her suspiciously, his arm folded along the counter's edge as he spooned the heat out of his soup. Knowing more than one way to kill a migraine, loosening her up was not helping him keep himself in check, neither was the lingering color on her face. He just couldn't shake thinking about her slipping off that black dress or pressed up against the wall, biting as his neck as fucked her senseless.
He made a fist, draping his arm along the edge of the counter. Damnit, kissing her was the worst mistake ever. Greedy bastard. He couldn't have just shown a little self control…a little and he wouldn't still taste her, right there on his mouth. He was getting hot, not just from the steam rising up from the bowl, and practically shoved the eating utensil into his mouth.
"Harv?" He jumped when she raised her voice, felt guilty when she closed her eyes, the sound obviously louder than she wanted to make. "You alright there, Detective? Kinda looking a bit lost. In La La Land there, bud."
He shrugged. Lost is one way of putting it. "I'm fine, Comms. Not the one of us lookin' like shit, no offense." He finished the soup in record speed of light, along with the beer, and gestured to the bag as he slid off the barstool. She watched him as she put the bowl into the sink, reaching for his own. "Stella put some of that world-famous danish in there, if you're still hungry."
He couldn't explain the tension in the room, but it as soon as he said 'danish' it snapped like a rubber freakin' band. She sprang up on the balls of her feet like a kid at Christmas, looking more excited than any woman with a migraine he'd ever seen before.
"Good God, yes, always yes for carbohydrates. Hand 'em over."
He snorted, appreciating her gusto for carbs. Most women he'd met counted calories like they actually mattered, but he'd only ever seen this woman shy away from food one week out of the two years he'd met her, for some fad diet that she'd abandoned the next time they'd ordered pizza. Wrangling the dessert out of the bag like a champ, Harvey watched her cross to the living room and kill the TV, tossing the remote to the couch as she opened the container and waved him into the sitting area.
"Harv, come in here. Sit down, kick up," she stood on her knees on the couch, beckoning him like a damn siren, a curl bobbing next to her cheek out of the clip. Shit, her tits. They fucking made his mouth water as she dropped into a cross-legged position.
He glanced at this watch, buying time. He needed to get out of there before he did something he regretted. Needed to find a dame. "Psh, don't even. That precinct will stand another half an hour with you gone, I promise." Her hand gestured above the back of the couch toward the fridge, "Bring me a water, would ya? Help yourself to anything."
He sprang for the cool of the icebox, thankful it was chill enough to kill the sex in his blood. He pulled a water from the fridge, helped himself to one of the variety of beers she kept on the bottom shelf. Cracking it open, he folded into the seat farthest from her, watching her lounge with the danish, looking comfortable. Sexy as hell, but comfortable.
"Want some?" She spoke with the dessert rolling around her mouth, didn't look like she wanted to share. It was a polite gesture, but one nonetheless.
He leaned across, snatched it from her and popped it into his mouth, smiling at her and popping a brow. She looked flabbergasted for a minute as he passed her the water. Over her like this, he realized how close they were. He could feel her breath on his face, count the beads of sick sweat on her forehead. She seemed to notice the space between them, eyes calculating as they scanned each of his. He saw the moment it registered, and could practically see the night at the Foxglove replaying in the film reel her face had become. Watched her swallow, nervously. Did she….?
Harvey backed off before he pitched a pants tent right then and there, remembering what she tasted like. Imagining what she would taste like, right then, with danish and beer on her breath. He sighed and raked a handful of hair back, realized he was sweating, took a long gulp of beer.
She sat up, legs up beneath her. There was silence as pregnant as an overdue cat between them, electricity in the air. Harvey didn't remember feeling this way about anyone in a long damn time. He needed to get laid, get this out of his system, and June was not gonna be that gal. She couldn't. Waking up the next morning and leaving before she woke, seeing her betrayed and hurt face in the office was not how he wanted to spend the next decade of his career. Crawling out of a woman's life was painful enough, he didn't want eggshells added into the mix.
For the first time in forever he was lonely. Aware of how empty his middle-aged life was. Her, for that brief second beneath him, made him realize that he wasn't getting younger, that the season of his life of wanting someone to hold in the night had come. When he'd gone soft he didn't know, didn't want to know. It terrified him, he never wanted to be that guy.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw her wrap the robe around her, noticing she didn't have crows feet. Her skin was supple, young. The age difference between them smacked. He tried to remember her birthday, what age they celebrated last. Couldn't remember, gave up, drank deep again.
