#ref absolution

He can picture her unimpressed look perfectly; it’s not as though it hasn’t been directed at him enough over the years. Her brown skin will be wrinkling at the forehead as she scowls and arcs one black eyebrow, her hazel eyes narrowed. Casey Milton-Peters isn’t exactly known for her subtlety. She’s always expressive and clear about her opinions without wearing her heart on her sleeve. He admires her for it, honestly. It takes a certain kind of bravery to be intentionally open and to act on one's emotions when they need to be acted on. William has never been good at that. He’s not sure that he’s capable of expressing himself without a layer of irony or skepticism over the top, a perhaps strange trait for a man raised by a psychic. 

Casey snorts. “You know exactly like what.” 

She’s favouring her right leg, especially now that she’s abandoned her cane against one of the shelving units. He’s learned that she likes to have both her hands free in these kinds of situations, even if they are only brief escapes through their work day. It sends a little thrill up his spine. He moves closer, in part because he wants to and in part to encourage her closer to the wall, so she can lean against it and take some of the pressure off her leg. “You like it,” he whispers. 

By way of answer, she tugs on his tie again, pulling him down to her. He goes easily, slotting their mouths together. One hand goes to her waist. She’s always dressed more casually than most of the team, in her neat black trousers and untucked cranberry t-shirts. His fingers find the hem with ease that seems practiced—in truth, they’ve only been doing this for a little over a week. It’s not that the action is familiar, it’s that the daydream of it is. She shivers as his fingers slip under the fabric and graze over her skin. 

Her hands are on his neck, one sliding into his messy, dark hair and the other stopping with her fingers over his pulse point. She thinks she’s slick, but he suspects she likes to feel his pulse race, proof of her effect on him. As if it’s not obvious enough already. His aunt had been pulling The Lovers in his tarot spreads for months before Casey had approached him with a confession on her lips. You could make the choice, you know, Margot had said to him repeatedly, but he’d disagreed. Casey is his work partner, his best friend, and he knows her will enough to know it was her choice or no choice at all. Now that she’s made it, though, all bets are off. No one would’ve expected William Holmes to be the sort to sneak into a supply closet for a quick, on-the-clock makeout, and yet here they are. 

He can’t help but smile a bit into their kiss, almost laughing with the joy of it. When they’d met, he never would’ve expected that they’d end up here. The angel, the murder, the skepticism, eighteen months of following her career from a distance and a chance repeat meeting where he had definitely managed to offend her…well, he certainly hadn’t anticipated that they’d make it to this point, even given the time it took. Wanted it, sure. Dreamt it, absolutely. But never expected it. 

“Will,” she admonishes, but she’s laughing a little too. Casey is the only person he’d let call him Will. Nicknames are a love language for her and her family. He isn’t sure he can explain how he felt the first time she turned one on him. 

“Case,” he says back in the same tone. 

They make eye-contact in the dark, the slim line of light from the crack in the door illuminating the whites of their eyes. William bends to kiss her again. She’s open and vulnerable under his touch. 

The door opens. 

They spring apart, which mostly means that William steps away from her and straightens his tie, averting his gaze, while Casey both presses closer to the wall and makes a mad scramble for her cane while clearing her throat. 

Their boss, Ben Ketch, pinches his nose in the doorway. “I do not get paid enough to deal with either of you.” 

“Aw, Ben,” Casey says, any awkwardness dripping away as she grins at him. William probably shouldn’t admire how quickly she switches between her various modes, but he does. 

“Special Agent Ketch,” he corrects. He keeps up his stern expression for a beat longer than William expects, then sighs heavily. “Agent Holmes, Doctor Milton-Peters. I hope I don’t have to lecture either of you on appropriate workplace conduct?” 

“No, sir,” William says. Ben looks deeply uncomfortable with William calling him sir, which was kind of the point.

“I can’t say I didn’t expect the two of you to…. I just didn’t expect it to happen here.” 

“Sorry, Ben,” Casey says, then shrugs with one shoulder. “Won’t happen again.” 

Ben assesses them for a long moment. “This better not affect your work. No one else would be able to put up with him.”

William is far too used to sentiments like this to be offended. The fact that Casey likes him is baffling enough; their other team members coming around might get him to finally burn some sage, the way Margot always wants him to. 

Ben leaves with one final pointed look and a long sigh. 

“Next time,” Casey says, tapping her cane against the floor twice, “we should use this to block the door handle, lock the door.” 

William grins at her, all teeth. “I love that you just said next time.”