Archive of Our Own ^beta

i.

The first time she hears it, Lucy is caught so off-guard that she freezes on the spot. She just opened the door in the basement that leads to Ernie’s lair and is greeted by the sight of none other than NCIS’ resident tech whiz and her girlfriend doing a fist bump. That by itself should have her suspicious and readying a dozen teasing remarks because FBI Special Agent Kate Whistler does not do fist bumps. But what has her stopping in the door frame, all wide-eyed and speechless, is what comes next. 

“See you later,” Whistler says and steps away from the desk. 

Without looking up from his screens, Ernie mumbles, “Bye, Katie.” 

Lucy muffles a gasp behind her hand, sure that this is Ernie’s undoing and Whistler’s infamous wrath will descend on him any second. There will be the glare. And the tic in her jaw. And the grinding of her teeth that Lucy knows her parents paid God knows how much money for to an orthodontist for damage control. None of it happens. Instead, Whistler’s head snaps up and the initial sharpness melts from her eyes into something incredibly soft as soon as she recognizes who entered the room. 

“Hey, Luce.” 

She’s smiling, radiant like the sun and Lucy is too blinded by it to do more than drop her hand before Whistler closes the distance between them in two long strides. “I should go home and change. They called me when I was still at the beach. Something about identity theft.” 

Lucy nods absentmindedly. Partially because of the scene that she’s the sole witness to and that no one upstairs will believe her, and partially because Whistler’s hair is wet and curly and smells like salt and her shorts put on display what her loose jacket hides. Lucy swallows. So much naked skin. She snaps out of it when Whistler’s hand lands on her hip to subtly draw her in. 

“Pick me up for lunch?” 

It’s a whisper against her hairline followed by a soft kiss. 

They are not affectionate at work. Not overly at least. They are Lucy and Whistler and besides a couple of stolen glances during meetings or standing a bit too close together in the war room, they are professionals. But they aren’t hiding anything either. Not again. Not after- No. And anyway, this is Ernie’s safe space and Lucy soaks up the feeling of Whistler’s taller frame pressed against hers and only gets out a hum. Whistler squeezes her hip. The touch is warm and inviting and Lucy wishes she could drag them both back to bed.

“Good.” 

Lucy doesn’t fully resurface from her stupor before the door clicks shut behind her.

“Seriously?” she explodes a second later, loud and with flailing limbs that make Ernie jump in his seat. “Katie?” 

Ernie stares at her like he always does when he’s trying to figure out how humans exactly work, brows furrowed, lips slightly parted. “Yeah? So?” 

“You’re telling me she lets you get away with that?” Lucy has stepped closer to the desk, still gesturing wildly and Ernie reaches out protectively for his little figurine of a Hula dancer.

“Lets me get away with what?” Ernie’s eyes dart around as if he’s assessing where Lucy’s hands could cause the most damage, “Calling her Katie?” 

“Uh huh,” Lucy nods vigorously. She’s trapped somewhere between being excited and outraged and verbalizing that seems impossible right now. Because Ernie keeps on frowning at her like it’s no big deal. Like Whistler allows anyone to call her that. Or to call her anything at all despite her actual name. Lucy would know. She’s her girlfriend after all. The one person with the privilege to spin her love and affection into a name and whisper it in the small delicate space between two kisses. 

“Yeah, I guess she does,” Ernie shrugs. Again. Like it’s no big deal. He’s about to go back to his screens when he catches Lucy’s sour expression. “Is that a problem?” 

Lucy purses her lips, “No.” 

Ernie is allowed to call Whistler whatever she concedes to him. They are friends. 

It’s just. Ugh. 

It rubs her the wrong way. Which, of course, is ridiculous.

“Looks like it’s a problem to me. Is it because the name is, like, a kinky thing for you two?” 

“What?” Lucy’s cheeks grow hot, “No!” 

It’s not like they haven’t ventured into the fun, creative madness of kinks but name-calling hasn’t come up so far. Except that one time when Whistler was railing her into the mattress and Lucy had wanted to call her every dirty name that crossed her mind if only to spur her further on. She shakes that particularly steamy memory from her mind and tries to focus again on Ernie. 

“What is it then? What do you call her?” 

“Well, definitely not Katie,” Lucy huffs with crossed arms. “Mostly Kate, I guess. I think not many people do that.” Then she loosens her stiff posture, feels the smile creep into her cheeks before she hears it in her voice. “One time I called her Kitten, and she almost made me sleep on the couch.” 

Judging by the crinkle between his brows, Ernie doesn’t get why being sent to the doghouse makes her smile so much. But he doesn’t know that Whistler came in the middle of the night to drag her back to bed and draw in shaky breathy moans the promise out of her to absolutely never ever again call her a baby cat. Sometimes Lucy likes to imagine what would happen if she did. 

“Anyway,” she shakes her head, “How did you even come up with that?” 

“Come up- I didn’t come up with it. I overheard her on the phone the other day. I think it was her dad.” 

Lucy cocks her head to the side, “Just like that?”

Ernie nods hesitantly. Lucy lets her head loll back and groans. 

“Tell me again,” he says, the crinkle between his brows having extended to the rest of his face, “Why is this such a big deal?” 

That is a question Lucy isn’t sure she knows the answer to. She’s always been fond of nicknames. With her family when she was a child. With her friends in high school. With her partners. It’s something that comes naturally to her sooner or later. Only with Whistler it hadn’t. Not when they first were together and too busy fucking. Not the second time when everything was fragile like glass, and things imploded right when Lucy was on the brink of fully committing to the relationship. And not since they started over and Lucy fears she’s missed her chance somehow. And now it kind of is a big deal that leaves an ache in her chest whenever she tries to figure out why. “Because I haven’t gotten to call her anything yet,” Lucy whines eventually. 

“Okay,” Ernie drawls, “Have you tried, though?” 

Lucy looks at him askance. Sure, that kitten-incident ended nicely for her. Very, very nicely. But now she’s once bitten and – God – what if she keeps using names that Whistler doesn’t like? Because a creepy uncle used it or an ex or she or – No she will not test her girlfriend’s patience. Not like that. She prefers to sleep in their bed at night instead of on the couch. With her head resting on Whistler’s shoulder or with those long arms wrapped around her from behind. She also prefers to test Whistler’s patience with her head between her legs and her taste on her tongue until Whistler’s gasping and needy and “Luce, please!” 

“What’s the worst that can happen?” Ernie asks. 

It’s a small reprieve that apparently, he hasn’t unraveled all of Whistler’s mysteries yet and despite that little twinge of jealousy remaining, Lucy grins, “Oh, you have no idea.” 

And with that, Ernie reaches his limit because he dives head-first into some lengthy explanations on identity theft and doesn’t bring up Katie again.

ii.

For a while after that, Lucy doesn’t even think about that morning anymore. They have a couple of tough cases that allow for very little head space to wonder whether your girlfriend might strangle you in your sleep for giving her a pet name. And really, it’s good. 

Lucy is the one to tangle her fingers with Whistler’s at the end of the day, to rise to her tiptoes and mumble “Let’s go home” against waiting and smiling lips. She’s the one who gets to see the blush spreading like pink dust on Whistler’s cheeks and her neck when Lucy takes her own shirt off in the middle of the living room. And when Lucy is using her best come-hither look while walking backwards to the bedroom the color spreads all the way down to Whistler’s collarbones. She’s the only one who gets to shatter her into moans and gasps and put her back together again. The one whom Whistler looks at like she’s the pivot her whole universe revolves around while they bask in the afterglow. Lucy is the one who fought tooth and nail to be allowed behind the walls that followed Whistler all the way from DC. Whistler is hers. She never wants to doubt that again. That’s why it’s just – Fuck – to get this jealous of Ernie of all people.

Lucy knows it’s silly. On so many levels. But these names should be hers, too. Whistler is hers to be called Babe, Darling, Girlfriend, Fuck Yes. And hers alone. No more secret women thousands of miles away that might text in the middle of the night “I miss you, sweetie”. This time she knows there aren’t. She can feel it in every smile Whistler directs her way. In every kiss they share. And so, Lucy tries to forget about that morning in Ernie’s office and the completely misplaced envy. With little success.

Today is Saturday and way too early, considering that they celebrated solving their latest case way too long last night. Which is a good thing, in a way, because Lucy’s not fully awake yet to panic about the fact that the ocean is a mere thirty yards away. She draws Whistler’s green hoodie closer around herself, sips at her coffee and grumbles, “Why are we here again?” 

Heather lifts her gaze from her youngest son building a sandcastle on the shore and gives her a sympathetic smile, “Jesse told me you don’t like the beach.” 

“Oh, the beach is fine. It’s not the beach I have a problem with,” Lucy huffs as she wiggles her toes in the cold sand. 

After all, it’s not the first time she’s here. Well, maybe with Jesse’s family but she’s come here with Whistler now and again for dawn patrol, as she calls it. The first time she steadfastly refused to leave the SUV. That lasted barely an hour before her boredom trumped her fear and Lucy bravely ventured onto the sand. In exchange for a constant feeling of unease while she huddled on the single, small towel they brought, she got to see Whistler surfing. Which kind of made everything else more tolerable. 

Because Whistler is different in the water. Moves differently. She’s by no means gawky on land, Lucy has stared after her when she strode out of the bullpen in high heels often enough to know that. But she’s fighting her own body constantly either with her too straight posture or her fidgeting or misjudging where her punch lands in a fistfight. In the water Whistler moves with the elegance and precision of a dancer. And Lucy is left to watch her in awe and only a slight fear for her life ever since that first morning. 

With each visit, Lucy inched her towel closer and closer to the water. Obviously, it’s to slowly conquer her fear. Not because the closer she is to gently lapping waves the better she can catch sight of Whistler’s tall body dip and twist into bottom turns or drop-ins or whatever the hell all those surfing terms are that Whistler recently started spouting like a waterfall. 

So, the beach – the beach is good. It’s the blue-green, indefinite, roaring pit of hell behind it she hates. Heather follows her distrusting gaze that is settled on the growing swell, “Is it the ocean?” 