"Why'd you come over, Harvey?"
The question hit him like a cold bucket of water. It had that tone. The one that probed, that wreaked of, 'we're gonna talk about what happened'. Damn, how he tried to avoid this. Not just with her but with every woman he'd even had anything longer than a one-night-stand with. Women wanted to label everything, he'd ruined enough relationships and almost-friendships to know the tone she cut.
He didn't know what exactly to phrase. Had he come over here to talk about what had happened at the fetish club, that he'd kissed her from out of nowhere and wasn't sorry about it? In all honesty he wanted to pick up where they'd left off, and found it hard to think about anything else.
While that's what he wanted, that wasn't the entire truth—the other half of the coin was that he was worried. Worried that Skolimski had gotten to her. That she was reconsidering everything. That she wasn't going to be around, wasn't what he wanted her to be—-the answer to the sin of Gotham.
He swallowed another pull of beer and sat forward to set the can on the table before his knees. Lacing his hands between his knees, he looked over at her, with a raised brow, surprising the situation. She watched him like a hawk, arms crossed over her front, waiting for the blow. Waiting for him to make the first move, rigid as a beam, absolutely wired. No wonder the kid got migraines.
That's right, Harv—she's a kid. "Why'd you think I came over? Lunch. Free booze." He picked up the can, finished it off, sat it back down. Her flat, lidded-and-unimpressed look buoyed him. Wouldn't be easy to throw her off, she was like a dog chewing on the bone of the moment. "
"Harv." Her tone was serious. She turned, leaned against the arm of the couch to face him, brow raised over the rim of black plastic glasses not unlike the ones he kept at his desk. "That's not why you came over."
Caught, he nodded. Sat back, draped an arm over the back of the couch. "Right. No, that's not why I'm here." Drumming fingers along the upholstery of the couch, he gestured to her with a free hand. "Guess I just wanted to make sure you were still with us, Preach."
Her face folded, disbelief flashing over her face. "What do you mean?"
His brows lifted in a silent tell. A tick of silence made it register and her mouth parted into a shocked 'o', and she sprang up from the couch, robe falling open. She rounded to stand in front of him, frowning. That June Preacher hipcock made an appearance and she crossed her arms in that familiar, 'alright, buster, let's dance' kind of way.
"My God. You think I'd actually, what, resign because of that whackado?" His language on her mouth lit something in his gut, something that felt good and sent a throbbing pain to his side that was familiar. "I can't believe this." She started pacing, "What, one run in with your run-of-the-mill Gotham freak and the entire freakin' department thinks I'm cracked? No!"
He was about to stand, but the way she came around planted his ass back on the cushion. "June, no, that's not what we're talkin' abou—"
Hands went up in the air. "No wonder I can't catch a break with the unis, with the perps, with frickin'Cap!Everyone at the precinct thinks I'm a frickin' porcelain doll? 'Yeah, that Preacher, one run-in with a gun-wielding psychopath and she's cracked like a frickin' egg.'" Her hand smacked into her palm, "It's a wonder they don't bubblewrap me to the damn desk!"
"June, listen, that's not—"
She was ranting. Her voice echoed off the walls. If the neighbors had ever wondered why June Preacher worked long hours and was never home, they knew now. Harvey watched her keep pacing the living area, ranting up a storm about being a female cop and working a beat and lacking the respect every other 'swinging dick in the precinct got.'
Soon she'd tossed her clip on the couch, was running fingers through her hair, face hot with frustration.
"And then that stupid, shitshow of an undercover op! No wonder Essen thinks I need you to babysit me, good Lord, getting into it with Fish Mooney's hookers outta make me a real good name in the streets. How am I ever gonna get anywhere in that frickin' precinct when I can't even manage one freakin' operation? So much for the glowing recommendation of Jim Gordon, I'll be lucky if the newsies and inkjockies even give me any kind of frickin' information after word gets out that I've pissed off Fish…." and on and on and on it went.
Jarvey stared in amazement. His respect for Preacher's investment in the job reached new heights. It only reinforced his suspicion that she was one of the good ones, far better than even he had been when he was young and wanted to make a difference. She was a glimmering light of hope for what the city could be, for their department. How she wasn't already promoted was a miracle. She was the female version of Jim Gordon's boy scout, but not in an overbearing way.
