Nocturne Chapter Three

"And you can't hear me yet, listening takes a long, long time.
And I've so much to tell, but words die on these lips of mine."

-Mary Chapin Carpenter, Ashes and Roses, 2012 Rounder Records
No copyright infringement intended.

The storm has quieted, no longer imposing itself on their ears and eyes with its harsh intensity. Over her quiet breathing he hears nothing but the rain.

She has slipped into a smooth, easy slumber at least a thousand even breaths ago. He knows because he has the warm wash of air against his chest, the steady spread of her ribs beneath his fingertips, to measure by.

He has measured so much by her over the last four years, but tonight… tonight he's added volumes to his lexicon.

The scent of her rain-drenched hair beneath his nose.

The strength of her arms as she holds his body against hers.

The sharpness of her fingernails as they dig into his skin.

The angle of her thighs as they part for him.

The tightening of her flesh under his mouth.

The pitch of her cries as he takes her up.

His world will now be measured by them all.

This woman, this soft, sleeping thing, naked and nuzzled and half-draped over him, this is Kate.

He's been cataloguing Beckett, memorizing, predicting, anticipating her thoughts and reactions for so long that he had thought he knew every facet of her. But now he sees that in all that time, he has barely glimpsed this woman.

Excitement, bubbling and bright, is his first reaction to all this new knowledge. If he's learned so much in so few hours alone with her, he knows that exponentially more awaits him in the days and weeks, and God willing, decades to come.

He's seen hints; he's seen first-hand evidence of her selfless, giving nature. But those times were with victims' families, with occasional unfortunate suspects who had reacted badly when placed in a bad situation.

There are moments when he has seen it directed at himself. Times she has counseled him on his daughter. Times she has held his hand when she knows he needs an anchor. Times she has held him in her arms, let him hold her, too. But in all those instances, he's told himself she is indulging his weakness, giving in to condescension in order to help him through.

He realizes now that he has subconsciously felt less of himself for craving those moments of communion, of reassurance, because he thinks maybe she feels less of him for needing them.

But he thinks he understands now. He thinks he sees that while she doesn't give of her whole self easily, once she gives, she gives completely. She has no dam to staunch the flow, no filter to impede the deepest currents of her soul. The wall is all or nothing. And tonight, it's dust. Despite all their differences, in this they have one great similarity. They go all in.

But on the tail of that elation of discovery, a darker thought teases his subconscious. A niggling feeling of foreboding that won't let him sleep.

If she could hide all this from him so well for four years, maybe from everyone in her life, maybe for a decade, she could certainly keep hiding. And damn it, he's greedy. He wants everything.

The negativity swirls through his brain, and in the dark and the quiet, there is nothing to stop it from possessing him, sinking his optimistic heart.

What if she leaves?

What if he wakes up alone?

What if tonight has been an adrenaline-induced reaction to her latest near-death experience?

The thought is suddenly drowning him, filling his lungs with icy, black dread.

Just because she's here, just because she stood in front of him at his door and kissed him, and he kissed her back, doesn't mean that this is real. Just because she wants him tonight, when she's cold and alone and afraid, it doesn't guarantee that when she wakes up tomorrow she won't stop wanting.

His heart clenches, his blood runs cold under her warm skin.

He knows what it's like to love her, to feel her respond to his hands and his mouth and his voice. He knows the tiny, startled little gasp she lets out when he finds a new way to please her. He's heard her call out his name as she's giving in, rising up, falling apart. And now he can't imagine hearing it from anyone else's lips. He can't un-see, un-hear, un-feel everything that this night has meant to him.

If she wants to forget—he might not survive in a world in which she doesn't acknowledge what's passed between them.

Panic has him clutching her tighter, hoping his physical hold on her will be enough to keep her with him for now.

And then she's taking a deeper breath, sliding her hand from where it's been resting over his heart down around his ribs, tucking her fingers between the mattress and his body, scissoring a leg over his, humming quietly against his skin. Unconscious or not, she's clinging, too. Tethering herself to him in the silent cocoon of the rain-drenched night.

And then he flashes back to her face, to the look in her eyes as she came to him, came for him, came with him. She hasn't said the words. He wants them, needs them so badly that his heart clutches tight as he imagines her saying them aloud. But she's shown him tonight. Undeniably. Even at her most maddening, frustrating, stubbornly blind moments, she cannot deny what her eyes have said to him tonight.

She loves him. And she made love with him. Amazing sex is one thing. This earth shattering convergence of body, heart, soul—this is making love. He's always known he would recognize it when happened.

This is not going to be easy. She will not magically open up to him about every thought in her head and feeling in her heart just because of what's happened in his bed.

He knows this will take patience, and work. But he also remembers what she told him not long ago, that she wanted to put in the work to get better. And he knows now she wants to get better for herself, but also for him, for them. Everything she has shown him tonight he owes to her hard work. And so he's ready to work at this right along with her.

The dread is slowly leeching out of him, replaced by contentment, hesitant optimism.

She loves him. He tells himself so that he can hear the words, get used to how they feel washing over his heart like the warm summer rain.

His eyes are growing heavy, but his heart is light. He will sleep now. He will sleep, because he knows when he wakes, she will be with him.

# * # * # * #

First, thank you to all the reviewers out there. What a fabulous response. I am floored.

Review that made me laugh aloud: Eyrianone's "Holy hell," because it totally caught me off guard. And a close second to farewellblindgirl, but DO NOT take up smoking just for post-fic afterglow… :)

Next, to clear up confusion, this story has more chapters. It will be continuing until the premiere, posting about every other day. Not ALL of them will be M, as you can see from this quickie, but yes, there will be more M. And I'll be updating the playlist on Youtube if you like to hear what I listen to while writing:

Youtube dot com slash playlist ?list=PLnXP8GXCbzfUFfhqEpWCAz4-3xPWCzhKC

And as always, thanks to my Beta-extraordinaire (shouldn't you really be an "ALPHA"?), Joy, for absolutely no nagging and all the encouragement. And the promise of rooftop reading with Sheep.

BONUS POINTS IF YOU SAW THE BATTLESTAR GALACTICA NOD IN THIS CHAPTER.