Lucy grumbles into her mug. Heather turns more fully towards her now and Lucy can’t decide if she’s genuinely confused or just hiding her amusement well. “But you work for the Navy and-” 

“And live on an island,” Lucy throws her hands up, “Believe me, I know!” 

Will people ever stop stating the obvious?

Heather looks like she’s about to say more when her attention is redirected to something at the beach entrance. The lines on her face smooth into a pleased smile. “Now I remember what I’m doing here at six twenty on a Saturday morning.” 

Lucy twists around and – oh, yeah. She has no problem remembering, too. Making their way towards them from where they parked the cars are Jesse, Kai, and Whistler, all with their surfboards tucked under their arms and bright, excited grins on their faces. Lucy thinks it’s cute that Jesse and his wife still have the hots for each other after three kids, a dog, and a cat. It’s a brief thought, though. Because then all she can think about is Whistler coming closer, clad only in a bikini. It’s modest and sporty with bottoms that remind her of men’s trunks but it’s Whistler, God damnit, and Lucy is just a poor, small lesbian. If she’s actually biting her lip while she drinks Whistler in like she’s the morning sun, she couldn’t say. And she doesn’t really care either. The sight never fails to fill her with slow, burning excitement.

“Eh, eyes up here, Luce,” Kai laughs when the trio reaches their rectangle of towels and bags. Lucy glares at him with all the heat she feels racing in her cheeks. It’s not her fault that Whistler looks this gorgeous. 

“Hah,” Jesse says on Whistler’s other side, “You wish she was looking at you.” 

Kai scoffs, “Yeah, and be on Whistler’s bad side? Again? No, thank you.” 

“I’ve made tougher men than you cry, Holman, you don’t ever want to be on my bad side,” Whistler says extra seriously. 

Then they all share a goofy grin. 

It’s sweet to see firsthand how Whistler has carved her place among this found family over time. To see her joking and laughing so freely with the boys without fearing to be giving away too much about herself. It makes Lucy strangely proud and she would have added her own two cents to the conversation if she wasn’t so preoccupied with the way Whistler’s bicep bulges around the surfboard. It does the same when Whistler is three knuckles deep inside her and one thrust away from turning Lucy boneless. It’s distracting. More than a little bit.

“Anyway,” Jesse clears his throat, after giving Lucy a long look, “You good here?” 

Heather quickly squeezes his free hand from where she’s sitting, “Yeah. You guys go and have fun.” 

Lucy squints up against the gray sky and mutters, “Just peachy.” 

Whistler’s brow immediately furrows in concern, “Are you sure? We don’t have to stay if-” 

Lucy cuts her off. That Whistler cares – like this – it’s touching. That she never stays longer than two hours in the water even if the waves are heavy and have juice and she can’t stop talking about barrels and nugs and being super stoked all the way to breakfast. She’s never missed the mark as if some inner alarm clock reminds her that someone is waiting for her. It’s that small gesture and knowing that Whistler isn’t careless and seeing this almost childlike excitement in her that has Lucy saying, “Nah, I’m good. The beach is growing on me.” 

“Sure it is,” Kai winks at her because of course Whistler has to readjust the hold on her board at that moment and Lucy’s eyes are glued to her – everything.

Whistler looks between them with that adorable, confused expression she sometimes gets right before she says things as Like the fruit? or Being supportive is weird? and it’s up to Jesse to finally get them going. “Let’s catch some waves. First one who goes grubbing buys breakfast.” 

He takes off towards the foamy whitewash with a loud cheer and Kai and Whistler are hot on his heels. Heather and Lucy tilt their heads to the side at the same moment, but the dreamy sigh is definitely on Heather. 

“Never gets old, does it?” 

“Preach,” Lucy says. 

And okay, maybe this time it is her dreamy little sigh. 

Time flies by and Lucy is somewhere close to enjoying herself. Heather is good people, and the conversation flows easily between them. At some point, little Edgar comes up from the shore, proclaiming that Lucy must help him look for shells for his castle. The lurking feeling of nervous anticipation she usually gets as soon as there’s sand beneath her feet is not there today and she agrees to go with him without a second thought.

It’s gotten easier to be close to bodies of water in the past months. Not good. Lucy can’t say if it’s ever going to be good. But not as terror inducing as it used to be. And Lucy knows exactly why that is. Whistler has met her phobia with nothing but patience and understanding and a look in her large brown eyes that would make Lucy walk to the ends of the earth for her. And maybe because of that or because Whistler has taken the spot as the most important person in her life, it’s she who Lucy mostly worries about nowadays at the beach and not herself. Therefore, her eyes occasionally drift to the open water during her little hunt with Edgar to search for a flash of blonde hair.

She tells herself that everything is fine. Why wouldn’t it be? The lineup is pretty empty and the few other surfers sitting there on their boards seem experienced enough to not steal any waves and cause a crash. The swell is slow and steady. The wind fresh but nothing to worry about. It’s just that sometimes she has this ridiculous thought that if the ocean can’t have her, it’s going to get her in another, crueler way.

Lucy takes deep breaths, watches how Whistler rides one particularly choppy wave fast like a rocket and finishes it with a kick out that is met with wild applause from Jesse and Kai that Lucy can see but not hear. They are too far out for that. When Whistler safely takes her place between the boys again in the lineup, Lucy shifts her attention back to Edgar. See, it’s all good. 

She crouches down to him, lets herself get infected by his enthusiasm about two absolutely identical shells and decides to feel good about this morning. Everything is fine. Everyone is having a great time. And, well, who would have thought? Lucy Tara does so too. 

Soon, she returns with Edgar to their towels, flops down onto her back and holds her face into the murky sky, awash with a simple joy that only comes from spending time with people you love. 

But the calm is short-lived. 

Of course, it is.

Because suddenly there are shouts mixed between the cries of the seagulls and the crashing of the waves that are loud enough to be carried all the way to land. They are not shouts of appraisal, not light and floaty like the breeze was a moment ago, but a whole other cadence. One that’s sharp and urgent and has Lucy bolting from the towels in a heartbeat. 

“What’s going on?” Heather asks and makes a beeline for Edgar and his sand toys. 

“I don’t know,” Lucy answers. She’s trying to find the reason for the sudden commotion but sees only endless blue. Her heart beats wildly in her chest. Her throat runs dry. Something isn’t right.

Whistler. Where is Whistler? 

Fear pumps through her fast like a bullet. Her pulse roars in her ears over the frantic shouts coming from the water. And then the panic is closing around her like a fist that squeezes every bit of rational thought from Lucy’s mind. She almost stumbles over her own feet in her haste to get to the shore. 

Something has happened. Now she can see it clearly. The water is in turmoil. There’s a patch where the ocean is white and angry, boiling from swirls that look like they can suck down anyone and not spit them back out. 

Lucy runs faster. The wind has picked up and blows hair in her face. Sand is whipping up against her bare legs hard enough to sting and the water is coming closer and closer, and the fist around her chest closes more and more. 

Kate. Oh God, Kate. 

Jesse is the first one she spots in the whitewash. He looks unharmed from afar and navigates his own board along with what Lucy thinks must be Kai’s next to an unfamiliar woman, a woman who is towing Whistler’s unmistakably white surfboard behind her. Lucy feels how her lungs are struggling against the fear to make her breathe. Her vision is swimming. There is still no sign of Whistler or Kai. Lucy runs straight into the ocean, unaware of the saltwater splashing high enough to reach her face and some into her eyes. 

Kate. Kate. Kate. 

“Where is Kate?” she shouts as soon as there’s any chance that Jesse can hear her. He’s visibly distressed, his face pale and scared and he keeps turning around every few steps to where the waves are rising and collapsing in closer intervals behind him. 

“There was a wave… Whistler and Kai wanted to ride it together but… shit… it just collapsed out of nowhere.” 

Through the thick fog of choking panic, Lucy can hear Whistler’s voice like a lulling murmur in her ear and the memory hits her like a punch in the gut.

 “It’s called a closeout, Luce. I told you, like, three times already.” 

A rainy day, a couple of weeks ago, Whistler and her snuggled up in the backseat of Whistler’s BMW, the only people far and wide at the beach. Lucy remembers how warm she was despite the downpour outside. How warm Whistler was. Warm and soft. She’s always so soft in the morning. When there’s only Kate. Without her walls and all open, raw feelings.

That morning Lucy cared about nothing that existed outside their cozy embrace because the world had shrunken down to the backseat and the fogged up windows and the feeling of being completely wrapped up in each other. Whistler had looked up at her with dark brown eyes that Lucy could get lost in forever and a smile that betrayed every ounce of annoyance her words might have carried.

“You also told me three times already what’s the difference between a Barney and a Benny. How’s a girl supposed to keep up with all that?” Lucy huffed and played with one of Whistler’s princess locks, content to simply be in the moment, to bask in this intimacy they got so seldomly because of their jobs. She soaked up all the spots their bodies were touching. Committed the rhythm of their breathing to memory. The fullness of her heart. Whistler’s cute snort.

“You’re a federal agent, who can memorize an autopsy report by reading it upside down for ten seconds but not some surf slang?” 

Lucy pushed herself off Whistler’s chest, her face the epitome of offense. “I did that one time. One time. Will you ever let me live that down?” 

There was a smile woven somewhere into her indignant words. Because she had apologized for that little stunt, hadn’t she? Very nicely in fact. And yet Whistler whipped it out ever so often to needle her with it. Yeah, she’s never going to live that one down.

Whistler proved her suspicions by shrugging non-committally and not meeting her eyes. But the flicker of irritation inside Lucy quickly ebbed away when she registered the feeling of fingers slowly moving up her naked arms. It was the most fleeting touch. Barely more than a breath of air. Lucy’s skin erupted in tingles under it. 

“There is the slight chance that I could perhaps be persuaded to do so.” 

Whistler was doing her best to keep her expression blank, but Lucy knew her well by then. So well. That little quiver in her bottom lip has always been her tell. A low hum escaped the back of Lucy’s throat when she settled her full weight back on the body below her. “Persuaded, huh?” 

