WHEN THERE'S LOVE TO BE HAD
CHAPTER TWO
She takes to homicide well, her keen and sharp memory for detail coming in handy several times over the first two weeks of her assignment. After just a month, she's given information for the Detective's exam, although she wouldn't be allowed to take it until she's been in the department for two years. But with Rick's help, she devours the information, spends almost every waking moment with her nose buried in the study material.
Rick stays by her side as best he can. They often have different shifts and different off days, so he'll drop by her apartment after his shift, or vice versa. He helps her study, even provides the occasional orgasmic distraction.
It's after one of those distractions, when she's returning to his bed from the bathroom, that she notices a pile of paper strewn across the floor. It must have fallen from his nightstand during their vigorous activity, she muses, her cheeks flushing, and she bends down to straighten them.
She doesn't mean to snoop, but his familiar scrawl catches her eye, and as she reads what looks to be some kind of brainstorming session, she finds herself sitting down to take it in. He's written down characters - the obvious main character being the newly minted police officer still mourning the tragic loss of his only family - and even the beginnings of an outline.
She knows of his past in teaching English before heeding the call of law enforcement, but she had no idea that he'd apparently decided to give creative writing a shot. The traits for the main character seem to come mostly from him, although the ambition to rise fast in the ranks is more her.
She's so engrossed in her reading the paragraphs he's written that she doesn't hear him stir, doesn't realize he's awake until she feels his hand on her shoulder. "What the-" she exclaims, jerking her head around to glare at him.
He gazes at her with bleary eyes, but when he seems to realize what she's holding he blinks a few times. "You're looking through my stuff?" he husks, his voice rough with sleep.
"It was on the floor," she explains, standing, ignoring the way his gaze travels over her naked body. She rejoins him in bed and leans against the headboard, brushes back the lock of hair that always falls over his forehead. "You're writing again," is all she offers, falls silent to encourage him to share.
He moves to his back and gazes up at her, curls his hand around her knee. "Kinda. I started jotting stuff down when we worked that serial killer case," he continues, his thumb tracing circles through the sheet. "A few case details, nothing that wasn't made public. I was careful about that, cross-referenced with the paper. Thought it had potential."
Kate nods and shuffles through the papers, then places them on the nightstand. "It does," she assures him. She likes reading murder mystery books, always has, but especially since losing her mom. They offer her a solution, the killer found, the victim's family receiving the justice and closure she never got herself. She's never read anything of Rick's, but if this is anything to go by, he has talent.
"I just scribble stuff down on occasion," he continues, sitting up. "If I have an idea, a line of dialogue, anything. It probably won't go anywhere."
"This is good, Rick. I think it could go somewhere." Her hand gropes for his, and she finds it, laces their fingers together. "You should work on it more."
His face lights up with pride, and she's reminded of just how joyful he can get, how excited when he gets a good idea. "Yeah?"
His grin is contagious, and she finds herself leaning forward, pressing her smile to his. "Yeah," she parrots when they part.
He yawns before he can say anything else, and she realizes how late it is, that he had a long shift that day and has another in just a few short hours. She has the day off, and she fully intends to use it by spreading out her mom's case file and studying it until her eyes burn from fatigue.
As if reading her mind, Rick squeezes her hand and levels his gaze at her. "Don't work all day tomorrow, okay?"
She tries to look innocent. "Who, me?"
He just rolls his eyes and scoots back down in bed, pulls the sheet over his chest, and falls asleep.
As the hot, busy summer rears its humid head and August begins, she's acutely aware of the upcoming anniversary, the tension in the entire city. Crimes are triggered by almost nothing, and more violent than usual, so she and Rick are busier than ever.
They're both so tired from frequent double shifts that they barely even talk to each other outside the precinct, but although she's only known him a little over a year, she recognizes the shift in his mood as August wanes and September arrives.
Like her, he buries himself in his work as a distraction from his grief, so she tries to be the friend that he was to her over the Christmas holiday, when she was approaching her own sad anniversary. She refills his coffee, shares her lunch, even buys donuts for the whole floor and gets extra of his favorite to make sure he gets one.
He mentions in passing that Captain Montgomery let him take the eleventh off, so the week before, Kate finds herself knocking on the Captain's door.
"Sir," she announces herself when he invites her inside, "do you have a minute?"
Montgomery shifts his gaze from what looks like paperwork. "Officer Beckett. What can I help you with?"
Kate hesitates, then shuts the door and stands in front of his desk, hands clasped behind her back. She knows Montgomery doesn't require anyone to stand at attention, but she hasn't been able to break that habit. "I know it's a bit last minute, but I would like to put in a request for the eleventh."
"What request, Beckett? For a specific assignment?"
Kate shakes her head. "No, Sir. For the day off."
"Ah." Montgomery leans back in his chair and clasps his hands together on his stomach.
"As you know, Sir, Officer Rodgers and I are close friends, and he lost his family that day. I'd like to be with him, if I can."
Montgomery lifts his brows, but doesn't offer any commentary, just reaches for the planner in front of him. He studies it for a moment, makes a note in it, and looks back up at Kate. "I can't give you the entire day off. But I can schedule you for a later shift, so you can be with him for most of it."
