Work Text:
Captain Raymond Holt has not had such a delightfully productive day at work in a good while.
Detective Peralta only got distracted by a can of spray cheese four times, and not once did he and Detective Santiago sneak to the evidence rooms to canoodle. If Holt had to guess, the cheese breath would be the perpetrator. Detective Diaz didn’t break a single electronic and Detective Boyle only went off on two food related tangents, which still managed to disgust Gina so much that she decided to hide away in Holt’s office and do (some) of her work, mostly she just stared at him but he figured that was better than her rudely staring at Sargent Terrys figure. Terry was… no more productive than normal. But Hitchcock and Scully were both out sick from eating a five day old pizza they found out back the previous day, so they couldn’t slow down their internet speed by streaming from untrustworthy pornographic sites.
Of course Holt himself was nothing less than perfectly efficient. Nothing could get his nose out of the stack of papers on his desk, except a case, which of course he solved with exceptional speed. Perlata likened him to Sherlock, and Holt responded by saying that he would rather die than be British. How can you ruin a plain scone?
As all his employees left for the night, Holt stayed behind, stating that he only had a few more documents to finish.
He stayed for three more hours, and only stopped because he literally worked on everything he could. There was nothing more he could do.
There was nothing more to distract him.
Actually, perhaps the janitorial staff needed some assistance? No, he’s tried that before they would simply kick him out like the last three times.
He had nowhere to go but his house.
When he arrived, he followed the same ritual he’s practiced for the last two and a half months. Raymond takes off his shoes, stows his gun and badge, lets Cheddar outside to potty, changes into his pyjamas and makes himself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. He eats it standing against the counter in the dark, and only half way through remembers he forgot to uncrust the pieces of bread. He loathed the edges. But he eats it anyway, because for the third time this week he’s forgotten to make himself lunch to bring to work.
Raymond lets Cheddar inside, and he watches as the dog moves to lay down on one of his many beds, this one if his favorite however, and there’s something inside it that Cheddar seems very content to rub and snuggle against.
As he nears to investigate, Cheddar looks up to him with big sad eyes, as if he knows he's going to take the foreign object away, he’s begging him not to.
“Cheddar. Up.” He orders.
The dog sadly obliges, and Raymond picks up the offending object.
A deep maroon sweater.
He meets Cheddar's sad eyes with his own, and feels guilty only for a second and says, glowering towards him. “If you love him, you wouldn’t ruin his sweaters.”
It's ironic and unfair, since a week ago Raymond had ruined his roses.
He sighs, watching his dog hang his head with guilt, and Raymond feels for him. “Come on baby, you can sleep with me.”
Cheddar perked up and followed the man up the stairs, circling and plopping down on another doggie bed Raymond had bought for the master bedroom a few months ago.
He gently placed the sweater in a laundry bin and proceeded to get ready for bed. Even his urination is efficient.
But as he climbs into bed for the night, ending his most productive day yet, he does not feel happy, or accomplished. What's a productive day matter if he has no one to tell about it? He lays in the dark for a good minute before sitting up and grabbing his phone, allowing himself to feel slightly hopeful, which he immediately regretted.
There were no new messages, no calls, no voicemails. Not even an email.
Raymond felt his heart chip away slightly, and the nights were starting to add up.
He opened his most recent sent text and scrolled upwards.
Dearest Kevin,
Good morning.
Sincerely, Raymond Holt.
Dearest Kevin,
Goodnight.
Sincerely, Raymond Holt.
Dearest Kevin,
Good morning.
Sincerely, Raymond Holt.
Dearest Kevin,
Goodnight.
Sincerely, Raymond Holt.
Dearest Kevin,
Good morning.
Sincerely, Raymond Holt.
Dearest Kevin,
Goodnight.
Sincerely, Raymond Holt.
It goes on for a week, and all of them have a small “R” next to them, indicating Kevin has read them, but of course, he has not responded.
And somehow it hurts more than if Kevin had just ignored them entirely.
Even still, ever persistent, Raymond begins to craft a new message.
Dearest Kevin,
No,
My dearest Kevin,
Goodnight.
His fingers hover over the touch keyboard, unsure, and simultaneously fully aware of what he wants to say. Raymond types a whole paragraph, and deletes it all, then another, only to rid it all again. It's too much to say through a text, it's too much to say when he knows Kevin will not respond. Eventually, he's left with something similar to his previous texts:
My dearest Kevin,
Goodnight. I miss you dearly.
Sincerely yours, Raymond Holt.
Raymond sends it, feeling very apprehensive. He stares at his phone wondering if he can take it back because he did not have to be that transparent but before he can try to figure out how to delete it, a small “R” appears next to the text, indicating that Kevin had read his message and is for some reason still awake.
It must be 4:37 a.m. in Paris.
Actually he knows for a fact it's now 4:38 a.m. in Paris.
He stares at his phone because maybe this time Kevin will say something and after a minute Raymond sees three dots appear on the opposite side of his texts and his heart skips a beat. He waits anxiously, and the three dots disappear for a few moments only to return again. Raymonds phone screen is starting to warp from gripping it so hard. The dots appear and disappear a total of three times before after six minutes and twenty three seconds, Raymond realizes they aren’t going to appear again.
If his heart was breaking before, Kevin had now lured it out his chest only to throw it into the ground and step on it. He was a fool.
Raymond puts his phone down with force, eliciting a sharp whine from Cheddar at the suddenness of it, and blinks the wetness from his eyes.
Kevin is three thousand six hundred and twenty four miles away, but he feels so much farther. So far, Raymond is afraid he can no longer reach him.
——
Three thousand six hundred and twenty four miles away Raymond doesn’t realize that Kevin listens to every single one of Raymond’s voicemails, and even replays his favorite ones before he goes to sleep, that his heart skips every time he gets a message notification from “My Raymond”, that he calls Gina to ask how Raymond is doing, that his trash can is full of half written letters because a text message could never full encapsulate what he feels but he doesn’t want Raymond to hear his voice crack and break if he were to say it over the phone, that he longs for Raymond just as much as Raymond longs for him, so immensely that he cannot sleep, but is terrified that he's too far away for Raymond to reach him anymore.