Whistler’s lips curled upward while her eyes remained locked on a spot around Lucy’s collarbones. 

“And how am I supposed to do that?” 

She followed that question with a grind of her hips. Whistler reciprocated by curling her fingers tighter around Lucy’s arms and flicking her gaze back up. Every teasing remark or cocky smirk died right at the tip of Lucy’s tongue because of what she found in Whistler’s eyes at that moment. In the twilight of the car, they looked almost black or maybe it had nothing to do with the light at all. Lucy could get lost in them and the swirl of emotions they were bearing so willingly to her all the same. She could see Whistler’s heartbeat pick up, feel the way her breathing shifted.

“Didn’t we just establish that you’re a federal agent?” Whistler’s voice was no more than a whisper, almost indecipherable over the heavy rain. “Figure it out.” 

When Lucy leaned down for a kiss her cheeks hurt from grinning so hard. 

Now, that day seems so long ago and the memory is so bittersweet that Lucy wants to burst into tears right then and there. “A closeout,” she chokes on the word. 

“Yeah,” Jesse deflates, “There was nothing they could do.” 

“But where are they now? Why do you have their boards?” Lucy asks in a weak attempt to keep herself from hyperventilating. 

“Their… uh… leashes ripped,” the unknown woman offers in a small voice. Lucy is about to shout at her that that is not helping at all when she spots a flash of dark hair forty yards down the beach behind the woman. The next moment she’s running. 

Kai is stumbling up to shore, slow and sluggish because he’s half carrying half supporting the person by his side. Lucy’s heart skips a beat. Then another. She can’t see Whistler’s face but it’s clear from the way she’s slumped against Kai that whatever hit them when that wave collapsed over them, it hit her the hardest. 

There’s a scream lodged somewhere between Lucy’s ribs. Either born from fury or terror or any of the other emotions that whirl like a vortex through her stomach and make her sick. She’s less than twenty feet away when Kai lowers Whistler onto the sand and shakes her shoulders, “Wake up, Katie! Come on, open your eyes!” 

The next moment, Lucy crashes to the ground next to him, the wet sludge like sandpaper against her knees. The vortex in her stomach sends another spike of nausea through her while she wavers a split-second to take Whistler in. She’s breathing. It’s the first, most important thing to make sure of. And possibly the only reason that Lucy doesn’t dissolve into a blubbering mess. 

“Hey, Kate,” she croaks in a wobbly voice, reaches for Whistler’s pale face with shaking hands and freezes when her right palm comes back sticky and pink, “Please, wake up. Please, Kate, please.”

“I’m so sorry,” Kai says and retreats his hands to make it easier for her to pull Whistler closer, “Everything happened so fast.” 

Lucy’s head jerks up and she’s sure there must be fire sparking in her eyes from the way Kai flinches, “And what the fuck did happen?” 

The rational part of her knows that this is no one’s fault. The ocean is unpredictable and chances that they get hurt because of their jobs every single day are way higher. They are used to getting banged up at least once a week and learned to handle their respective reactions because of it. Lucy her fury. Whistler her worry. It happens so often that Whistler has a stack of ice packs in her freezer now that all have Lucy’s name scrawled across them and Lucy knows how to ease the kink from Whistler’s bad shoulder on cold days. But that is work and those injuries most often are out of their hands. Right now, the other, much larger part in her that is all wild, spiraling emotion only sees the gash on Whistler’s brow and the small, pink rivulet going down the side of her still face. “How could you let this happen!”

“I… uh… the wave…” 

“You’re supposed to look out for each other!” Lucy is lashing out and it’s unfair – she knows, she knows – but it’s what she does when she’s feeling helpless. She sounds shrill even to her own ears and doesn’t know how to stop because she’s damn fucking scared, and it leaks into her words and into her shaking hands.

It’s how she reacted, too, that one time Whistler charged into a house all by herself to do the right thing and ended up getting beaten up by an Argentinian hit-woman bad enough that she couldn’t even lift herself off the floor afterward. Lucy had been terrified. And then angry. So unbelievably angry. It allowed her to mask her fear behind a stony mask. Allowed her to yell at Whistler and not let on how much she meant to Lucy while there was still so much hurt between them. The anger was all she had that day. It’s all she has now, too. Because fear is unproductive. Fear steals every breath out of her lungs and leaves her dizzy and frozen. Fear seeps into her mind like a virus and turns every thought into a stinging burst of God, no and Please and Not like this. Not ever. 

“Wasn’t his fault, Luce…” 

The words are mumbled weakly against her thigh. Lucy lets out a sob, clings to the words like a lifeline and cradles Whistler’s face in her palm. Whistler groans. Then furrows her brows and her eyes flutter open. 

“Kate…” Lucy sighs while the relief washes over her strong enough to have her shaking all over again. 

She doesn’t say Babe, Darling, Lover. Just Kate. Over and over again in little sobs and hiccups while she tries to make Whistler’s drifting eyes focus on her. 

“She probably has a concussion. We should take her to Tripler. Or any other hospital.” Jesse says, appearing out of nowhere and looking at them with worry in his eyes.

Whistler swats a hand at him. Misses by miles. “I’m fine, guys. Just a little bump.” 

Lucy scoffs and it comes out wet and shaking. Whistler’s words are slurring like that time they did tequila shots with Tennant on Ernie’s birthday. “I’ll show you a little bump if you try to play this off. We’re going to call an ambulance right now,” she warns. 

“Really, I’m okay,” Whistler says before she heaves herself onto her elbows, “I can drive. I’m fine… I’m…” She trails off. Her eyes glaze over.

“I’m not feeling so good.” Then she rolls onto her stomach and throws up. 

Lucy doesn’t accept any kind of protest after that. They’re going to call an ambulance. Even if the boys insist they can drive and Whistler tries to agree with them while cleaning her mouth thanks to the water bottle Heather gives her. Their group is not a democracy. Not when Whistler is hurt and they’re all too casual about what kind of outcome a head trauma can have, and Lucy sees herself as the only one with any decision-making power. This is her injured girlfriend. She’s not taking any chances. No way. Her glare must have been fierce enough to convey exactly that because eventually Jesse goes ahead of them with Heather in tow to the blankets to make the call and gather their things while Lucy and Kai carefully maneuver Kate to their cars.

“I’m sorry,” Whistler mumbles under great effort when Lucy helps her to put on some dry clothes in the tiny space between the open doors and the backseat of the BMW. “I didn’t mean to scare you again.”

“Yeah, well, you didn’t do a very good job, did you?” Lucy snaps. Her hands haven’t stopped trembling and her heart thumps so hard in chest that she can feel it strain against her sternum. She’s shaken and high on a cocktail of adrenaline and fear and unsure how to tether herself. Last time, it took killing someone to bring her back to reality. This time it’s a gaze. The hurt confused gaze in Whistler’s still alarmingly unfocused eyes. Lucy softens immediately and tugs Whistler forward and into her instead of letting her retreat further into the car.

“Come here, I didn’t mean it like that,” Lucy cups Whistler’s chin for a moment to carefully tilt her head and make sure that the cut on her brow didn’t start to bleed again. Then she presses Whistler against her chest and murmurs, “I just don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Whistler grumbles something incoherent against Lucy’s chest, sinks further into the embrace and becomes downright heavy.

“Are you going to be sick again?” Lucy asks alarmed. No response. “Are you okay?”

Lucy jostles her lightly.

“Kate?”

Lucy pulls back enough to see that Whistler is close to falling asleep against her. Or worse. She shakes her shoulders and doesn’t stop until those disoriented brown eyes are trying to focus on her again.

“Do you feel sick?” Lucy asks again.

Whistler manages a weak shake of her head.

“Tired,” she slurs, “Want to lie down.”

Lucy looks past her into the back of the car that’s full of things and little space for someone to stretch out, “I’ll find you a place, but you know you can’t sleep right now.”

Keeping one eye on her girlfriend, Lucy takes in the small parking lot. There’s an empty bench but even from afar, it’s obvious that it’s too narrow and too short to offer any comfort. Then there are the other cars. Most are SUVs like Whistler’s BMW. Most. Except for Kai’s pick-up.

As if on cue, Kai approaches them from the direction of the beach, “We just called the ambulance. They won’t take long. Jesse and Heather are gathering our things and will take care of the surfboards and Whistler’s car.” He doesn’t come closer, and his voice is hesitant when he speaks again, “Is there anything I can do?”

“Yeah,” Lucy’s gaze drifts back to his pick-up, “There is.”

A couple of minutes later, Lucy is sitting on the truck bed with Whistler securely curled in her lap. Knowing that the ambulance will arrive soon and having something to focus on now despite the overwhelming fear, she is beginning to calm down. There’s a lasting sting in her eyes from tears she refuses to let fall and the occasional sniff when she thinks too long about what could have been instead of what is. But it helps to look at Whistler, breathing and alive in her arms to reign in the paralyzing panic that threatened to overtake her. She’s so concentrated on making sure to catch any sign that Whistler might fall unconscious again that she’s startled by Kai’s voice.

“I’m really sorry, Lucy.”

Lucy sniffs again. Rubs at her puffy eyes. “I know.” She takes a deep breath. He sounded guilty before. Now he’s devastated. “I know and I’m sorry, too. About before. I shouldn’t have yelled at you.” 

“No, look.” He comes closer and somehow manages to reach her knee to give it a supportive squeeze. “You were right that I didn’t look out for her. The swell came in so fast, and we wanted to see who could ride the wave longer when probably neither of us should have dropped in. I should have seen the closeout coming. I should have made sure to be further away from her, I-” 

“Kai, stop. It’s… It wasn’t your fault,” Lucy says slowly. 

She feels strangely tired now that the adrenaline is tapering off. She doesn’t have the strength to listen to him and imagine how roaring blue walls close in over the woman she loves to swallow her. She can’t think about that. Not yet. “Can we please talk about something else?” 

Kai takes his hand from her knee and leans against the side of the car, “Sure.” 

Silence settles over them once again and it takes Lucy a moment to notice that he is waiting for her to fill it. She strokes Whistler’s wet hair and doesn’t look away from the dopey smile directed at her when she says, “Can I ask you something?” 