He attempted to get up. "Whoa, whoa, June, really, stop and–"
Preacher whirled around on her heel so fast that it knocked him back into the chair. "Wow, okay—"
"Harv, please, for the love of God, you've gotta stop calling me that!"
He fell back into the cushion and she was over him, hand on the arm of the couch, breathing heavily as she desperately stared into his face, eyes pinched closed like she meant every word.
Slackjaw, he looked into her face for a beat. Her eyes opened, searchin his face, chancing glances at his mouth she knew he didn't miss. Shit, she was hot. Even under the frustrated sweat, the bloodshot eyes, the haze of painkillers and the hammering ache of a migraine. The anger painted on her face lit a fire behind sapphire eyes, eyes that made him reel, a gaze that had enough weight to choke the life out of him and make him want to rip off those sweats and ride her until she screamed his name.
He swallowed, thick. Thought twice about putting a hand on her shoulder. Finally when she didn't move, when her fingers curled into the upholstery of the couch, he edged her back and stood, looking down at her, a breath from her personal pace. They shared the air they were breathing, he could smell the beer on her breath, whatever menthol smell was latched to her skin to loosen muscle. She didn't back down, held his gaze with every ounce of fire blaring in her eyes that she could muster. Lord, the sass in this one.
He remembered why he'd wanted to kiss her at the Foxglove. She'd made him want to feel something, anything again. He'd been so numb for so long that flings hadn't been anything more than a quick release. Nothing satisfying, nothing meaningful. But, he'd kissed June and felt something, felt alive, felt powerful,felt…meaning. Purpose. She hadn't pulled away, there hadn't been a rush to exchange money or numbers or arrangements. Then it hit him.
Him kissing her, holding her back against the railing, it had been wanted. And now, she was worked up over him calling her by her first name, which only made sense if it was personal, if it meant something other than a friend trying to talk a friend down.
Her eyes dropped from his face, red spreading across the bridge of her nose as her breathing became a bit more gathered. "Harv, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have snapped," raking her hair back with a hand she blew out a nervous breath, a small dismissive laugh whistling past her mouth, "I'm just, wow, with everything—Lord, I need a beer. You want another beer? There should be some beer in the fridge— "
She went to walk away. To end whatever energy was roaring between them like thunder and he grabbed her arm. Pulled her back, pulled her closer, felt her little gasp of breath as her chest brushed against his. She arched back, trying to create distance, but he hovered. She was nervous. Her arm was on fire beneath his hand, but he hardly noticed because he was burning. Each of his breaths sucked in whatever breath she released; they were so close. Fuck, he wanted this. Wanted this so damn badly.
"Harv," she managed, went to turn away from his hold.
"Stop talking, Comms," his hand, slowly, came to brush a thumb across her cheek. The air between them thickened, could be cut with a knife, and he was about to drop his head to kiss when she beat him to the punch this time.
And boy was it a punch. She turned into him and rose up on toes to plant one on him, fingers ducking beneath the leather strap of his holster, her other arm over his shoulder. Her chest brushed against his and it felt like a locomotive had hit him, he almost rocked back on his heels. He could have mirrored the body language she'd displayed at the club, except there wasn't a rail to catch him.
Her surprise attack only lasted seconds before he met her, full force, and had her back pinned against the first available wall. Her heat made his head swim, and she was tight, fuck was she wound tight as a pistol as he kissed her hard, pinned her hips against the sheetrock, Frenched her, and laced his fingers through her messy, greasy, hair.
"Harvey—" the way she said his name against his mouth didn't even register, only floored him.
The back of his hand brushed down the hourglass of her frame, snaking around to the hem of her shirt when she got savage. Not in the way he expected, or wanted—she swatted his hand way, hard, and crossed the length of her forearm over his chest. Shoved him back, like the day she had backed him up against the wall when he went ape at Ritchie, kissed him hard one last time before ducking under his arm, away from the wall.
Her chest was heaving, they were both sweating as she backed up, swallowing her uneasy, breathy wisps of air. The look on her face was equal parts dark, lustful and uncertain, afraid. Falling back against the sheetrock, he laced his thumbs in his belt hoops, and kicked his head back to the wall, looking at her.
