WORTH WORKING FOR
CHAPTER TWELVE
She needs to get out of here.
It doesn't matter that nobody's dead, that the one potential victim has just a superficial injury. The fear in Emily Reese's eyes is too familiar, the panic in her voice an echo of Kate's.
Emily grabs her arm, begging Kate to guard her, to keep her inside, save her from the madman who tried to kill her...
She panics.
"Get her out of here," Kate manages, not bothering to try and disguise the tremor in her voice.
Ryan and Espo both call her name, but she ignores them, pushes open a door, finds herself down a hallway.
A blessedly empty, quiet hallway.
Her gun and badge weigh her down, her jacket suffocates her, and she tears them off, throws them blindly to the floor as she crumbles against the wall, tears falling freely, unable to stop them anymore.
She doesn't realize Rick followed her, didn't even remember that he came to the crime scene, but he's suddenly next to her, one hand on her back, offering physical comfort she doesn't even want.
"I can't-" she gasps, pressing her palms to her forehead.
"You can," he whispers, rubbing her back. He leans back and freezes, curls his fingers around her bandaged wrist. "What happened?"
She swipes her fingers across her wet cheeks. "Nothing. Cut myself," she murmurs, trying to tug her arm from his grasp. She catches the glimpse of blood seeping through the gauze, vaguely thinks to herself that she needs to change it.
She pushes herself off the floor, and she gathers her badge, gun, and jacket from the floor, takes a few deep breaths that do nothing to soothe her pounding heart.
Rick just watches.
She can't stand the pity in his eyes, like she's fragile and needs to be handled with kid gloves so she doesn't break.
It's too much.
He's too much.
She walks away and leaves him behind.
Before she realizes where she's going, she's pulling into the precinct garage, parking in her normal spot. She moves on autopilot, her hand trembling as she presses the button for the elevator, and she shoves her hands in her pockets, tries to focus on her breathing as it takes her up to the fourth floor.
She's barely keeping her composure when she steps onto the bullpen floor; it's busy but not as chaotic as it has been, but still she shoves her hands in her pockets and hunches her shoulders around her ears, trying to protect herself, to ward off any attention, to ignore the whispers pointed in her direction.
A shadow in her peripheral vision startles her, and she reaches for her gun before she realizes it's Esposito. She forces herself to relax, tries to bring her heartbeat back down to normal.
"What's up, Espo?"
He jerks his head towards the hallway. "I need to borrow you for a sec."
She doesn't see the look he shares with Ryan, or the encouraging nods they exchange. After she follows Espo to the evidence room, though, she hesitates, dread settling in her gut.
"What are we doing here?"
"I want to show you something." Espo walks to the far side of the table and brings something into view.
Her breath catches in her throat when she realizes what he's holding. She's studied pictures of the item dozens, if not hundreds, of times, so much that she can list everything about it. Every nick, every scratch, could probably rebuild it in her sleep.
"What is that?" she asks anyway, hoping, praying that he'll tell her something different.
"The rifle that shot you."
She's never wished for a lie more than right now.
Her heart drops to her stomach and her eyes water, blurring her vision even as she shakes her head. "You are way outta line," she says in a low voice she almost doesn't recognize as her own.
"Just look at it."
He moves closer, rifle in his hands, and she steps back, almost tripping over her own feet. She can't look at the rifle, but she can't look away. "What the hell are you doing?"
"I've been where you are," he says, "I know what you're going through."
Deep down, she knows that he's trying to help, that he's the only friend who has an inkling of how she's feeling, how she's struggling.
But this?
She shakes her head. "Javi, I'm fine," she insists.
But he's known her for too long, knows her too well, to let it slide.
"You're not fine. You're just trying to act like you are." He lifts the rifle again and starts to move towards her. "This is just a tool. It's a hunk of steel. It has no magical powers, and the person who fired it is not some all-powerful god. He's just a guy with a gun, just like the guy we're hunting now. And just like every other bad guy, he's damaged goods."
She clenches her jaw, taking in his words, letting them reach every part of her that struggles, that doubts her ability to catch the bastard who's terrorizing her city, terrorizing her. "So am I," she finally manages.