“Of course,” he answers immediately, “What’s up?” 

“Since when do you call her Katie?” 

It’s such a mundane question. Such a little unimportant thing to be thinking about right now. But it keeps her from spiraling again and that counts as something. It’s definitely a question Kai didn’t expect. “Seriously, that’s what you-” he huffs. 

Someone else might have taken it the wrong way but Lucy knows that he’s pressing his lips together in a tight line because he’s still embarrassed to show much he really cares for the team. Or for people that somehow ended up as a part of the team through affiliation and quiet heroic gestures like sending a bus full of FBI agents to save their asses or offering up deeply personal information to a Russian spy to stop a war. 

“I don’t know if she ever told you,” Kai starts over after a moment, “But when you two were… uh… not on speaking terms…  we bumped into each other at the beach.” 

Something clicks in Lucy’s mind. Sure, Whistler went surfing before the whole disaster went down because of the-woman-who-shall-not-be-named. But when Lucy had sought her out at the beach that one morning and made a complete fool of herself, she noticed how Whistler carried herself and her board with new confidence. Not to mention the slew of surfing terms she started to dump on Lucy a couple of weeks later. Back then, she was too caught up in makeup sex and being in love to wonder when Whistler became that invested in surfing. 

“You taught her,” it comes out half as a question and half as an accusation. 

He chuckles. “It kind of just happened. That first morning it was clear that we both noticed each other and not saying hello would have been…,” he rubs his neck. “It would have been fucking awkward.” 

“I can’t believe that you made all my friends fall in love with you while I was trying so hard to fall out of love with you,” Lucy mumbles, not caring about the awkward angle she has to bend in to press a chaste kiss against Whistler’s forehead. 

Whistler mumbles something in response that could have been “I’m a real charmer” or “I mark Jennifer Garner”. 

Lucy wishes she could yell at her a little bit that now is not the time to be cocky. She’ll do that later. Definitely later after a doctor confirmed that Whistler will be fine. For now, she shakes her head and bites her lip and kisses Whistler’s face again. 

“Just so you know,” Kai clears his throat next to them, “We never talked about you. She made it very clear that she didn’t want to sound me out.” 

“She can be very gallant if she wants to,” Lucy laughs, small and wet and her heart so full of affection it nearly spills over. 

“Yeah, for you maybe. In the beginning, she almost had me crap my pants every time she came into the bullpen, looking like she wanted to straight up murder us.” 

They share a small laugh and Lucy can breathe for the first time since the moment on the beach when she couldn’t find Whistler. 

“Man,” Kai continues after he stopped grinning, “You should see her out there, Lucy. Like, really see her. She’s so good.” 

“Never would have guessed that a girl from Illinois is a surf prodigy,” Lucy says dryly. 

“A prodigy?” Kai shakes his head, “Nah. She was a total kook before I stepped up.” 

Lucy frowns, “But you just said-” 

“Yeah, because she’s also the most determined person I’ve ever seen. She spent more time falling off the board than on it for weeks but she never gave up. If I’ve learned one thing about Kate Whistler – she’s not a quitter.” He gives her a knowing glance.

Lucy is swept away by another wave of emotions for the amazing woman in her arms and her voice cracks a little when she says, “No, she really isn’t.”

She can easily forgive Kai at that moment for using a name that only she has a right to. Envy and jealousy over that seem so petty when all that is important is Whistler smiling up at her like she’s the most fascinating thing she’s ever seen. The names are all there, sitting in her chest like little, warm lights. She’ll keep them there for when she’s ready to say them.

iii.

Lucy does her best to put the incident at the beach behind her as fast as possible. She’s had nightmares most of her life that she has little to no control over in which she’s sucked into liquid darkness in a thousand different scenarios. She can’t turn them off. She’s tried many, many things. She has learned to anticipate them, though. Lucy knew they would come after the terrible storm that hit DC during the first week of her Congressional internship. She knew she’d wake up drenched in sweat and with the taste of salt water in her mouth after she joined Pike and Kai on that Coast Guard ship to save Jesse. She’s aware of her triggers. Whistler is the one who’s kept the nightmares at bay for some time now by helping Lucy in any way she can. And they’ve made such good progress. Lucy actually enjoyed being at the beach, damn it. The last thing she wants now is a twist of her old fears that has her watching completely paralyzed how Whistler drowns. No, thank you.

So, she pretends that everything is fine. After the doctor triple checked that Whistler indeed got off lightly despite the puking and the slurred speech. He ordered plenty of rest and to keep an eye on Whistler’s behavior and cognitive functions. That was it. The following Monday morning, while Lucy watches Whistler get ready for work, she thinks that’s it for her, too.

The illusion remains for five days until Whistler asks over dinner if Lucy will be joining her the next morning and Lucy chokes on her Lomi salmon in reply. She downplays her reaction, mostly in front of herself, and keeps firmly pretending. The moment the illusion of composure finally shatters occurrs an hour after Whistler left for the beach the next day. It starts with Lucy being too restless to stay in bed, followed by three cups of coffee and stress cleaning the flat and ends with Lucy checking her phone every ten seconds and pacing a hole into the pretty carpet in Whistler’s hallway.

She knows it was the right thing to let Whistler go. What happened was an exception. Not the rule. Whistler would never ask her to not chase the bad guy even if it means jumping from a garage roof or coming home at night looking like she got run over by a freight train. Lucy can’t ask her to give up surfing. It wouldn’t be fair. All she needs is some time to process this most recent scare and re-learn that not every wipe-out means that Whistler is going to drown. She trusts Whistler and trusts in her abilities. She doesn’t want to smother her girlfriend to assuage her own fears. Though it becomes pretty clear that her fears need exactly that when Whistler can’t even step fully through the door upon arriving home later before Lucy launches herself into her arms and doesn’t let go for a long time.

They talk about it. Work out a new support-system. It helps. But not enough for Lucy to dare remember that day at the beach and how Kai shook Whistler’s shoulder and called her Katie. She doesn’t dare to think about any of the names for a while.

And then one day, it’s the only thought in her mind. As if her brain waited for a moment of inner peace to open the floodgates again and to imagine how she calls Whistler Katie and waits with bated breath for the tips of her ears to turn pink. Or to be punished with one of those patented icy glares that stopped being intimidating over a year ago. Now, they are only a huge turn on.

To be completely honest, Lucy might have provoked those glares now and again in the past. Especially during that agonizing period during which she was so desperate to be acknowledged at all by a woman who was running from her every chance she got at work only to kiss Lucy like her life depended on it as soon as they were alone. She’s glad these times are over. 

Whistler doesn’t hoard personal information anymore as if they were classified military secrets and makes dinner plans with Lucy in the middle of the bullpen, all smiley and open. Lucy has made sure to not once again google her girlfriend but to ask the important questions when they are curled up on the couch or entangled in bed. 

They are good. Not perfect. That’s not them. But really, really good in that kind of way that has Lucy imagining a future for them. A future in which she gets to let those lights in her chest shine brightly and call Whistler all the names. 

They are a gift she’s been given. Something precious that Whistler doesn’t grant anyone, based on the fact most of her friends still call her by her surname even when they’re off-duty. Or so Lucy thought. Maybe her conflicted feelings about that have not so much to do with being somewhat out of the loop. Maybe it’s that sinking sensation in her stomach that she gets whenever she thinks she’s ready to say one of them. It claws at her with ice-cold hands and climbs her throat and steals the name straight out of her mouth. She looks at Whistler then and longs and yearns and is so sad it might break her heart. She’s let every opportunity pass because she was too choked up on this dread. And there’s been many opportunities over the past months. So many and each fitted perfectly for a different name. Somehow, Baby is always the first one that comes to her mind.

Even if Lucy wasn’t alone in the shower right now with no chance to be heard, she wouldn’t have uttered that name louder than a hushed whisper. Because it’d be the one to mumble against the sensitive skin behind Whistler’s ear in the morning to coax her awake. It’d be soft and sweet like the look in Whistler’s eyes when she opens them for the first time. There is something incredibly vulnerable about her right after she wakes up that always leaves Lucy a little breathless. That and the knowledge of Whistler slowly blinking awake and her lips curling upwards in a painfully beautiful smile is for her alone to see. Lucy wanted to dip her face down and call her Baby every morning right before she kissed her. Every. Damn. Morning.

She gets a little lost in her daydreaming then, forgets to turn off the water let alone to actually shower. The little lights in her heart flicker to life one by one and the next pulls an easy smile from her. 

Babe. 

God how often has she thought about that particular one? Probably during every single one of their joint cases when Whistler descended onto the bullpen in one of her boss-bitch-outfits and with a jawline that could cut glass. Or even worse when she is in one of her suits. Lucy really, really likes the suits. 

It’s the name she wants to use whenever Whistler is the one to break one of their cases because it fits the proud glow in her cheeks that is placed there by a “Good job, Whistler” from Tennant, or a clap on the shoulder from Jesse. It also fits the quiet but cocky confidence with which she guides Lucy into deep and slow kisses on those nights. That name is the last thing on her mind before she clamps her thighs around Whistler’s head and comes long and hard and can’t think about anything for a while.

It's the name she wants to use whenever some unfortunate soul attempts to hit on Whistler in the line for coffee and Lucy makes a show of slipping an arm around her waist and glowering and possibly flashing her badge. Yes, sometimes she needs to publicly mark her territory. She’s just lucky that Whistler thinks it’s cute.

She thinks ‘Fuck me, Babe’ every time they don’t quite make it to a horizontal surface and Whistler uses her unfair height advantage to effortlessly lift Lucy onto a kitchen counter. 

Or a table. 

Or just against a damn wall. 

Lucy shivers violently under the hot spray of water and knocks over a bottle of shampoo when a jolt of desire rushes through her. She should have known better than to remember that one time they were so loud right against the wall in the hallway that Whistler got a noise complaint the next day. She shakes her head. They should definitely do that again. 

