#its awful. and so extremely cheesy. and yes before you ask: he does indeed purposely add wild west music to many of his videos

[theclaravoyant]

the right people ~ holt x kevin

As long as we’re with the right people, we can handle anything. - Amy Santiago - and also Raymond Holt, later that day.

AN ~ for the Anon who prompted: “Kevin comforting Holt when he doesn’t get the Commissioner position or celebrating with him when he does”. (And also for me, because it’s what we deserve.) This is emotional hurt/comfort so there’s some mild angst in here but it’s all wholesome I swear. Enjoy <3

Read on AO3 (~1800wd)

the right people

Kevin knew better than to wait up for Raymond on a night like this, and though he would have liked to spend the evening together – an increasing rarity in their lives of late – he could not begrudge Raymond the celebration of Peralta and Santiago’s wedding. Instead, he simply passed along his well-wishes for the newlyweds, and set peaceably enough about his evening routine. He cooked and ate tea, washed up, walked and fed Cheddar, pressed Raymond’s suit for the next day, and then retired to the lounge. There, he browsed Le Monde for a time, and then returned to his place in The Brothers Karamazov with a glass of port in his hand, ready to settle in for an evening of literary leisure.

It was at this moment that he was interrupted, and by the sound of Raymond’s keys in the door no less. Kevin glanced at the clock. It was hardly early, but still, something didn’t seem quite right.

“Raymond?” he wondered. Uncertainty tempered his joy at the thought of being able to spend the evening with Raymond after all. For a man whose friends had just celebrated their marriage, Raymond seemed awfully sullen. Kevin frowned, and set his book and drink aside. “… Is everything okay?”

Raymond did not bother to remove his coat or bag at the door, and instead headed right past Kevin and into the kitchen. Kevin leapt after him, now especially concerned that Raymond had apparently surpassed the melodramatic monologuing stage of whatever this was and had moved straight to something more drastic. Kevin’s concerns were only compounded when he found Raymond in the kitchen, having finally abandoned his coat and bag, staring deep into the soul of the microwave oven.

“Do we have ketchup?” Raymond wondered half-heartedly, watching goodness-knows-what spin around on its plate inside. There were only a few seconds to go.

“Ketchup?” Kevin’s frown deepened. “No, though if I remember correctly there is some tomato chutney in the-“

“Salt, then?”

“Top shelf, leftmost cupboard I believe. Why?” Kevin asked. “Raymond, what’s the matter? And what is…“

He trailed off when he saw the tell-tale red packaging strewn across the bench. The microwave chimed, and his stomach turned at the mere memory of the smell. Oh yes, he knew what that was.

Pizza pockets.

“Oh, no,” he objected.

“Oh, yes!” Raymond cried, raising the pizza pocket on the plate high as if it were some kind of holy punishment from ancient times. “I am a failure, Kevin, and so I shall eat the food… of failures.”

“I highly doubt that-“ Kevin began, only to find that Raymond had apparently recovered sufficiently from his initial disappointment to have re-entered the monologuing stage of… grief, or whatever this was.

“Peralta calls this his ‘comfort food,’” Raymond mused, turning the plate this way and that to study the pastry from all sides. “He assures me all will be well should I allow it to cradle me against its sodium- and preservative-filled bosom. Of course, I do doubt it, but then again, if today has taught me anything, it is that my opinion is meaningless. Everything is meaningless, except for this. This… pocket full of pizza is the only small chance at joy I have left in this world, Kevin. It is the one cheese- and bacon-filled star that remains in the black, burnt-out husk of the sky that is my career. It is… What. I. Deserve.”

Kevin could not stand idly by and untangle the net of mixed metaphors Raymond had just weaved for himself; not when, right before his very eyes, Raymond – with all the resignation of a heartbroken hero in a Shakespearean tragedy – plunged his teeth deep into the pizza pocket’s cheesy depths.

“No!” Kevin cried, knocking the plate and the rest of the pastry out of Raymond’s hands. “Don’t be ridiculous, Raymond. Why would you do this to yourself? Whatever is the matter, please tell me. It’s not about the wedding, is it? Because I already told you, I have no regrets about that.”

“No,” Holt agreed. “It’s not about the wedding. Such as it was. It is about… the job.”

“The Commissioner job?”

“Yes.”

“You didn’t get it?”