"Harvey, I–I can't do this," she gestured between them, her other—shaking, was she shaking?—hand lifting curls off the back of her neck, "I'm sorry, I can't—" She looked back at him nervously, his mouth, and every ounce of her bled that she didn't mean what she said.
He didn't want to hear it, and pushed off the wall to stand in front of her. Wanting nothing more than to lift her on the counter and fuck her senseless, he stepped into her frame and looked down into her face, past the plastic glasses she was hiding behind. She didn't edge back from him, wasn't scared, but something was there, pulling at her brain, making her nervous. He couldn't tell what it was, didn't really care, and went to kiss her again but met nothing but air.
"Harvey," she whispered his name with force, hand on his chest. "You should go, before—" She hesitated, and his gaze lifted to watch her fill the pocket of her cheek with her tongue like a starving thing eyeballing a fresh sirloin, "Before I do something I regret."
He snorted, lifted a brow, and didn't take her seriously. No one with that look would regret where he could take this. "Who said anything about regrets, sweetness?" Stepping closer, he grabbed the front of her robe and edged her closer, and she didn't refuse. He moved to kiss her again, but she pulled back enough to make it clear.
"I want to," she said, low, quiet, more reserved than he'd ever heard her, "I do. I do. But I can't, I'm sorry, it's…." He could feel the heat on her face as he brushed the hair from her eyes. He rested his forehead against hers and willed the heat out of his body, tried to not hear what she said, but damn his chivalry and sensibilities.
As much as he wanted her to say otherwise, she stuck to her guns. She put her hand on his cheek, rubbed her nails gently behind his ear.
Kissing the corner of his mouth, she added, "We should talk about this later," and fuck him and his bad luck, because his phone rang in his pocket. Rang so persistently that it could only be his boyscout of a partner, missing him.
He moved away from June. Sure enough, it was Jimbo. They landed a case, Essen needed him back, blah blah blah. Right off the heels of closing the Ogre file, what just-so-happened to be the biggest case of the quarter. Whatever. He slapped the phone closed and put it away, turned back to her. She already had his coat draped over her arm.
Harvey, feeling like the mega idiot that he was, stopped in front of her when she proffered his jacket and a bottle of water. The little smile on her lips was understanding, too hard to stay mad and confused at. He knew they'd hash this out later, have the discussion about this another time, because it was far too complicated to leave undiscussed. You didn't just French someone and not talk about it.
"Back to work as always, huh, Detective?" she smiled, her tone all sarcasm, humor.
"You know the boy scout," He rolled his eyes and swung into his leather, "Isn't happy unless he's dragging me across the city after some no-name scumsucker." Easing into his jacket, she stepped up and brushed her hand down the front of his shirt, pressed her fingers against her belly. He went to turn to the door but she caught him by the belt buckle.
"This will make a lot more sense later, Harv," she wrinkled her nose and shrugged her shoulders. "But we'll talk about it. Just know something, Harvey," Releasing him, she moved to grab the door and pull it open. "I'm not rejecting you. Just….well. We'll discuss it. I'll cook dinner?" It was a hopeful question.
He grumped as he stepped out of the door. Looked at the floor before he threw back his shoulders and gestured to her. "Yeah, I guess we better," he gestured to the kitchen, "you make more of that lasagna and I'll listen to you plot the end of the damn mayoral campaign."
"You drive a rough bargain, Detective Bullock, but that's a deal."
He took a step back, liked the way she hung on the door and saw him out. "But before I go, sweetness, tell me," he backpedaled down the hallway, "you're good? Put this whole Skolimski thing to bed, right? Riding that desk tomorrow?"
She tapped her temple. "As soon as this migraine breaks, I'm back to the ball and chain." He couldn't explain the relief at the way she winked at him, looking more and more like the June Preacher he'd come to appreciate. "You get back out there, beat feet. Arrest somebody for me, would ya?"
He laughed boisterously, turning on his heel. "Will do, Comms," he waved over his head, "Will do."
He swung around the first stairwell on lighter feet than he thought possible, and glanced up the staircase. June was still hanging in the doorway, watching after him. She must've not seen him because she slipped back into the apartment. He hung around to hear the door click, and thought he heard the rattle of the chain and drop of the deadbolt.
He sped off to the precinct, realizing that not for the first time in his and Stella's acquaintanceship, the old bitty had been right.