Espo nods, the hard set of his jaw softening. "That's right. And that's okay. You think it's a weakness?" He leans forward, his eyes locked on hers, refusing to let her look away. "Make it a strength. It's a part of you, so use it."
She looks down at the rifle in his outstretched hands. Every cell in her body is telling her to run, that she's in danger, that she needs to protect herself and her unborn child.
But Javi would never put her in harm's way, she knows, is trying to help her face her fears.
She steps forward and holds her trembling hands out, curls her fingers around the rifle. After a beat, she looks up at Javi and nods, and he lets go and walks away, leaving her alone with her past.
The rifle is cold, but the shivers that run through her have nothing to do with the metal on her skin.
As many times as she's gone over her file, seen pictures, studied the specs and ballistics – and knowing from first-hand experience how much damage it can do – she's never held the rifle, never even seen it in person. She's known of its home in evidence of course, but she's never had the strength to search it out.
Now, as she shifts her grip and lifts it, feeling the weight on her shoulder, looking through the scope, her finger on the trigger...
A sudden sob rushes through her, and she has to set it down, lean against the table as tears slide down her cheeks.
She can't do this.
It's too hard, too painful, brings up too many memories that she's been ignoring, been refusing to let surface.
She presses her hand to her chest, her heart pounding, breaths ragged, her scar pulsing...
Or is it?
She turns and slides to the floor, leans her back against the table as she works to slow her breathing. Long, slow inhale; long, slow exhale, repeat. Her fingers rub her scar, and even though she definitely feels the puckered skin through her thin t-shirt, she realizes it isn't painful like it once was.
It does tug sometimes; the one on her side does too, if she moves wrong or twists too fast. But that's getting better too, improving more and more with every physical therapy appointment, and she'll be at 100% sooner rather than later.
As her heartbeat and breathing return closer to normal, she can focus on the spot between her chest.
It's...normal?
It isn't pulsing or throbbing, or even sore. It's just...there.
She takes a deep breath and pushes herself off the floor, grabs the edge of the table as she stands and turns to face the rifle again.
This time when she picks it up she doesn't hesitate, doesn't tremble.
It's just a hunk of metal.
A guy with a gun.
Not some all-powerful god.
Hell, she doesn't even know the identity of the person who shot her. Doesn't know who she's hunting now. All she knows is that they're human.
Like her.
It sucks, but right now, there isn't much she can do about her shooting. All she can do is focus on the here and now, on her current case.
The only video footage they have doesn't show his face...but she noticed something else.
He walks with a limp.
She trails her hand over the rifle once more before storing it away.
Something hasn't been sitting right with her - well, nothing about this case has - about the shooter's nests. Espo had pointed out the compromised sight line, especially of the second one, that a higher perch would have made more sense from a tactical standpoint.
She needs to go back.
She's surprised to see Rick at the coffee shop, where they finally have a potential lead, but she's not mad about it. As much as she wants him far away from the case, from being a potential target, even just being here helps calm her racing heart.
She shares what she'd noticed about the shooter, about his potential disability, and all of a sudden they have a sketch and a way to narrow down their suspect pool.
And then they find the third sniper nest…
And a group of paper dolls.
Shit.
Once they realize the dolls are predicting a victim - victims - in Central Park, all hell breaks loose.
She's glad Rick stays at the precinct, so she doesn't have to force him to. It's already stressful enough; she doesn't need to worry about his safety on top of everything else.
It's pure luck that she finds the right open door, that she sees the rifle pointing out the window. She pushes through, yelling for him to freeze...
A slam, a push, the clatter of her gun sliding across the floor.
For the second time since her shooting seven months ago, she's staring down the barrel of a gun.
Only this time, she's on the floor, with no way to defend herself.
Her heart races, threatening to burst out of her chest as she stares at Lee Travis, one of her hands low on her belly. She sees his gaze flick down, his brows furrow briefly before he meets her eyes again.
She can see the gun trembling in his hand; he's been killing people from afar, an anonymous assassin. But now she's up close and personal, and she doesn't think he's prepared for this. She lifts her hand, palm out, and takes a deep breath to steady her voice.