And then she’s right back to thinking about Whistler and the way she clings to Lucy right before she comes or that she can’t feel a thing in her left ring finger due to a lacrosse accident in high school but still her eyes go wide and dark when Lucy grinds herself against it and – fuck – now she’s really horny. She bites her lip. Maybe she can take care of it herself. Whistler is probably right where she left her – sprawled out on her stomach, surrounded by a halo of wild golden hair, and snoring softly. Lucy couldn’t wake her for a booty call in the shower when she looks that peaceful. It’d be a crime.

She groans. But Whistler was naked when she left her. And Lucy had almost been compelled by the sight alone to never leave the bed because the morning light did things to Whistler’s skin that should be forbidden. Lucy stared at the muscles shifting in her back in time with her breathing. Her cute butt. Her long legs. She groans again.

“Get it together, Tara.” 

And getting it together on that particular morning apparently means getting off. 

Her right hand is halfway down the flat of her stomach, her bottom lip between her teeth when there’s a noise and then a sleep-warm body pressed against hers from behind. 

Lucy shrieks.

Which has more to do with the embarrassment of getting caught than actual surprise.

“Whistler!” 

She feels the wince more than she hears it over the running water because Whistler buried her face into Lucy’s neck. “Why are you yelling? Weren’t you calling me?” Whistler’s voice is still husky from sleep, a low throaty gravel that has Lucy weak in the knees. 

She bites back a moan. Swallows. She’s always loved Whistler’s low timbre. Even before she knew that Whistler could serenade her and not make it cringy but actually pretty fucking romantic. “I thought you were still asleep.” 

Whistler hums and shifts her hold. One hand splays over Lucy’s navel to keep her close. The other slowly moves up and down her thigh. The touch leaves goosebumps in its wake. “I came here because I heard noises. Someone talking to themselves. Possible that I heard my name,” Whistler mumbles. Her lips brush against the spot where the skin is thinnest over Lucy’s pulse point. It fires off a chain reaction that makes every inch of Lucy’s body jumpstart to life where they’re touching.

Lucy has some trouble concentrating on what she’s supposed to listen to. Okay, maybe, a lot of trouble. Because Whistler is dragging her nails over Lucy’s hip bone and angles her own hips forward to trap Lucy against the glass wall of the shower. The pressure against her back is minimal. They both know Lucy could step away the moment she wanted to. But she doesn’t. Where would be the fun in that? Especially when she can place her hands flat against the glass and push and bring their bodies even closer together. Whistler shifts again and then her breath is against Lucy’s ear, “I thought you were having fun in here without me.” 

“It’s never as much fun as when you’re with me,” Lucy retorts. She is about to turn around because – Jesus Christ – if she’s not kissing Whistler in the next five seconds, she’s going to lose her mind, but she never makes it that far. 

Long fingers curl around her left wrist to keep her in place. The pressure against her back increases.

“No.” Whistler’s voice is calm. Even. It’s her breathing that gives her away. “I want you like this.” 

This time, Lucy doesn’t hold the moan back. Whistler isn’t always the most vocal when it comes to literally anything that isn’t work related. Openly communicating is hard for her and they’ve both suffered from it in the distant and not so distant past. But she tries. Lucy has been privy to that struggle and has learned to appreciate it every time the words do get across. As a post-it on her coffee mug in the morning when Whistler had to leave early for work that says ‘I’m thinking of you’. As a text message in the middle of the night when a case chains Lucy to her desk that reads ‘I miss you’. Whistler right now murmuring between open-mouth kisses against the back of her neck “I want you so much.” 

Lucy can only answer her with a whimper because every thought in her head has melted into a sensation. Like how bad her legs are shaking. Or how her heart races. Or how Whistler’s hand wandered back over Lucy’s hip and down her tailbone and even lower. And how it’s resting there. Waiting. 

“Move back, Luce,” Whistler says in that same calm voice as before. 

It has Lucy swooning. The second she pushes her ass out, Whistler moves with her, molding herself against Lucy’s back until there’s no space left between them. Lucy’s head falls forwards between her outstretched arms, “Oh God.” 

“Kate is enough.” 

And then Whistler pushes with two fingers up and into her. 

iv.

After that morning, Lucy’s name obsession is sated for a while. It isn’t until a couple of weeks later that the whole matter is taking center stage in her mind again. Because apparently her jealousy is out of control and has no chill.

Which is kind of a tragedy because she’s experiencing the longest period of chill the bullpen has ever had since she started here. Their current ‘case’ consists of catching up on paperwork that they neglected during the past quarterly period and their collective exhaustion stems merely from staring at a computer screen all day and writing mile-long reports by hand. It makes Lucy crave the adrenaline rush of a good old chase or going up against foreign intelligence operatives that are twice her size. Any other week all that energy is saved for making her girlfriend come in six different positions as soon as they arrive home. This week she’s stuck with it and her only outlet is tapping her feet or her fingers or bouncing her legs to the point that Kai chucks paper balls at her. So, when Jesse throws in the towel at 1900 hours and invites them for drinks, Lucy is the first one out of her chair. 

The whole team ends up in a local bar in ‘Aiea soon afterward. Even Tennant joins them, and someone manages to pry Ernie away from his computers. Lucy shoots off a quick text to Whistler once it’s clear that they got the last available table in the crowded place and doesn’t wait for her girlfriend’s arrival to tell the barman she’ll have a beer and a whisky sour. 

“What, no Pinot Grigio tonight?” Ernie asks before taking a sip from his glaring, blue cocktail. 

Lucy shakes her head, “She’s had a hell of a week. Definitely a whisky sour night.” 

It proves that she’s on point with her assessment because Whistler arrives twenty minutes later, looking like somebody put her through the wringer. Twice. At least. Her usual professional ponytail has given way to a messy bun, her blazer is a wrinkled mess that’s halfheartedly folded over the arm that’s also carrying her purse and the sleeves of her blouse are haphazardly pushed up to her elbows. She’s still easily the most attractive woman in the bar and Lucy’s heart swells like a balloon. 

When she spots them, Whistler makes a beeline for her drink and downs half the glass in one go. Lucy raises an eyebrow at Ernie, lips curling into a proud smirk, “Told ya.” 

“Oh God, I needed this,” Whistler sighs after swallowing. 

“I can see that. The question is why?” Ernie asks and gives her disheveled appearance a critical once over. 

Whistler drops her things at the bottom of Lucy’s chair before bending down to give her a quick kiss. Lucy happily hums into it and resists the urge to lick the traces of whisky and lemon from pink lips. Barely. 

“It’s almost the end of the fiscal year and someone has been handing in forged accounts for field missions that never happened. Now, Internal Affairs has us going over all accounts of the past year and – God, all those tax dollars.” 

“That sounds like fun,” Ernie quips. 

Whistler glares at him over the rim of her glass. 

“Enough shop talk, y’all,” Lucy scolds them while she rests her head against Whistler’s shoulder. It’s only possible because she’s sitting on a bar stool and she’s going to enjoy this for as long as she can. Usually, her face ends up somewhere around Whistler’s sternum. Which is also nice for obvious reasons, though, sadly nothing she is allowed to take advantage of in public. “Work-Whistler is off-duty, and I will not allow her return until tomorrow morning,” she points stern fingers at them.

“That’s not what you said last night,” Whistler mumbles into her drink. 

Ernie snorts into his cocktail. 

Lucy gapes. What a betrayal.

Whistler is only saved from being reminded how they agreed to keep certain things inside the bedroom because Jesse makes his way to them from where he was playing darts with Tennant and Kai. His cheeks are flushed and his eyes wide and the excited urgency with which he hurries over the result of one too many shots. “Whistler!” he slings an arm around her shoulder, completely swallowing at least two letters of her name, “I need your help.” 

Whistler throws a longing glance at the bartender, “Can’t it wait five minutes?” 

“Nope,” Jesse shakes his head and tugs on her, “There’re some tourists hogging the pool table.” 

Whistler chances another glance between her empty glass and the busy bartender, “And what do you need me for?” 

“To kick ass,” he waves his hand like that should be obvious, “By playing them for the table. Winner gets it for the rest of the night.” 

Whistler’s eyes flicker to the rowdy group of young men that have gathered around the pool table. Lucy notices the tic in her jaw when they call something inappropriate after the waitress. Jesse does, too, and retreats his arm to gesture wildly at them. “Come on. You’re not one to back down from a challenge.” 

Lucy shakes her head. Boy, he knows how to push all the right ones of Whistler’s many, many buttons. If Whistler can’t make this decision, Lucy will help her along.

 “Show ‘em some manners. I’ll get your next drink,” she says with a hand on her girlfriend’s elbow. 

Whistler’s face breaks into a smile. The one she reserves for Lucy alone and that always makes her stomach drop in the best way possible. If Lucy was an entirely selfish human being, she’d drag Whistler to the restrooms now or to one of their cars and put all her pent up energy to good use. Since she’s not – not entirely she supposes – she takes note of Whistler’s eyes straying to the pool table now and again and of the way her fingers are itching around her empty glass and of how her body was pliant in Jesse’s hold. She wants to go, to be a part of the boys in a way that Lucy never quite managed. It’s sweet really. Lucy exchanges the needy whine that was bubbling up in her throat for a megawatt smile. She can share Whistler for a bit.

Still Whistler hesitates because Lucy isn’t the only one who learned how to read her partner. “You sure?” Whistler dips her head and lowers her voice to give them some resemblance of privacy in the busy bar, “We haven’t seen each other all day.” 

That is true. They have barely seen each other all week. And Lucy would be lying if she didn’t want to keep Whistler glued to her side for the rest of the evening. It’s ridiculous that she’s a bit starved for sex and affection after only a week. And now that Whistler is here on a Friday night with neither of them scheduled for weekend-duty – fuck she should get a medal or something for her self-control. Or maybe not. Because her fingers have a mind of their own as they trace mindless patterns on Whistler’s naked forearm. The skin blooms into goosebumps immediately. Whistler sucks in a breath. The hand that had been resting on Lucy’s lower back curls into her shirt. Lucy bites her lip, eyes flickering down from Whistler’s dilated pupils. Back up. Down again.

“Better make it quick then.” 

