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A one time thing

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If it only takes a moment for your life to change forever, can a 'one time thing' right the wrong? An AU Caskett meeting.

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The club pulsates around her. Too many bodies squeeze into a space that's too small, but she doesn't care; tonight is about donning a mask and shedding the shackles that normally bind her. The thump coming through the dance floor vibrates up the heels of her stilettos, the crush of sweaty skin becomes an adhesive film as she slams against those next to her, and the sharp bite of the alcohol burns as it travels the length of her throat.

Together it all tangles, activating every nerve ending, bring her to life. She is alive. New York is safe. And that's all that matters - at least for tonight.

Raising her arms above her head, she surrenders herself to the music, lets it dictate her actions rather than attempting to control what is happening, and as those around her follow suit she can't help but laugh.

This is not her. This is not something she does. But recent events are weighing on her shoulders and she's determined that tonight is about being anything – anyone - other thanDetective Beckett. Tonight she is just Kate, out for a good time and willing to go with the flow.

Tomorrow life will return to normal.

A pair of hands drift across her silk covered hips, and she spins into the movement, preparing to break the fingers of whichever idiot was stupid enough to touch her. But her graceful pivot morphs into a clumsy jerk as his breath grazes her cheek.

"Sorry." The apology tumbles from the stranger, his hands already lifting from her body, but as she straightens, her reprimand dies on her tongue. He's pressing the backs of both hands to his chest, pushing the well-fitted jacket aside to reveal the hint of a red shirt, and all ten fingers spread in surrender. Remorse marks his features; his wide mouth drawing downwards in a frown, his forehead creasing in concern, but it's his eyes that capture her complete attention. Bright blue, they're piercing, except, as his gaze drills a hole straight through her – he appears almost… unaware.

"It's okay." She reassures as she curves toward him. Whatever he was doing, it all appears to be innocent enough and she's happy to let it go.

The corner of his mouth elevates, barely a stir, and she encourages him with a smile of her own. Yet surprisingly, his face falls, the frown returning, and she can't help but inquire, "Are you okay?"

Nodding, his entire body shifts, and even though he is at an angle to her left, their bodies are close enough that, as each muscle contracts within his tall frame, he erects a barrier that separates them, a cloak that he wraps himself in. She may have only just met him, but his move is a familiar one – one that she'd perfected long ago. Her current mask has been firmly in place since Josh announced that their relationship was over. That he was heading to Africa. That he was leaving her for something better.

"Yeah. I'm fine." There's a pretentiousness that slides into place, a performance to the way his gaze gradually falls down her body, an exaggeration to his smirk as his tongue licks his lips. She would normally write those kinds of actions off as a cocky playboy out and about, looking for a quick fuck, but the detective in her whispers its doubts.

Ignoring the fact he's presenting a façade – ignoring her own façade, for that matter - she eases a hand through her hair, shaking loose her brown curls. Having gotten his attention, she pushes her body against his, her mouth finding its way to the outer line of his ear and she asks, "Do you want to get us some drinks?"

She's not Detective Beckett tonight and she didn't come out looking for a mystery to solve, but at least with this truly sexy specimen of a man she has found a way to silence her own troubles.

Drifting backward, she slides down his body, the hem of her blue dress catching on the rough of his jeans. His gaze drops and he brushes aside the devil on his shoulder, the one telling him to insert his hands between the silk material and her skin so he can assist its progression higher.

He didn't come here tonight looking for this type of distraction – the liquid kind is enough – but with one simple question, the heat in her voice has engulfed him. And why should he bother fighting it?

Keeping the arrogant grin firmly on his face, he slides a hand low on her hip, and indicates for her to head to the bar. The way she struts before him, holding her body strong and straight against the crowd has him stalling, his curiosity sparked. What could she possibly do between the hours of nine to five that would instil within her such self-confidence? A predator disguised as a gazelle, she moves with purpose radiating from her. There are still men stupid enough to shift closer - standing in her way - but without a second glance, she leaves them in her wake, and if he doesn't follow soon, he's going to be joining those poor, pitiful souls.

Stretching his stride, he covers the distance between them, his body stopping abruptly with hers as they reach the bar, but rather than go around, he instead brackets her hips with his own. Urging her into the hard edge of the counter, he winds both arms around her waist, resting them against the wood, protecting her from the rim.

Well, if anyone asks, that's what he'll tell them.

Leaning over her shoulder, he calls out to the barely legal bartender that they'll have two tequila shots, and she startles inside his arms. Not reacting, he pretends that her body didn't stiffen against his, that her head didn't dip forward, and instead searches for a way to distract her while they wait for their drinks to be delivered.

Deliberately dragging one of his arms out of the enclosed space that he encouraged her into, he gradually relocates his hand, freeing it so that he can retrieve the money from the front pocket of his jeans.

There's a huff that leaves her body, a fraction of a second where her body sags before straightening, her head lifting as she arches back onto his shoulder and he slams the bills onto the bar hard enough to sting the skin of his palm.

He's got no doubt whatsoever that tonight – for him – is all about hiding from reality for a few blessed hours. But her actions are leaving a trail of clues that are leading him to the conclusion – he's not the only one running from demons.

"Have you got the lime and salt?"

He asks the question clearly, but the way his lips open and close so near to hers, the way that she could just slant herself forward and trap his mouth with her own, makes listening a difficult thing to do.

