A/N: Oh, you had to know an episode tag for "3XK" was coming, right? Honestly, I haven't read any (health issues AHOY!) so if I'm retreading already dead ground, do forgive me. I'm also working on two much longer pieces (in the realm of "Medias" and "Fall") so this may be the last update to this grouping in a bit. But I'll never call it complete; you never know when inspiration might strike.
A million thanks to Ariel119, whose critical eye is a gift from the heavens.
Title comes from "Hurricane," by 30 Seconds to Mars featuring Kanye West.
For Fenway and Mel; may they get over their colds and aversions to Dora sooner rather than later.
He stands off to the side as they load Ryan in an ambulance, watching but not comprehending the goings-on around him. He holds it together as Beckett updates the BOLO with the true identity of the Triple Killer and then begins to inform Montgomery of the situation.
The wordsmith remains silent as the pressure against his back increases tenfold; the tsunami of emotion he's tried to dam is breaking through cracks in his second skin of concrete professionalism and self-preservation.
The whatifs are a torturous carousel punctuated by music that only sounds like warning bells; like clocks ticking down. The almosts are shrapnel to his skin, spilling blood tainted with shades of crimson terror.
(He knows he should sever ties with her in the name of safety, but any amputation when he's already bleeding will, without question, kill him.
She's his phantom limb anyway, so it's the epitome of a moot point.)
He gets a ride back from a responding officer in a black-and-white, hands shaking all the way to the loft door. Finally, he forces it open as though he were serving a warrant like a real cop and not a child playing pretend.
(He can't help but look for Beckett to storm across the threshold as she did mere hours before.
He could use a savior right now, doubly so if she's dressed in a Kevlar vest.)
Instead, he's followed by silence and the thought that there are so many other things needing to be broken down. Doors aren't the only things that cross his mind.
Immediately, he's assailed with how quiet it is in the apartment, and now it's all-consuming. The silence is heavy, pressured; suffocating and deadening. He feels like a ghost in this place, entombed away from the living. He's a residual haunting forever running to the edge of sanity on the pretense of excitement, only to back away when the ground starts to give way - but only for a moment, for no one can convince him adventure doesn't lay below the precipice on which he teeters.
He's caught between two worlds, in a veil where no one can see him in either.
There should be two doors leading to shelter, and there are none.
(Beckett had said she'd felt like a Bedouin in the months after the Nikki Heat murders, searching long and far for home. He'd known then it wasn't where you lay your hat.
Home is where you lay your heart.
For him in this moment, there's only one place in the world that fit that particular definition.
But in the majestically destructive glow of the afternoon's aftermath, heart doesn't refer to their so close/not quite romantic relationship. Partner has many definitions. He'll take the easiest one for now.)
He feels an overwhelming need to know their truth; hear an acknowledgement that she too is unsure as to how the story will end.
He wants a promise that no matter the outcome, they'll write the final words together, and either walk away or walk off hand in hand.
He wants an assurance that he'll walk in the bullpen tomorrow with her coffee and bearclaw (normalcy when insanity is at its worst) and that she'll see him as he does not feel: standing and whole. A pledge that she'll always pull him from the water they'd sat next to mere hours before.
(Hers had been filled with chlorine and God only knew what else; his was filled with nightmare scenarios. Statistics of in-the-line deaths were weeds wrapping around his feet, trying to keep him under, and any light coming from above the surface was the beacon of a departing rescue vessel, having declared him a lost cause.
He needs to hear from her that he's not.)
She takes him in her arms the minute she sees him, and like so many times before - times she probably doesn't even know about - she carries him when he cannot walk, guiding him to the living room. She eases him gently onto the couch and kneels before him.
(There are no jokes about him finally bringing her to her knees.
There is just the thought that the guilt – about what his mother and Ryan endured – and the relief that they are all in the infant stages of comprehending their survival are combining to become a maelstrom that will soon sweep his legs out from under him.
He can succumb within it knowing she will be there to catch him when he falls.)
They sit and stare at each other for a moment, him tucking a lock of hair behind her ear, the first contact since they sat poolside. She moves to sit beside him and pulls him to her side, pressing her lips to his temple and murmuring promises about safety and resilience and perseverance that will fade in the harsh morning light of reality.
(They are an attack on his last line of defense.
The levees breach.
His hands shake again, along with his entire body, and tears of what he hopes he will turn into freedom and absolution splash onto her neck.)
He worries not about embarrassment or finding a voice for things left unsaid. He barely pauses to consider the thoughts he'd had while taken prisoner: that she'd find his body like she'd found her mother's, and the blood on her hands - no matter how undeserved - she'd never let herself remove. Instead, his focus remains on how she holds him and he centers himself in concrete reality – that he is here, that they are here, that they still have time.
(They remain wordless for the rest of the evening, even as she tucks him in to her bed, intending to take the couch.
He goes to her when he realizes moonbeams and insomnia simply aren't the companions he needs.
She slides in the bed behind him, holding him to her, and there is finally safety in the silence.)
FIN