“Yeah,” Whistler nods slowly, gaze falling to Lucy’s lips and staying there, “Quick… Yeah, I can be quick.” 

Jesse decides at that moment that he’s waited long enough and unceremoniously drags Whistler away while talking insistently to her. It’s for the best if Lucy’s honest. That medal was beginning to recede to an unattainable distance, and she doesn’t need a reminder of how much Whistler dislikes it when Lucy can’t keep it in her pants in public places. Kai waits for the duo at the pool table and it’s only Tennant who fills the empty space at their table. She quirks an eyebrow at Lucy after passing Jesse and Whistler, “I’m surprised you let her play with the boys after the week you two had.” 

Lucy plays it cool, shrugs and flags down the bartender, “She needs friends she’s not sleeping with. It’s good for her.” 

“Agreed,” Tennant says with a proud smile directed at Jesse, Kai, and Whistler as if they were her kids, “But you can’t tell me you don’t have ulterior motives.” 

“What? Ulter- me? I just want her to enjoy herself at the end of a hard day. Being a good girlfriend and all.” 

“Yeah, that’s it,” Ernie mocks her. 

“Wh- I’m serious!” 

“Possible. It’s entirely possible, too, that you sent her there because you’re hoping for a nice view,” Tennant says seriously. 

“A nice view?” 

“You heard me,” Tennant nods, “We know you two think you’re subtle and being very professional-” 

“But you’re not, Luce, really, really not,” Ernie chimes in, “It’s not subtle at all when you’re checking out Whistler’s ass whenever she bends over something in a skirt.” 

“I… I don- That’s not,” she stammers. It is not her fault – again – that her girlfriend is the most gorgeous woman on the island. And when she is wearing one of her pencil skirts and is bent over a desk to type something into a keyboard or whatever it might be entirely on purpose and solely to taunt Lucy. Because Kate Whistler can be a mean fucking flirt if she wants to. Lucy lets out a huff, slides off the bar stool and, “Y’all are crazy. I’m going to the restroom now.” 

Her indignation would probably be a whole lot more convincing if her cheeks weren’t quite so bright. 

It takes some time to make the heat in her face disappear again and when she returns there’s a fresh beer and another whisky sour waiting at her seat. 

“Oh good, you’re back,” Ernie says. He takes a long sip from his new, pink drink, eyes darting nervously between her and the other side of the room.

“Yeah, yeah, it’s been 84 years, I know,” Lucy deadpans, curious as to why he looks like he’s about to spill a secret he swore to never tell. “What’s up?”

“Whistler seems to be gathering quite the fan club,” Tennant cocks her head towards the pool table.

Confused, Lucy follows the motion with her eyes. After the accident at the beach, she’s come to realize that Kai and Jesse pretty much adore Whistler. Of course, Kai pretends steadfastly that he doesn’t, and Jesse gave her the big-brother-shovel-talk before he started to include Whistler in their office coffee order, but it wouldn’t be too far-fetched to speak of them as a fan club. Except that tonight they aren’t the only fans. The tourists appear to be torn between smitten starstruckness and thinly veiled contempt, whereas the rest of the audience cheers loudly every time Whistler sinks a ball. 

“Okay,” Lucy smiles fleetingly. It’s perfectly fine that there are at least twenty pairs of eyes on her girlfriend. Totally fine. Whistler is amazing. Lucy knows how easy it is to fall for her. After all, it took her all but ten minutes in her dimly lit neighborhood bar.

She doesn’t even realize she’s shredding a napkin until Ernie places a hand on hers. 

“Luce …” 

It’s his I-know-something-is-wrong-voice that coaxed her into telling him how she and Whistler first met all those months ago. Now it’s… bothering her. Because everything is fine. She’s chill. Super chill. And that she crosses her arms and grinds her jaw has nothing to do with Whistler being hailed as the new Queen of Pool by a group of moon-eyed strangers.

“I’m fine,” she shrugs, “Perfectly good.” 

Oh no. Her accent is slipping. Judging by the growing concern on Ernie’s face, he noticed too. And remembers that the appearance of Lucy’s drawl is usually caused by two things. She’s pissed. Or she’s drunk. Or she’s playing Texan Cinderella at an illegal poker night but that’s beside the point now.

Fact is, she’s pretty sure she would have succeeded in convincing Ernie – and her suspiciously quiet boss – that she’s not the slightest bit possessive and thinking about jumping Whistler like a bad guy on the run to make a point. It’s just her luck that right then two of the tourists disengage from the group and move in the direction of their table. It’s even worse when one of them says, “That hot blonde is totally kicking our asses.”

“I don’t care. She’s so hot I’d let her kick my ass any day, mate,” the other one replies, “Bet she’s real bonkers in bed, too.”

Lucy’s anger flicks on like a switch. Races through her veins blazing hot like a class G wildfire and burns every lasting remain of self-control to ashen nothingness. How dare they talk about a woman like that? And how dare they talk about her girlfriend like that? Her smart and funny and amazing girlfriend who’s way too good for pricks without any self-reflection? Fuck, she’s way too good for Lucy on most days, too.

“Lucy…,” Ernie says again. The look he’s giving her is embarrassed more than calming because he belongs to the same gender as the two assholes. Lucy breaks their eye contact to burn holes into the table.

The tourists are passing right by their table and are still talking about Whistler.

“When the round’s done with, I’m gonna ask her out,” one of them says.

“As if you have a bloody chance. She’d have a better time with me anyway,” the other replies in a mocking chuckle.

“Neither of you idiots has a chance,” Lucy mutters under her breath. Did she intend that they hear her? Entirely possible. Would she confess to it under oath? Probably not.

“Excuse me, what did you just say?” 

The voice is coming from right behind her. Lucy briefly takes note of how Tennant and Ernie engage in a heated debate with their eyes to determine which of them will keep Lucy in her seat but before they can decide that she swiveled around in said seat and hopped off.

“Oh, pardon me, boys. Did I interrupt your gross, misogynistic objectification of a woman? My bad.” The drawl is in full swing now and she thinks she hears Ernie cursing softly behind her. But that’s not important right now. This is about defending her woman’s honor and Lucy will not go down without a fight. That the two guys are built like Marines and stare down at her in what is clearly anything but amusement is totally of minor importance.

“Misogynistic obj- What the bloody hell are you talking about?” the one who could work as a Jamie Bell lookalike rumbles through gritted teeth.

“I don’t fucking care about that,” the other one says, who could be Dev Patel’s twin in Lucy’s opinion, “What do you mean We don’t have a chance?”

“You’re not her type,” Lucy takes a step closer until she’s all up in his personal space, “Mate.”

“What,” the Dev-Patel-twin says with furrowed brows, “Neither of us?”

“Do you need a list? Fine, I'll give you a list.” She alternates between them with her pointed finger, “You are too white. Your hair is too short. You’re too tall and most importantly neither of you is working in law enforcement, is from Texas, knows that she likes her coffee with three sugars even though she tells you it’s two and – oh – you don’t have boobs!”

The unfortunate duo blinks at her.

“Dude… What the fuck?” the Dev-Patel-twin says.

“That was oddly specific,” Jamie Bell’s lookalike scratches his head.

“Yes, Columbo, because her type is very specific,” Lucy glowers at him, “It’s me! I’m her type! Capiche?”

She would have very much liked to whip out even more arguments why Kate Whistler would never ever show as much as even remote interest in the doomed pair but at that moment the pool table explodes into noise. It reminds her of the end of a football game with ten seconds on the clock and one kick-off that sealed the deal. There’s screaming and whistles and above all Jesse who’s throwing his cue on the table that is empty except for one solid ball, “Yes! You go, Katie! That’s my girl!” 

Then he proceeds to engulf Whistler in a hug that lifts her clear off the floor.

Whistler is squirming in his hold, seemingly mortified and tries not to hit her head on one of the metal lamps that illuminates the table. Behind the blush that’s quickly settling on her face, Whistler is looking incredibly smug, too and Lucy is so tempted to march over there and kiss that proud grin right off her face. And to tell Jesse to go back to calling Whistler Big Fed or Elsa or whatever other nickname he doesn’t have to steal from her. Tonight is not a night to ask Lucy to share Whistler any longer.

“Fuck, is that her boyfriend?” the Dev-Patel-Twin gapes while Whistler is squished in a group hug between Jesse and Kai, who are jumping up and down in a circle. The other Brits around the table look like someone poured sour milk in their five-o-clock tea.

Lucy snorts, “You weren’t listenin’, Dev. And now excuse me, I gotta go mark my territory.” 

“I still don’t get it.” 

The two whisper as Lucy leaves them behind.

“That’s because you’re bloody daft. That’s her girlfriend!”

“Oh.”

Feeling charged and like everything is coiled tight inside her, Lucy winds through the crowded bar in purposeful steps until she’s right next to the pool table. Her girlfriend’s feet are more or less firmly back on the ground and Lucy uses the chance to gently free her from the group hug by hooking two fingers around Whistler’s wrist. Jesse and Kai barely take notice, excitedly shouting over each other.

 “Did you see that? She sank four balls at once!” 

“Four, dude! Four at once!” 

Lucy drags Whistler a couple of steps away from the table without any idea where to go and only stops when she feels an arm winding around her waist. 

“Hi, stranger,” Whistler’s mouth is brushing against the shell of her ear. Lucy willingly gives in to the pull at her hips, lets her body fall back against Whistler’s in an attempt to calm down. 

Lucy doesn’t say anything. Instead, she spins in the half embrace and leans up on her tiptoes. Then she cradles Whistler’s face between her hands and kisses her fast and hard and messy. When they part Whistler’s pupils are blown and her lipstick is smudged, “Wow… What was that?” 

“Just had to show someone what’s your type,” Lucy mumbles before pulling her in again.

That Jesse is the third one on the team who gets to call Whistler Katie before she does stings a little bit less than the two times before. Maybe it’s because they have too much to drink. Or because the Brits stare at her for the rest of the night as if Lucy stole their puppy, which also entails that they stopped making googly eyes at Whistler and that in itself is a phenomenal win. As the smart federal agent that Lucy is, though, she comes to the conclusion that her ridiculous envy is kept in check because Whistler stays close to her during the rest of the night. 