"Put the gun down, Lee."
He shakes his head, and she can see the panic in his eyes. "I have a job to do," he almost mumbles, his words barely audible.
She inhales sharply through her nose, exhales through her mouth, barely containing the panic that's threatening to boil over. "Why don't you just call it like it is, okay?" she says. "You shoot people in cold blood."
Lee's eyes flash. "Those people deserve what they're getting," he snaps, his voice raising with every word. "God blessed them. He gave to them and took from me. My legs, my life. How is that fair, huh? How is that right?"
Her breath catches in her throat when he gestures with the gun, pointing it every which way around the room. She keeps her eye on it; if she times this right, if he gets close enough, she might be able to grab it, disarm him before he hurts anyone else...
Before he hurts her.
But first she has to calm him down.
Maybe she can reason with him.
"Those people that you blame? They're no different than you."
"You're just saying that 'cause you're one of them," he argues, focusing his attention – and the gun – back on her.
Shit.
She's going to lose him if she isn't careful. Lunging for the gun is out of the question now, so all she can do is try and de-escalate. Talk to him.
She pauses for a moment, her mind racing, trying to figure out the best course of action. Calling him out for murder didn't work.
Maybe relating to him will.
"You think my life is a picnic?" she finally asks, her voice low, trying desperately to keep it steady. She notices confusion on Lee's face again, and she grips the collar of her shirt and tugs it down until it shows the scar between her breasts. She looks down at it, eyes watering with unshed tears as she bares herself – her scar, her past, her pain – and meets his eyes once again.
"I know what it feels like to be in those crosshairs, to feel the bullet burn through my chest," she continues, eyes locked on his, watching him, waiting for her chance. She swallows around the thick lump in her throat. "I know what it feels like to have my life leave my body."
Most of that day is a blur. But she'll remember that feeling forever.
And he will too, she knows, can see it in the way his breath catches in his throat, his gun dips just slightly.
"And I think you do too."
He lifts his gaze to hers, his dark, blank eyes softening.
"I think that's why you keep leaving those paper dolls behind, because you're looking for somebody to help you find another way."
He shakes his head. "There is no other way. It's too late."
"No," she argues, "no, there's always another way."
Lee continues to shake his head, though, and she sees his eyes glaze over again, can see that she's losing him.
No.
"I want to help you." She scoots forward an inch. "I know that you're in pain, and we can find a better voice for that pain."
Please let me help you.
"Please just put that gun down."
Lee relaxes for a fraction of a moment, then tightens his grip. "Just turn around."
"No."
"Don't look at me, just turn around."
"No!" She straightens up as much as she dares with the muzzle of a pistol three feet from her face. "If you're gonna shoot me, you look at me in the eyes, okay?"
He's going to kill me.
Something strange happens then.
She doesn't panic.
She's scared, yes. Scared that all this effort and work she's put into her healing will all be for naught, that she's going to die anyway.
She doesn't want to die.
She worries for the life of her unborn child. She's never felt so protective, so determined to stay alive in the face of imminent danger. Her hand presses against her belly again.
"If you're gonna shoot us," she repeats, emphasizing the last word, watching his eyes flash with confusion, "you look in my eyes, and you look hard. Because I am not your enemy. I can't be." She shakes her head. "You and I have too much in common."
He starts to lower the gun, and she starts to relax. Not much, just a fraction.
He's going to stop.
I did it.
"No we don't. I have a job to do."
Her heart sinks as he lifts the gun again. She watches his finger land on the trigger, start to squeeze-
There's a loud crash, and he falls to the ground, the life leaving him before her very eyes.
For the second time today, she rides the elevator with trembling hands.
This time, though, the weight on her shoulders is a little bit lighter.
Her mind races as she replays the events of the afternoon, the long minutes before Lee Travis was killed. She'd hoped to be able to talk him down, to tell his sister that they abided by her request not to hurt him. She thought that telling him to look in her eyes would stop him, would make him pause long enough that he could be taken down some other way. He's been killing from a distance, so she thought that killing up close would be too much.
But she was wrong.
Were it not for Javi, she'd be dead.
