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He arrived with coffees in hand and a rant - something about Martin blaring Tibetan monk chants since six in the morning. He didn’t ask if he could come in, just simply swanned through as she opened the door with a frown.
Which is how Rachel found herself spending a not-unpleasant Sunday morning with Carl. He sat with a stack of case files, shifting through them slowly and methodically, while Rachel read the paper. In the distance the sounds of the city were only faint, still awakening. Papers were shuffled and coffee was sipped.
It was soft and quiet and not at all how she thought she’d be spending the morning.
But Rachel couldn’t lie and say she didn’t like it; she liked spending this time with him, even if they said nothing at all.
“Why are your nails done?” Carl asked, voice slightly accusatory.
So much for the peaceful silence.
“What?” Rachel glanced down at her hand, gently resting on the table. She had her nails painted, not something she got done regularly, but she had the urge a few days ago. It was a sudden feeling, to want to look…better, tidier, nicer. So she got a barely there pink that made her nails look glossy and more polished than they really were, and she liked it. She didn’t realise Carl would notice, but it’s always foolish to underestimate him.
“Why did you get them done?” he asked, voice dipping into what Rachel imagines is his interrogation voice, straight, deep and serious.
Before Rachel could curl her hand back he reached out and snatched it up in his grip. “Such preening usually means…” he paused, staring down at her nails as if they would confess under the pressure. Her cheeks heated, likely blushing a wonderful red that surely he would call her out on. He’d start to realise the conclusion that had been muddying her mind for weeks now. The conclusion that made her heart soar at his holding her hand at the same time as her stomach twisted in anxiety.
“Usually means there’s someone to impress” he concluded, glancing back up at her, brow quirked in question.
“I just felt like getting my nails done,” she muttered, pulling her hand from his grasp. But Carl was quicker and yanked it back, a glimpse of glee in his eyes.
“Who is it?” he asked, a smirk pulling on his lips.
Fuck how red were her cheeks now? She could feel the heat of the blush on her face. And judging from how delighted Carl seemed with her reaction, it was a total face takeover.
“Why must everything a woman do be assumed to be in the pursuit of a man!” she snapped back, though did not pull her hand from his firm grip this time. It was indulgent and selfish but Rachel didn’t want to be the first to let go.
“You’re not the type to get your nails done weekly” Carl shrugged, “this is irregular behaviour, and one thing I know is that irregular behaviour usually has a pretty notable cause.”
He leant closer, Rachel held her ground.
“And I think I can take murdering off the list of probable causes, so, most likely, there’s someone you’ve got your eye on.”
He locked eyes on her and she stared right back.
She could lean over right now and kiss him, and likely for once in his entire life, shock him. Take him right now at the kitchen table and pull the rug out from under him completely, remind him that people aren’t patterns or codes; they’re just people.
Thoughts like these were certainly not going to help her blush, which was really going to make it hard to get Carl to move the fuck on from this line of inquiry.
He held her gaze, challenging and unwavering. She had to hold it, not back down. With Carl it was all about reminding him she had a spine.
Would it hurt, to give him one little peck? Could she yank his hand forward and throw off his balance, placing a kiss on those smirking lips? Or would she surge forward, grab his face and devour him?
Her phone rang, but Carl didn’t move. Instead he continued to hold her hand and watch as Rachel broke first, eyes falling to her blaring phone, sighed and accepted the call.
“Hello?”
“Dr Irving, it is Akram.”
“Ah hello!”
As Rachel smiled, Carl frowned.
“Is Carl with you?”
“Yes” she chirped and Carl’s frown somehow deepened, slipping a tad bit into a scowl, his grip on her hand tightened just a smidge. “How would you know?”
A weighty sigh echoed down the phone line, “he wasn’t picking up his phone, wasn’t at home and is not at work. Therefore, he must be seeing you. He is a man of predictable patterns.” Akram recounted with a tired tone, as if this was all obvious. “Please can you tell him to come to the station, we have an update. Thank you”
“No worries, will do” Rachel held her smile, enjoying the slight confusion on Carl’s face at her sudden glee.
Akram hung up and Rachel put down her phone, returning her attention to the paper, ignoring Carl’s grip on her hand and his put-out look.
“Who was that?” he asked, tightly casual.
“Hm?” Rachel hummed, keeping her eyes on the jumble of words before her than the man next to her. She held back a grin; too could play this game.
“Rachel” he said.
“Carl” she mocked, finally looking back up at him.
He stared, exacerbated, and she smiled. He still held her hand in his, worn and warm; a firm grip but one Rachel still didn’t want to pull away from.
The seconds hung between them for a moment. Rachel decided to end his mental guessing game and put him out of his misery.
“Akram wants you to go in - said something about an update?”
And with that, their soft, quiet morning shattered. Duty called and the day must continue on.
Carl gave her hand a squeeze, something close to an apologetic smile on his face as he stood and dropped her hand. She quickly held her mug, replacing one warmth with another, smothering her previous thoughts, burning them from her mind. Her attention returned to the paper and Carl packed away his papers and files.
There was no hesitation nor an obvious decision made, it was a simple, fluid part of his departure. He rounded behind her, picking up his coat from the counter. She lifted her head, ready to give her goodbyes and remind him to try to at least text her before he next pops around. But instead as he passed, Carl lent down and gave her a peck on the cheek, leaving with a “Cheerio!”
It was all so fast that it took some time for Rachel’s mind to catch up.
As the closing of the front door sounded out his departure, Rachel let a hand fly up to her cheek, as if she could trap the sensation between her fingers. An echo of his itchy scruff and soft lips lingered, his cologne hung a bit in the air if she dared to sniff; she could have this memory a moment longer.
And then no more.
It could mean nothing.
Or it could mean something.
Rachel would have to figure out her own line of inquiry the next time she saw him.