There’s a hand at the small of her back while they tease Kai about Melanie. Or an arm around her shoulder when they watch Ernie and Jesse duke it out at the dart board. Or Whistler is tangling their fingers on top of the table while Tennant tells them about the scholarship Alex received. 

Whistler is present in one way or another and more open, more relaxed about other people getting to see this side of her tonight and Lucy practically feels herself falling deeper in love. Whistler has grown so much since they’ve gotten together. Again. Or the first time included. If she thinks about it, it makes Lucy feel a bit bad actually. Because right now, Whistler is pressing fluttering kisses against the side of Lucy’s head in the back of the Uber that’s taking them home without caring at all that the driver is right there while Lucy was ready to start a bar fight. Out of jealousy. God, what is going on with her? 

Lucy’s head is swimming from the beer and the shots the Brits begrudgingly bought for them to commemorate Whistler’s superior pool skills and the thoughts come more easily to her than she wants them to. Without any barrier or hindrance. Kind of like a spring that has suddenly burst open in her brain and now the thoughts stream and bubble and twirl as unhindered and fleeting as water through her mind. And if Lucy was sober and more in control of these uncomfortable truths that have been lurking at the edges of her mind for weeks now, she would have pushed everything back down where it belongs. But she’s not sober. And what she didn’t want to acknowledge for so long is breaking free from its chains.

It’s dark in the car and her eyes are drooping now and again but Whistler’s features remain clear no matter what. Lucy stares at them, transfixed and mesmerized and terrified by this gorgeous, wonderful woman. 

“I don’t like sharing.” 

Whistler’s brows furrow while she’s trying to work out where that came from, “Like, your clothes? Because I thought it was pretty clear that I’m not wearing your shirts again when getting the pizza.” 

Lucy rolls her eyes and drapes herself further over her girlfriend’s body, seeking the comfort that comes with the touch. Right now, Lucy needs all the comfort she can get. Because admitting this is hard. It sucks. Most of all because she never expected to be the type of person for this in the first place. “I don’t like to share you, silly,” she mumbles eventually with her face hidden somewhere against Whistler’s neck. 

“Me? I… uh… Luce, I swear you’re not sharing me with anyone.” 

Not anymore.

That’s the thing that remains unsaid but that at least Lucy is painfully aware of.

Lucy leans back then to look up at her, her heart in her eyes and a lump in her throat because thinking about that moment when a strange woman opened the door to Whistler’s flat hurts even after so many months. She reaches up with her hand to tuck a stray lock behind Whistler’s ear. “I know,” she says. Her thumb strokes over Whistler’s cheeks until the wide panicked look in her eyes changes into adoration, “I know. It’s not that.” 

Whistler slips a hand under Lucy’s shirt then, presses her palm against the nodules of her spine to bring them as close together as the seatbelts allow and Lucy wants to melt into her. She wants to go home and paint her name on Whistler’s body until her heart stops hurting like it did the last time on that ill-fated afternoon and until she stops picturing her every time, she thinks about calling Whistler Baby, Lover, Sweetheart. She doesn’t want to have this conversation. Doesn’t want to admit that she’s still troubled by something – someone – who they’ve talked about so often already. She won’t let the ghost of a woman from Whistler’s past destroy their happiness again.

“What is it then, Luce?” Whistler’s voice is so soft. So concerned. 

And Lucy feels so, so silly. She lowers her gaze again, unable to be at the receiving end of so much love and care. Not when she feels like she doesn’t deserve it. She mumbles, “It’s not important.”  And it isn’t. It shouldn’t be. She’s being an idiot, that’s all.

“Hey,” Whistler places a finger under her chin, very sweet and very real and, “It’s you. Of course, it’s important.” 

Lucy squirms. God damnit, when has her girlfriend learned to switch from adorably confused to heart-meltingly charming this fast? 

“Jesse called you Katie tonight,” she gets out eventually in a voice that’s so small it’s almost drowned out by the noises of the car. 

“Oh, o- okay.” Whistler says like it’s no big deal, “Yeah, he showed me some hand-to-hand combat tricks after the whole Andrea Medina situation to not scare all of you again. I guess we’re close now… Huh…”

Lucy squeezes her eyes shut, presses her face into the hollow of Whistler’s throat and breathes in deeply through her nose. Long, calming breaths to will the demons away and what they might bring with them if Lucy lets them out. 

Whistler picks up on her silence immediately. On the way Lucy clings to her. Of course, she does. She’s always been so perceptive, so good at reading Lucy. Her problem was more that she didn’t know what to do with the information. Something that, in the meantime, she has learned to handle. 

“Why does that make you upset?” 

Yeah, that’s the question, isn’t it?

“Because I don’t like to share! Not a single thing about you! Not even a stupid nickname,” it comes out wet and strangled and, in her state when every thought is water, Lucy can’t even say why. 

Maybe because somewhere deep, deep inside of her she’s still scared of how easily Whistler broke her heart. And that she doesn’t know if she would survive it a second time. Maybe because Whistler just means so fucking – everything. Even someone else calling her Katie is too much on some days.

“I know it’s stupid and you must think… But I ca- I just can’t,” Lucy blabbers, “Every time someone doesn’t call you Whistler or Kate, I imagine what… what… she…. What Cara might have called you and it still hurts. It fucking hurts and I hate it!” 

And there it is. The truth. In all its ugly, selfish honesty. 

Whistler must think she’s crazy. 

“Oh, Lucy.” 

Lucy swallows back tears. Hot, angry tears of embarrassment because this could very well ruin everything they worked so hard to rebuild these past months. “It’s silly. I’m being silly. I’m sorry,” she sniffs and – great – now she probably leaves smudges on Whistler’s silk blouse. “I’m sorry.”

She feels like a brat. Like someone she hasn’t been since she turned her back on her family and their money and their oil. The tears burn in her eyes and there’s a sob stuck in her throat. She got the girl, didn’t she? Or the girl got her. Why is that not enough? Cara is gone. There’s no reason to be scared or jealous of her. So, why does she feel haunted by someone who was already a ghost when Lucy met her?

She jerks back to the reality of the car and the comfort of the arms wrapped around her and wants to cry even harder because Whistler runs a hand through her hair and then down to her jaw to wipe some stray tears away that have fallen after all, “No, I’m sorry. It's my fault that you’re having these thoughts.” 

Lucy can’t really argue with that. But then again Whistler has done everything for her after finally being forgiven. She’s worked so hard to make it right this time just like she had promised three seconds before Lucy smashed their faces together in Tennant’s backyard. And now these insecurities threaten it all. 

“I’m sorry, Luce. I still wish I had done so many things differently. But I can’t undo the past, so tell me what I can do now. What do you need?” 

Lucy sucks in a shaky breath. 

When they first got together, hell even when they first tried for real, the intimacy that names like Baby or Darling require wasn’t exactly a thing between them. The first time around they were three days, two nights of pure bliss and ‘One last time’ after the other and stolen kisses in parking lots. Lucy didn’t think she was in a rush. That was just their beginning. Their opening act. Then everything fell apart. And every time Lucy’s broken heart betrayed her by thinking of Whistler as Babe, Love, Sweetie it broke into another hundred pieces. 

With one hand Lucy rubs at her face, the other fists in Whistler’s blouse, desperate to stay connected. 

“Tell me,” she searches Whistler’s large, sad eyes, “Tell me what she used to call you.” 

“Are you sure yo-” 

Lucy shakes her head, “Kate, please.” 

Whistler grimaces, “Baby Girl.” 

The tears stop abruptly. Lucy pulls a face. “Seriously?” 

“Yeah.” 

“That’s terrible.” 

“I know,” Whistler shrugs, “I never really liked it.” 

“And you never said anything to her?” Lucy frowns. 

Whistler stares out the window for a moment, far away into the memories of someone she used to be a long time ago. “No, I guess not,” she says eventually. “It didn’t matter. I didn’t care enough.” 

Lucy thinks back to the one time she dared to say, “Come here, Kitten”. In her defense, Whistler was behaving very cat-like at that moment. Stretched out in the evening sun across the whole couch, naked chest rumbling with what Lucy swears until today was a purr and not to forget the scratch marks she had left on Lucy’s back only minutes before. Who can blame her for thinking of a cat? That night she thought that obviously Whistler was blaming her but now Lucy feels a smile tugging at her lips. That reaction could only mean one thing. “But with me you do care?” 

Whistler gives her the sweetest smile and Lucy can feel how the beast inside her chest is dissolving into warm lights. “Sometimes I feel like I care too much. Like I have all these feelings for you, and I don’t even know what to do with them.” Whistler lowers her gaze, bites her lip. “Sometimes it’s a bit overwhelming.” 

“Yeah,” Lucy says. Her voice is thick, “It is, isn’t it?” 

At that moment, the Uber driver pulls up in front of Whistler’s building and very acutely reminds Lucy that they haven’t been alone this whole time. Thankfully, he’s polite enough to not comment on their teary, flushed faces or the tangled mess that they leave the seatbelts in, or Whistler would have realized that she just held a deeply personal conversation in front of a total stranger. It’s enough if one of them goes a little crazy tonight. 

Ten minutes later, Lucy sits on Whistler’s kitchen counter, freed of her ruined make-up and changed out of her work clothes and watches how her girlfriend pours half a beer into a mason jar before handing her the rest of the bottle. 

“So,” Lucy starts and spreads her legs slightly to allow Whistler to step between them, “Obviously, I’m not going to call you Baby Girl or any furry baby animal names, which is a shame really. The furry animal baby name of course because the other…  Just… Nu uh.” 

“Mhm,” Whistler hums around a sip of her drink, “Don’t test me, Tara.” 

Lucy musters her best innocent look, all large eyes and coy smile with nothing left of the heaviness around her heart, “I would never.” Then she presses her knees into Whistler’s waist and crosses her ankles behind her back, “But seriously, are there any other names you don’t like ‘cause – I don’t know if ya noticed but – this is kind of important to me.” 