There's a flutter in her belly, and she looks down, presses her hand against it. She's familiar with many feelings: indigestion, panic, dread. But what she feels now, this flutter, it's different.
She tries to remember what she's read about fetal development at sixteen weeks. It's about the size of an avocado, she knows, and she vaguely recalls hearing that she may be able to feel them move.
It feels like a squirmy goldfish, she'd read on a message board, and she smiles. Yep, that's exactly how it feels.
She sighs in relief, the worry she didn't realize she had evaporating into thin air.
Her baby's okay.
She glances up when she steps off the elevator, pauses when she sees Rick sitting in the chair next to her desk.
Didn't he go home? What the hell is he doing here?
He lifts his head when she approaches, his eyes following her as she sits and turns to face him. "What happened?" he asks in a low voice, leaning close. "Are you okay? And-" He glances at her stomach.
She nods. "Yeah, we're okay. Just-" She sighs, her eyelids heavy, all of the adrenaline from the past 72 hours completely disappearing.
God, she's tired.
"Look, I have to debrief and write up the report." She meets his gaze, her heart swelling as she recognizes the concern reflected in the blue of his eyes. But whereas before, his attentiveness had overwhelmed her, had annoyed and infuriated her, now, she doesn't mind. Now, it's sweet.
"Can I come over after?" she asks quietly.
He studies her for a long time, then nods. "Of course. Want me to wait?"
"No, I don't know how long I'll be."
"Okay." He moves to stand, but hesitates, then covers her hand with his and squeezes. "Let me know when you're on your way."
She didn't realize how hungry she was, but when she steps off the elevator and smells something delicious coming from Rick's apartment, her stomach growls and her mouth waters.
The door opens just a few seconds after she knocks, and even though she knows she deserves it after how she pushed him away over the past few days, the trepidation in his eyes stings a little.
"I took the liberty of making dinner," he says after a short greeting. "Figured you haven't eaten much. Hopefully lasagna still agrees with you."
"It should." She kicks off her shoes as she follows him into the kitchen. "Can I help?"
He shakes his head and gives her a glass of water. "Nope, it's almost done." The surprise at his tone must show on her face, because his gaze softens and he finds her hand with his and squeezes her fingers. "Thanks though. Go relax. I'll come get you in a few."
She slides onto a chair at the bar, answers Rick's raised brow of one of her own. He just shrugs and turns to the oven, and she allows herself a smirk in victory.
They're both silent, Rick checking the dinner, Kate sipping her water. It isn't a comfortable silence, though, of two people getting used to just being in each other's presence.
It's stilted and awkward, with tension so thick between them she can feel it.
She can't shake the feeling that he's mad at her, although he hasn't said as much. But over the last two months, she's learned how to read him, the non-verbal clues to his mood any time she's with him. And usually he's relaxed, loose, exudes a warmth that draws her to him.
But not tonight.
He's not mean or rude, but there's tension in his shoulders and coldness in his eyes that she doesn't usually see.
It almost feels like he's pouting or punishing her for something.
And it's starting to piss her off.
Anger bubbles in her chest, but she takes a deep breath so she doesn't say something she'll regret.
"What's wrong?"
Rick looks up from the salad bowl that's claimed his attention. "Nothing," he says with a shrug.
She raises a sharp brow. "Bullshit," she argues, standing and moving around the table.
He puts his hand on her back and redirects her towards the dining table. "Dinner's ready. We both need to eat."
She glares at him, but he just matches it, and she sighs and sits at the table.
They eat in silence, food that she's sure would be delicious if not for the sour taste of dread on her tongue.
As much as she wants to call him out on this random bad mood, once she starts eating she can't stop. Before she realizes it, her plate is empty, and she leans back in her chair, satisfied.
Well, no longer hungry, anyway. She's far from satisfied.
Rick finishes his dinner moments after her, and he pushes back, as if he's ready for this to be over.
Oh, hell no.
Kate grabs his forearm, stopping him, and she fixes her best interrogation glare on him until he settles back in his chair.
"What the hell is wrong with you? And don't say nothing," she snaps. "Are you mad because I didn't return a couple texts?"