Kate feels her shoulders relax. She's not surprised that she'll still have to work - plenty of other officers lost friends, her captain included, and some of them put in for leave already - but she will be able to provide Rick with some much-needed support.
When he opens the door to her knock on the evening of the tenth, his eyes flash in surprise before they drop to the takeout bag in her hand. "Remy's?" he observes, stepping aside to let her in.
She glances around his apartment as she takes the food to the kitchen, notices the beer bottles littering the sink, the empty pizza box on the counter. She doesn't think Rick would go overboard, drown himself in alcohol the way her father has, but still she retrieves a paper bag from under his sink and deposits the bottles inside to recycle later. And she makes a note to make more of an effort to spend time with him, to keep an eye out.
"I should've called," she says in an unspoken apology, motioning to the pizza box, "to make sure you hadn't eaten." She drops the Remy's bag on the counter and pulls out her burger and fries.
Rick shuts the apartment door and follows her, his hands shoved in the pockets of his sweatpants. "I haven't, that was from yesterday." He leans his hip on the counter, watching as she nods and takes out the other burger and fries, putting their food on plates. "What are you doing here, Kate?"
She opens the refrigerator and retrieves ketchup for their fries. "I need a reason?" She hands him his plate and milkshake and mirrors his pose. "I didn't think you should be alone," she explains. "So I talked to Montgomery, and-"
"You talked to Montgomery about me?" he interrupts, setting his plate down and crossing his arms over her chest.
"Not like that," she argues, taking a step forward. "I asked for tomorrow off, so I could be here for you, that's it." She sees his nostrils flare, a sure sign of his annoyance, but he doesn't say anything, so she continues. "I do have to work tomorrow, but not until five. So whatever you want to do - go to the ceremony, stay home, whatever - I'll be here."
"You don't have to do that," Rick argues after several long moments.
Despite his words his eyes shimmer, and Kate sees his throat bob with a swallow, knows that he's trying to keep his composure. She shrugs and curls her fingers around his forearm. "Yes I do," she insists, stepping close. "I don't want you to be alone. As much as you think you want to be, it's too easy to spiral, to get lost in the grief. Believe me, I know."
Rick just stares at her in silence, his gaze tender, and soon the tears in his eyes begin to fall. "Goddammit," he rasps, swiping his hand down his face, "I was trying not to cry." He reaches for her, tugs her into his arms, and holds her tight as he breaks.
She grips the back of his shirt and buries her face in his chest, blinks back her own tears. He doesn't show this kind of emotion often, so she just holds onto him, lets him take the time he needs.
"I don't think I can go to the ceremony," Rick tells her later, after they've eaten. He gazes up at her from his head's resting place on her lap. "They asked me, you know, if I wanted to say a few words. But I said no. I feel bad, knowing a lot of other families are doing it. But I can't."
Kate trails her fingers through his hair, adds a light scratch at the base of his skull, eliciting a low moan from the back of his throat. "I'm sure they understand," she assures him. "You're probably not the only one who said no."
Rick sighs. "You're right," he exhales. "I could almost feel their disappointment, though. I mean, a guy who loses his entire family, then turns around and joins the NYPD?" He meets her gaze and smirks. "The news would salivate over it."
"Add the friend with her own tragic backstory," Kate teases. "Hell, tell them we're sleeping together. That'll really get the ratings up."
Rick offers a low, throaty chuckle, then sits up and shifts so he's leaning against the arm of the couch, facing her. "Is that all we are?" he asks her after a long hesitation. "Friends who fuck sometimes?"
"I-" Kate pauses and clears her throat, her gaze dropping to her lap, takes a deep breath as she tries to gather her thoughts. Technically yes, but Rick is more to her than a friend with benefits. He's her support, her protector, her partner. Her rock. Her light in a dark room. He's the first thought she has upon waking every morning. And, judging by the rom-coms she's seen, those are all the signs of being in love.
She can't say all that, though, not now. Not today, when their emotions are so heightened, when the invisible wounds of his loss are ripped open and raw, when she has to press down her own grief that threatens to overtake her.
"You're my best friend, Rick," she finally tells him. "After my mom died, I shut myself off from everyone. But you helped me come back out of my shell." She reaches out and rests her hand on his knee. "I care about you so much more than just on a surface level, or carnal, if you will," she adds with a smirk.
Rick grins at that.
"So as much as I enjoy that part of our relationship," she continues with a wink, "we're not just friends who fuck sometimes. We're friends who occasionally connect on a physical level."
"I see," Rick chuckles, covering her hand with his. "I didn't realize you were such a wordsmith, Beckett."
"It's just that-"
He squeezes her hand. "I know," he interrupts.
Kate feels her face flush and she leans back on the couch, extracting her hand from his. She has no idea why she feels the need to explain further, but before she keeps talking, his palm is on her cheek and his mouth is on hers. She opens her mouth on a sigh and he takes advantage, slicking his tongue against hers. Her hands find his biceps as he moves to hover over her, and she feels his breath stutter when she arches into him, pressing her chest to his.