Whistler places her beer somewhere on the counter and then her hands on Lucy’s legs, “Yes… No… Wait I-” She presses their foreheads together and takes a deep breath. After a moment, she clears her throat and squeezes Lucy’s thighs. “What I meant to say is… Yes, I have realized that this is important to you and I’m sorry I haven’t noticed before. And… No, there aren’t any other names I dislike. I mean… It’s you, Lucy. You can call me whatever you want,” she swallows briefly, “Even… even you know what.” 

“Nah,” Lucy shrugs before tugging Whistler’s blouse from her skirt in slow deliberate moves, “I’m good now, babe.” Then she sneaks a glance up and chuckles. Whistler is holding her breath. Her cheeks are changing color. It’s everything she hoped it would be.

“Is that okay?” Lucy asks, not referring exclusively to the button she just popped on the blouse. 

“Yeah.” 

Lucy opens the next button. Lets her knuckles briefly brush over Whistler’s stomach, across the smooth ridges of her ribs. “This too, darling?” 

Whistler nods. The blush is spreading higher. When Lucy has opened the last button and the blouse falls open to reveal Whistler’s simple black bra and creamy skin Lucy asks around her heart in her throat, “My love?” 

Instead of answering verbally, Whistler pulls her closer by hooking her hands under Lucy’s knees and kisses her. It’s filthy and hot and messy. Teeth nipping at Lucy’s bottom lip. Whistler’s tongue in her mouth. The bitter taste of the beer mixing with the much sweeter taste of Whistler on Lucy’s tongue. Lucy throws her arms around Whistler’s neck to kiss her back just as heated. She only breaks them apart when she feels that she’s being lowered onto the kitchen counter. 

Lucy stops the motion with a hand against Whistler’s chest and takes a moment to catch her breath. To burn this moment in her mind forever. How wide Whistler’s eyes are blown. How now even the tips of her ears have turned pink. How her chest is heaving, and her hands are trembling just from a few kisses. How she’s the most breathtaking woman Lucy’s ever seen. How she’s so completely, irrevocably hers that Lucy can’t believe she’s ever allowed herself to doubt that again.

“Take me to bed, Katie,” Lucy whispers against her lips. 

And Kate does just that. 

From then on, Lucy makes sure to call Kate Babe, Darling, Baby, Fuck yes, Love – all the names – absolutely everywhere outside of work. 

bonus.

“We’re fucked,” Jesse sighs as the alarm goes off.

It’s a mild night sometime in October. While on the mainland people have traded their flipflops and tank tops for boots and wool sweaters, it’s still fairly warm on the island. Wetter than usual, yes, and there’s a steady, soft dripping sound all around them as a reminder of the latest downpour. But this is Hawai’i and despite the rain it’s nice enough to hold their monthly team building exercise on Tennant’s balcony.

Lucy is sitting on the couch between Ernie and Jesse, all three of them sporting the same disgruntled expression. Kate is at the edge of a single chair, cheeks flushed from excitement and her expectant expression trained on Tennant. Tennant is the only one standing, who now lets a small piece of paper sail on top of an impressive mountain of similar pieces, “And that’s twenty-three.”

“Yes!” Kate jumps up and the two woman share smug smiles and a high-five.

“That’s a new record, isn’t it?” Ernie asks eagerly, whereas Jesse and Lucy continue to scowl.

“It’s charades,” Lucy grumbles, “It’s not that big of a deal.”

Her eyes narrow as she watches her girlfriend and her boss gloating at their win.

“Well played, Katherine,” Tennant places a hand on Kate’s shoulder, a playful smile dancing over her round face.

“So did you, Janie,” Kate beams like a kid who just earned a reward of merit.

Lucy’s nostrils flare, “No reason to rub it in like that. And really? Janie?”

The last part of her statement is deftly ignored as Tennant cocks her head to the side, one eyebrow raised, “You mean like you rubbed it in last time when you two got out of the Escape Room first?”

“What can I say,” Lucy juts her chin out defiantly, “Team Kacy is the best.”

“Not at charades, you aren’t,” Tennant winks, “Team Jate took that crown from you.”

Before Lucy can come up with an appropriately snippy remark to that, Kate steps between them, “Come on, you know that Lucy is a sore loser. Don’t be mean to her.”

“Alright, alright,” Tennant concedes with a shrug but can’t stop herself from adding, “We wouldn’t want a repetition of the 2020 Ninja Parkour Race incident, would we?”

“The what now?” Kate asks at the same moment that Lucy gasps.

“You wouldn’t.”

“No, I won’t,” Tennant nods. “I promised, so…” she turns her attention to the rest of the group, “Who needs a refill?”

They all raise empty glasses and bottles in response. Tennant asks everyone what they want and is about to step inside when Kate calls after her, “I’ll be there in a moment to help you.” Then she puts a hand to the back of the couch right above Lucy’s shoulder and leans in far enough that she can press a kiss against Lucy’s forehead, “Don’t worry, babe. Next time Team Kacy will reign supreme again.”

Although that placates the admittedly sore loser in Lucy, she grabs onto Kate’s face before she has the chance to pull away. The kiss is sweet and chaste because Ernie and Jesse are still right there and pointedly look away but it’s exactly what she needed.

“Better?” Kate smiles.

“Yup,” Lucy answers because – to be honest – she’d lose any game on any night if it meant that Kate looked at her with such devotion. “Are you going to ask me about the 2020 Ninja Parkour Race incident when we get home?”

Kate’s smile broadens into a grin and her eyes sparkle with mirth and Lucy’s heart is doing somersaults, “Definitely.”

They are about to fall into another kiss when Jesse clears his throat, “Guys, please. We can hear every word.”

Kate springs back so abruptly that she almost stumbles into the low couch table behind her. She looks every bit as embarrassed as Jesse sounded when she squeaks out a quick apology and hurries inside after Tennant.

Lucy cranes her neck to stare after her, one of her sunshine smiles firmly lodged into place and she’s about to say something along the lines of “I’m going home with that amazing woman tonight” or “We’re going to fuck each other silly later”. But her attention is caught by Jesse shifting on the couch to pull out his wallet and handing Ernie a twenty.

“What just happened?” Lucy asks.

“Jesse’s settling our bet,” Ernie answers while making a show of waving the bill under his nose.

“Your what?”

“I said Whistler was a Katherine. Jesse over there thought she’d be a Caitlyn,” Ernie explains.

“Why was I not in on this?” Lucy pouts.

“Because you can’t tell me that you didn’t already know her full name,” Jesse gives her a meaningful look. “And before you try to deny it – we are all aware that if you bat your lashes and bite your lip, Whistler is laying the world at your feet, so you have an unfair advantage either way.”

Lucy opens her mouth. Closes it. Mulls it over. Opens it again, “Yeah, fine, you might have a point. But it’s not like I’ve known forever.” Her agent senses suddenly kick in and she peers left and right, “Wait a sec – for how long was this bet going on?”

“Oh, you know,” Jesse scratches his beard, can’t meet her eyes. “Couple of weeks maybe? Not that long.”

“He’s telling the truth,” Ernie supplies while picking through a bowl of pistachios, “That one only lasted sixty-eight days.”

“That one?”

“Ernie!” Jesse exclaims. “Come on, bro!”

Ernie takes a bite of a pistachio, “Whoopsie.”

“How many bets do you two have going on?” Lucy wants to know. “Who’s in on this?”

“Everyone,” the boys answer at once.

Jesse manages to look properly guilty. Ernie on the other hand is beaming. “And I’m so glad that we’re finally talking about this because there have been so many bets, Lucy, so many,” he says excitedly. “First, we weren’t sure whether there was really something going on between you two. Then we were betting how long it would take for us to catch you making out in a storage room and the-”

“Okay, okay, I think she gets it,” Jesse interrupts the ramble before looking apologetic at Lucy, “No more bets, alright?”

“What? Who said anything about stopping, I just want to be in on it next time,” Lucy rubs her hands together, “I actually already have one in mind.”

Ernie and Jesse exchange a quick look. Nod.

“Did y’all know that Kate has a middle name?” she grins from ear to ear.

“Oh my God, I love it,” Ernie cheers and ends up spilling pistachio shucks on everyone because of his enthusiasm, “Is it Joanna? Or Sophie? Maybe Heather? No wait…”

Jesse rolls his eyes and shakes his head before saying, “Put me down with Marie for twenty,” then gets up to follow Tennant and Kate. Ernie takes notes on his phone while Lucy works on not giving anything away.

Only the two of them remain on the large balcony because Kai had to leave some time ago to help his father and Tennant’s kids are with their father, too. And it’s peaceful out here now that the conversation has died down. The air is soft like a blanket after the rain. In the distance, Lucy can hear the faint sound of waves crashing against the stony shore. One day, she and Kate have to get a house like this, though, for now the balcony in Kate’s apartment will do. Until they get a dog. Or a kid. Whatever comes first.

“So,” Ernie playfully bumps their shoulders and snaps her out of it, “You’re not throwing a tantrum that Tennant is using her own version of a nickname for Whistler?”

“Okay, first of all, I did not throw a tantru-”

“You kind of did,” Ernie interjects, which Lucy ignores.

“And secondly, Katherine is her actual name.”

“Mhm,” Ernie smiles warmly, “I also noticed a sudden influx of romantic nicknames whenever you two are talking to each other. Did something happen?”

Lucy allows her mind to drift back to the night a few months ago in Kate’s kitchen. To what they started on the counter and finished many, many hours later in bed. She remembers the names she panted against flushed sweaty skin. Her lips quirk up on their own accord. “I think so.”

Ernie leans closer and whispers conspiratorially, “Was it something good?”

Lucy turns her head towards the inside of the house. She finds Kate standing in the kitchen, talking and laughing with the others. She lifts her head and their eyes lock across the distance. She mouths something, her smile wide and eyes bright. Lucy has no trouble understanding what she means. It’s three familiar little words.

“Yeah, it was something good,” Lucy answers after a while and feels the lights in her chest shining warm and strong.

My Love. My Soulmate. My Everything.

“Something really, really good.”