She must remain silent for too long - his right eyebrow raises, and nodding stupidly, she gathers the items between both palms, following him as he walks through the crowd. The people in front of him part automatically, taking steps to get out of his way, and it's oddly familiar. Not him, but the movement, the self-assurance that those before him won't stay there for too long.

She's watched Espo and Ryan do the same thing at crime scenes, or more often than not, when they head inside their favorite bakery. The purpose that surrounds them is a tangible wave that people react to accordingly. There is no doubt this man has the same ability - but why do they have this in common?

The boys – if they were here – would be throwing theories around, CIA and FBI, an alphabet soup of possibilities. Well, Ryan would be throwing the acronyms around; Espo would merely laugh at the ideas until his partner pouted, arms crossed, arguing that anything was possible.

They would be at their own homes now, reaffirming life with their respective partners, which is how she came to be here - alone. She's partnerless, both at home and at work, although the latter is due to change tomorrow.

God help her, and whichever jackass they pair her with.

Latching her eyes on the round ass before her - the way his jeans sculpt his rear perfectly - has her squeezing the saltshaker and lime slices harder than necessary and the citrus spills between her fingertips. She relaxes her grip; this will only be half as fun if there's no tang at the end.

His body drops into the corner of a booth - its previous occupants already edging out the other side - and he scoots toward the middle of the U, their drinks now situated in the center of the small table.

Still standing, her eyes rake over his long limbs, the way his thigh muscles strain the denim and she makes a conscious effort not to destroy the lime in her hand any more than she already has. Continuing her perusal, her gaze stutters on his biceps, her hands itching to touch, but she forges on, takes in his arms as he stretches them horizontally along the back of the seat, coarse fingers flex invitingly. If he held her against the wall, could he support her in her entirety? Hold her tight while he-

Closing her eyes, the next move is all hers. Where she places her body in relation to his will say a lot about where tonight goes.

The heat from his eyes ignites her frozen veins, melting the ice that formed when she was inside the freezer - trapped. The cold had seeped into her bones, stealing her consciousness, yet it's not fear that's echoing, but her friend's wise words. "We're gonna die, and I never took the chances that I should've."

It doesn't matter that Javier was talking about Lanie; it applies here just as much.

She is free to walk away in the morning, go back to her regular life. Tonight - tonight she can be warm; she can celebrate life, no questions asked, in the best possible way.

Emptying her hands, she sits and angles her body into the space next to him. A knee hard into his thigh, a crooked elbow squeezing between the upper edge of the seat and his extended arm, her head coming to rest in her palm. Her position allows her hair to fall from where her neck concaves, exposing a long strip of skin, and she gradually releases a smirk. There is purpose to her actions and as his eyes catch on her naked flesh, a corresponding smirk cracks his features - she's succeeded.

Yet as he reaches for the salt, fingers toying with its lid, he pauses, staring intently at the grains, and she swallows her own uncertainty, attempts to get his focus back.

"So, do you live around here? Or…?"

With her top teeth, she drags the corner of her bottom lip into her mouth, her eyes closing at her own stupidity.

"You want to swap small talk?"

His reply is harsh. Not what he meant at all. It's just her question is bringing back to the surface everything that he's been trying to push down.

Home. Life. Living.

None of them are words he indulges in anymore. The hotel he is currently residing in is testimony to that, as is the new position he is starting tomorrow. It all paints a less than pretty picture. No matter the number of years he's been running, he's yet to find a reason to stop.

Thankfully she shakes her head, freeing more curls, revealing more neck, and his blood boils eagerly; a flash of white teeth appear as she gnaws on her bottom lip – and he's a goner.

The way she's angled into him provides a sufficient amount of space for him to plant a fist between her knees, and, pushing down on the seat's cushion, he lifts himself. Not meeting her gaze, he instead concentrates on the delicious arch of her neck, and bending forward he runs his tongue up until he reaches the lobe of her ear. He probably shouldn't, but his teeth trap the loose flesh, nipping quickly before drawing back to line the moisture with salt.

Starting at the bottom of his trail, he slows down to such a degree that the rock of her body, the way her thighs contract against his arm, becomes even more pronounced. The background noise dissolves, everyone disappearing until there is just him and her, and this moment. It's nothing big, not even the first time that he has been here, and yet, somehow… There is more here than there should be. There's an everything to what they are doing.

Leaving her ear unscathed this time, he reaches for the table, drowning the shot before holding the lime between them. Against his better judgment he looks at her, simultaneously drowning in the depths of her soul. If he were still a writer he could easily spend the rest of his life describing the expressions that are dancing across her face.

Taking the slice from his fingers, she maintains eye contact – it's almost a challenge now – and bringing it to her lips, she pushes the lime's rind into her mouth. And damn - if his heart hadn't stopped beating long ago he would most certainly be dead from her actions.

Without warning though, she spits it out, delicately holds it between two fingers and uncertainty washes over him. If she backs away from where they are heading, he'll respect and understand, but the disappointment will crush him, let alone the hours he'll be spending under a cold shower.

"Your name?" She huffs, eyes rolling adorably, and she clarifies, "I don't need your life story. But…?" Her shrug completes her sentence and he grins, a genuine smile at the way she nervously fidgets after having asked.

"It's Rick."

"Hi... I'm Kate."

to be continued...

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Thank you to Jo and Jamie, for the beta and for the talking me off the ledge I so often find myself on, especially with this one xoxo

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Thank you for reading

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