"What happens if you don't like what you see?" "What happens if you don't let me look?" She's not about to let him become a mystery that she will never solve, a book she can't begin to write.

Notes: I'll continue this with more one-shots on the same theme of Kate's discoveries and observations about Rick, including back-story details from the show and maybe others that I invent.

#1: FRAUD
4x23 "Always" and 5x18 "The Wild Rover"

"Nothing you become will disappoint me; I have no preconception that I'd like to see you be or do. I have no desire to foresee you, only to discover you. You can't disappoint me." –Mary Haskell

The lights are on. He can't help but notice.

Not because either one of them is shy, or because they prefer to make love with the lights on or off—as it happens, that detail has never much mattered to them. He always notices the way Kate looks in different light: where the shadows fall, how deep and dark her eyes can seem, how bright her smile, how her smooth skin reflects even the subtlest traces of lamplight and moonlight. But he has seldom been conscious of whether or not they flip a switch first.

For some reason, he notices now. Notices not only that Kate's smile is bright and her eyes are shining and her skin is not textured with so many shadows, but also that he is equally visible. And he realizes—that's it. It may just be the first time since their first time that he feels so incredibly visible.

She's kissing him so fervently and he can't help but reciprocate, curling over her long body, cradling her head in the bend of his arm while her fingers trace the curve of his back pocket and the line of his belt.

He kisses her jaw and her neck and feels her hum; he hears her voice and it takes him a moment to be sure that—no, she isn't speaking now; he's simply hearing a memory.

I just want you.

And as he kisses her, he remembers kissing down her drenched body at his door; remembers unfastening her shirt to show the scar there. That scar affirmed for him that he had dishonored her wishes all those years ago, failed to tackle her out of a line of fire, couldn't bring her justice any better than he could restore the broken skin. Yet she trusted him with all of her that night; let him know just by holding his palm against her grazed heart that life still pulsed through her and she wanted to share it with him.

After everything we've been through.

Since then, she has seen him naked so many times, undressed him so many times. But more than anything, he wants her to know that he meant it when he said—even between the breaks in his voice—that he wanted to tell her the truth about Jordan. He wants her to know that he realizes now how vulnerable she has made herself to him, how often she has willingly peeled away her own layers so that he could see her in a new light. He wants to be half as brave as she is.

Every step toward the bedroom is another flash of memory of that first night, even in the stark differences. This time they have drinks to abandon. They have a shorter walk; the sofa is that much closer than the front door.

They still walk hand-in-hand, facing forward.

This time it's only his fingers that tremble ever so slightly as they grasp hers; she is solid and strong, and his heart feels full as he takes in the change in her; how sure she can be of him, of them, when he has just shown her this regretful piece of himself.

They close the door behind them, hide themselves away in the little sanctuary of privacy that is his bedroom, and yet he is not sure that he has ever felt more on display.

Lips joined, they sink together to the bed before he breaks their kiss and rises again to unbutton his own shirt. He doesn't let her take off his clothing this time, even though she is clearly more than happy to help. She didn't force his revelation from him tonight. Even with all of her prodding, truly it was his choice to confess to her, here, now. He may not be rushing headlong into divulging more of his secrets aloud, but he isn't ready to relinquish his own openness—that terrifying and liberating feeling of simple openness to Kate.

Here again his fingers tremble for a moment, the adrenaline of self-disclosure and unconditional acceptance and it makes me like you just a little bit more setting off synapses like fireworks. But then he meets her eye again, finds truth and trust mirrored there, and the tremble recedes just enough. When he gets to the last button down the front, he moves to those on the cuffs of his sleeves, and she reaches up with one hand to lay her palm flat against his bare chest as though he has revealed his very heart, waiting patiently for him to discard the fabric.

She's entirely too distracted by the sight of him even to remove her own clothing; can't pull her stare away from his broad shoulders and the strong arms that lead into his writer's hands—hands that she now knows have worked a lifetime for atonement and honor. Tonight she has learned a little bit more about just how much strength he has in him.

For perhaps the first time, she feels that she is indulging every one of her senses in getting to know him.

She inhales the subtle scent of citrus bergamot, but when she kisses him, he still tastes of the rustic Châteauneuf-du-Pape.

She feels his radiating warmth and senses the crackle of energy midair; touches his skin and savors his every response.

She hears not only the confession he has entrusted to her tonight, but every pounding reverberation of a liberated heart.

And then there is the gratitude that she sees in his eyes; so immeasurable that it surpasses even the greatest expressions of gratitude that he has ever offered to her.

He'd feared that sharing the truth might change how she saw him, and in the moment that he'd finally told her, she'd thought that the only change it brought was the way that she liked him even more.

It's only now that she sees the other change—the one in him, the one that's brought him to life.

And it's a beautiful paradox that she would share with him out loud if speaking it might be half as beautiful as experiencing it, for either one of them; something she might voice if she could even put it into words: Tonight he is a new man, but no less the same man she's been falling in love with all along.