"No."
"Is it because I kicked you out of the precinct? A lot of good that did, by the way, you just came back," she adds, unable to keep the bitterness from creeping into her words.
A muscle in Rick's jaw clenches. "No," he repeats.
"Then what is it, Rick? What did I do to piss you off so bad that you can't get away from me fast enough?"
"I'm not-" He sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. "I panicked, okay? Maybe I shouldn't have gone to the precinct without your okay. Maybe I overstepped by bringing you food, even though I'm pretty sure I was right about you not eating," he adds.
When Kate raises her brows at that – she did order delivery once – he glares right back. "I won't apologize for worrying or checking up on you. I'll apologize for not asking ahead of time to come to the precinct, but I will also point out that you weren't answering any of my calls or texts. I was worried, Kate. At first, I assumed you were focused on a case, but then I heard about the sniper..."
He shrugs. "I panicked. Sue me."
"You-" She scoffs and rolls her eyes. "You were worried, so you came to check up on me, involved yourself in something you technically had no right to, ignored my multiple requests to go home, and now you're mad at me? For what, not welcoming you with open arms?" She rakes her fingers through her hair. "This is ridiculous, Rick. I am not responsible for your choices, so don't punish me for them."
"I thought something happened to you!" he yells. "Fuck, Kate, you're carrying our child. If you were hurt, or worse, and nobody knew to call me, or if I could've been there and done something..." His voice cracks and he reaches out, covers her outstretched hand with his, trails his fingers along the bandage on her wrist. "And seeing you break down at that scene, seeing this..."
She flips her hand under his, curls her fingers around his palm. "I just dropped the coffee pot," she whispers. She realizes now why he'd been in a near-panic when he saw the bandage. He must have thought-
"It was an accident."
He lifts his concerned gaze to hers. "Are you okay?"
She hesitates.
That's the question, isn't it?
Her free hand comes up to press against the scar on her chest. She isn't okay; if anything, this case showed her that she's a long way from okay.
But she's getting there.
Holding the rifle – coming face-to-face with the item that almost took her life, being reminded that it's just a hunk of metal – it helped. Catching Lee Travis, even though it ended with him dead, helped. She's already planning to call Dr. Burke tomorrow to ask if she can see him before her next scheduled appointment. And Rick...
As much as him injecting himself into the case upset her – she didn't ever want him to see her that vulnerable, that weak – his presence did eventually calm her.
Plus, his insight and research helped. If he hadn't provided the information about the paper dolls, this might not be over.
She feels a squeeze on her hand, and she looks up, offers Rick a small smile. "No. But I will be." She presses her free hand to his cheek and leans forward, brushes her lips against his. "Thank you," she whispers.
He leans back just enough so he can look in her eyes, his brows furrowed. "For what?"
"For being there. For coming back, even when I pushed you away." She trails her thumb along his jaw. "I tend to get lost in cases. And this one..." She pauses, trying to find the words to describe how much it affected her.
"It threw me off my axis," she finally admits. "It was too close, too personal, and I lost myself for a bit. Javi helped get me out of the spiral, and so did my therapist, although I didn't know it when I stormed out of his office," she adds with a small smile. "And you. I was in no place to admit it, but I couldn't have gotten through this case without you."
Her name falls from Rick's lips on a sigh, and she leans forward and kisses him again. They keep it brief, and she pulls back after a few soft caresses of her lips against his, but still her heart pounds in her chest, and Rick's eyes are dark when they flutter open.
He cups her waist with his hand and trails his palm down her side, where the long, jagged scar mars her skin. "Will you tell me about them?" he asks in a low, rough voice.
She looks deep in his eyes, at the shimmer of unshed tears, the desire, the curiosity. For the first time, she wants to share everything. Not just that she was shot, or how serious it was, but the entire dark, depressing story. He knows about her mom, how that tragedy drove her to be who she is today. But she's never explained the toll it took on her, how far down the rabbit hole she fell...
Or that the only thing that pulled her out this time was dying in the back of an ambulance and being brought back to life by her best friend.
"Yes," she whispers. "Not tonight. But I will, I promise."