Happy Birthday, my Love! Wishing you a lovely day and a wonderful year ahead! May we fill it with laughter and joy (and joyness ;))... and love. :)
kairos
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She stays for breakfast.
He gave her one of his sweatshirts to ward off the morning chill and she's drowning in it, the faded blue material falling past her hips, only her fingertips peeking out from beneath the sleeves. She slides onto a bar stool, her hair pulled back in a messy bun with wispy curls framing her face. She looks so young, like a college co-ed and he feels old all of a sudden, weary. Can he be enough for this woman, save her from her demons? He's never fought this hard for anybody, never before wondered if he's strong enough, good enough. She makes him want to be better, be the best version of himself.
But then he hands her a mug of steaming coffee and she smiles at him like he hung the moon, wide and bright and breathtaking, and every doubt and concern pops like soap bubbles in the air, disintegrates into nothingness, as if they never existed. He has to lock his knees so he won't stagger, clutches the edge of the counter to stop himself from reaching across, cupping her head, tugging her close to taste that smile on her lips.
He hears his daughter's socked steps before he sees her, padding down the stairs and around to the kitchen.
"Detective Beckett," Alexis states, her voice sharpened by disbelief as she does a double take, stands frozen in the middle of the floor.
He eyes his daughter, watches Kate from the corner of his eyes as well. A blush creeps onto her cheeks and she smiles shyly as she lifts her arm, wiggles her fingertips in greeting.
"Hey, Alexis." Her voice is still sleep-laced but it's wary too, and his stomach churns, the awkwardness a thick weight in the air. But the best defense, he thinks, is a good offense – not that he has anything to defend to his daughter – but if he treats it like the most normal thing in the world, for Kate to be in his kitchen for breakfast, then maybe it will be. Like he wants it to be, needs it to be.
"Morning, Alexis. Go sit." He gestures toward the counter. "Breakfast is almost ready."
Alexis shrugs almost imperceptibly but walks into the room, hops on the bar stool next to Beckett. He fills another mug, hands the coffee to his daughter, then runs his warmed fingers over her head for a moment, ruffling through her smooth hair. She smiles up at him from under her eyelashes, a tentative, careful thing and suddenly he sees his baby again in the half-grown woman sitting before him, the willowy five-year old with the serious eyes, practically abandoned by her mother, left insecure and with a fragile heart.
He understands the weariness, the fear he sees swirling in his child's eyes. Sometimes he's swamped with guilt, aware how he's ripped apart her safe, protected world, unveiled the dark underbelly of humankind to her too-ingenuous eyes. Suddenly she had to fear for his life, more than once, worry about him every day. Had to witness Kate getting shot, and her own father jumping in the bullet's deadly path. But he doesn't know what else to do; he can't not be there. He needs to be at Kate's side, needs to be there for her, and for the victims. For the first time in his life he feels like he has a purpose, like he's doing something good, something important and worthwhile. It's both selfish and not, and he can't give it up. He hopes that one day, his daughter will understand that, will see that it is worth the risk.
Alexis sips at her coffee, hiding in the mug, and he leaves her be for now. He winks at Kate as he turns back to the stove, catches the delicate tilt of her lips and the way her fingers nervously play with the handle of her cup. He busies himself with finishing breakfast, flips the hash browns that are frying in the pan, scrambles eggs, reaches for plates. The faster he finishes, the sooner he can intercept, be their intermediary. Distract them, make them laugh and talk, be his goofy self to make sure they are comfortable. If nothing else, he knows he's good at that.
He's half-turned, a plate piled high with food gripped between his fingers when he notices, just a slight movement at the corner of his eyes as Kate's hand bridges the distance, coming to rest on Alexis' arm. He freezes, waits quietly, observes, his heart pounding, lungs squeezed in his chest.
"Kate," she says, her voice strong and certain now, holding his daughter's gaze as Alexis lifts her eyes to her. "You can call me Kate. If you'd like."
There's a moment of absolute stillness, seconds ticking by that feel like hours where they look at each other, eyes holding; a battle of wills, of doubts, of hopes. And then Alexis nods and he deflates, every muscle relaxing and a breath bursting from his lungs that he wasn't aware he had been holding in.
"Kate," his daughter acknowledges and Kate squeezes her arm before she pulls away, cradling her fingers around her mug once more.
"Would you like some creamer?" Alexis reaches for the bottle of coffee creamer, pushes it toward Kate. "It's my favorite. Italian Sweet Cream. You should try it."
Kate accepts the bottle, her smile widening, teeth grazing at her bottom lip for a moment.
"Thank you. I'd love to."
And then the two women he loves most in the world pour creamer, share a spoon to stir, sip their coffees side by side and he feels buoyant, a weight he hadn't realized he was carrying lifted off his shoulders.
A peace treaty signed in coffee, swirling warm and thick and sweet.
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Thanks so much for all your wonderful comments; they always put a smile on my face. :)