He buries one hand in her hair and starts to guide her down, propping himself up with his other hand on the back of the couch. She goes willingly, adjusting the throw pillow under her head before sliding her hands under his shirt. He pulls his mouth from hers with a gasp.
"Cold," he explains at her questioning eyebrow.
Kate smirks. "I see." She hooks her thumb in the waistband of his sweats and pushes them down. "Wanna warm them up?"
Rick narrows his eyes in a look she recognizes, one he adapts every time he perceives a challenge. "Gladly," he growls, bending down to take her mouth with his once again.
She's a distraction, she knows, a temporary band-aid over the wound that breaks open this time of year. But she lets him use her, find comfort and release however he can. And later, as he curls up next to her, his head on her stomach as he coats her skin with his tears, as the emotions overtake them both, she pours her love into the stroke of her fingers through his hair.
He's dozing on the couch one afternoon in October, sleeping off the effects of a grueling double shift, when he's woken by a loud knock on his door. It jerks him awake and he almost falls to the floor, but he catches himself, feels his face get hot even though nobody else sees it. A quick glance through the peephole has him throwing the door open and tugging Kate into his arms.
He feels her relax into his embrace, and her arms wrap around his waist, grip the back of his shirt. They stand there for several minutes, him running a reassuring hand across her back as she trembles, her tears soaking his shirt, until finally she takes a deep breath and steps back.
"What's wrong?" he asks, cupping her jaw, tangling his fingers in the hair at the back of her neck.
She lifts her red and puffy eyes to his and swipes her fingers across her cheeks. "I'm sorry," she breathes, ignoring his question. "I should've called."
Rick levels his gaze at her. They both know that they don't need to call before showing up at each other's apartments, and also that she's stalling. So he drapes his arm around her shoulders and leads her to his couch. "Sit," he commands, giving her a gentle nudge. "You need a drink. Beer, wine, or whiskey?"
It's only because of how well he knows her that he catches her sharp inhale and the subtle catch in her voice when she speaks.
"I don't-" She pauses and sighs. "I can't."
He grabs a bottle of water from the fridge and hands it to her after twisting it open. He almost gets a beer for himself, but her reaction makes him second guess whether that's a good idea, so he gets water for himself and joins her on the couch.
Seeing her curled up on one end, almost withdrawn, breaks his heart. He doesn't crowd her, although he does sit close so he can comfort her with a hand on her leg or shoulder if necessary. His water goes on the coffee table, immediately forgotten.
"What happened?" he asks.
She sighs, her gaze fixed on her lap, her fingers picking at her jeans. "It's my dad," she finally admits, her voice cracking on the last word. "I've told you that he took Mom's death really hard."
He stays silent when she pauses, lets her continue in her time.
"He was okay for a little while. But after a few months he started drinking. Like, a lot." She sighs again. "He controlled it pretty well for the first couple years, but lately he kinda, I dunno, fell off the rails."
He breathes her name and reaches for her knee, rubs her thumb over her patella, a silent encouragement to continue. "I knew you didn't see him that much, but…" His voice trails off, unsure of how to finish that sentence.
She continues as if he hadn't spoken. "I guess he lost his job last month because it got so out of hand. I had no idea until early this morning, when I was called up to the 44th Precinct to get him out of the drunk tank."
"Fuck, Kate, that's up in the Bronx. Why didn't you call me to go with you?"
"You were on shift. Besides, he's my dad, my responsibility." She takes a long drink of the water and finally looks at him. "Long story short, he got picked up for public intoxication. He's fucking lucky he's not a mean drunk, because if he'd done more than just stumble down the street, like if he'd gotten in a fight, or worse, they could've pressed charges."
"Goddammit," Rick mutters under his breath. "Kate, I'm so sorry. What can I do?"
She shrugs in a move he recognizes, one of resignation. "Nothing," she says, confirming his hunch and covering his hand with hers. "I spent the morning researching rehab facilities. I've narrowed it down to three, so I just have to find out their availability and get him in one as soon as possible."
"Let me help you."
"Rick-"
"I'm serious," he interrupts her. He flips his hand so their palms touch. "You don't have to do this alone, Kate. Give me the names and go take a nap. I'll make the calls."
"Okay," she finally relents after a long look. She reaches into her pocket and hands him a folded piece of paper, which he glances at before dropping it to the coffee table.
He tightens his grip on her hand and tugs her up to stand, but before he can lead her to his room, she wraps her arms around his waist, much like she had when she'd arrived. He drops his cheek to the top of her head and relishes the feeling of her in his arms, the fact that she's there in the first place.
When they'd met she'd been so closed off, she'd hesitated to even introduce herself. But he's seen her grow in the year and a half since that fateful day at the Academy, and he knows how hard it still is for her to show any kind of vulnerability.
He eventually leads her to his room to let her rest, but she grips his hand tight when he turns to leave.
"Don't go," she pleads, sitting on the edge of the bed. "Please. I just...I don't want to be alone right now."
He almost expects her to reach for him when he pulls the covers over them, to initiate the physical comfort she often seeks. But she doesn't, instead brushes a soft kiss to his mouth, whispers her gratitude, and curls into his side.