Kevin blinked, flabbergasted. He was frozen in place, paralysed by confusion and no shortage of indignant fury, as Cheddar ran into the room and gleefully began licking up the cheese-and-bacon-flavoured mess he’d made. Raymond knelt to scratch Cheddar’s ears and murmur sweet nothings. Kevin’s brain ran the gauntlet of the Kubler-Ross Model.

First, denial. Could Raymond be joking? If so, it would not have been the first time he had used his subtle manner to extract humour of a practical nature. Immature though such a joke may have been about a thing like this, he was undoubtedly a little tipsy and may not have been thinking as clearly as he usually did.

Then again, the pizza pocket spoke to that well enough, and the amount of drink he had consumed had no doubt in itself been influenced by the receipt of such terrible news. It was not fair, it was simply not fair, Kevin thought. Raymond had worked impossibly hard, and fought frankly ridiculous odds, to stay with an organisation that had never cared for him. What else could the NYPD have possibly wanted Raymond to do? He could hardly have spent more early mornings or late nights at work. He could hardly have conducted himself more professionally. He could hardly have given up more than he did, or believed in the purest most idealistic heart and soul, the intended purpose as he saw it, of the NYPD any more than he did. Serve and protect. Kevin defied anyone to have done it better.

And yet, they had both seen this coming for a long time. Raymond had had to fight for every scrap of recognition, every case, every promotion he had ever received. He was a proud black man, and gay too, and not remotely ashamed of either of those facts. He had come out in the midst of the AIDS crisis and never looked back. Never backed down. He had stood up for Sergeant Jeffords, advocated for Santiago, and fought racial bias in the NYPD where ever he had found it. That had to be intimidating for an organisation chaired by white men who were comfortable in their ways, who baulked at change, who served the mission of the organisation to their own end. Maybe the other candidates for Commissioner had indeed been quality officers – Kevin knew himself better than to assume he would give any officer besides Raymond a fair assessment – but after watching his husband be systemically undermined at every turn…

The urge to march into the new Commissioner’s office and have a strongly worded discussion with him (if not an outright swordfight, which Kevin had also briefly entertained) began to fade. The inevitability of it all did sting, but Kevin realised, there was only so much he could do about it at this point. No doubt all of these thoughts, and more, had been running through Raymond’s mind ever since he’d found out about the board’s decision. It was no wonder he’d resigned himself to pizza pockets. And no matter what the reason, Kevin reminded himself, the fact remained that his husband was clearly extremely upset. Maybe he could not single-handedly fix the prison system or end mandatory sentencing, but pizza pockets? Not in his kitchen. At least that much, he could handle.

Taking a deep breath, Kevin brushed Raymond’s shoulder to regain his attention.

“Take a seat, Raymond,” he offered; for both their dignities, ignoring that Raymond was still all but curled up with Cheddar on the kitchen floor. “I have a plate for you in the oven. There is no need for you to torture yourself any further with that… ‘food’.”

Raymond sighed as well, and hefted himself off the floor with a visible effort.

“You are too good to me, my dear,” he declared, catching Kevin’s hand and squeezing it, leaning in for a brief embrace as they passed each other. “What would I do without you?”

“Experience an ischemic cerebrovascular accident, no doubt,” Kevin offered.

“No doubt indeed.” They had passed each other like orbiting planets as Raymond moved toward the dining table and Kevin toward the oven, but Raymond took his time releasing Kevin’s hand. He picked up the packet of pizza pockets from the bench, with three remaining pastries inside, and glanced over the list of ingredients on the back. To think, what he had been about to put into his body? Thank goodness for Kevin helping him see the light. Raymond dropped the box into the bin, and for the first time since reading those fateful words – we regret to inform you - a smile touched his lips. And not just because he was glad to be rid of those awful frozen pockets of pizza.

“Raymond, may I request back the use of my hand?” Kevin asked. “The plate is hot and it will be safer for both of us - and for your dinner - if I am able to use my full faculties.”

“Of course.”

Raymond released Kevin, and watched as he pulled a plate of roast cauliflower, broccoli, pumpkin, carrot, and lamb from the oven with all the grace and strength and decorum with which he had always conducted himself. The plate itself was nothing special, all of it unseasoned to perfection, and yet Raymond found himself staring rather moonishly as Kevin turned back and saw him.

“What is that look for?” Kevin wondered; flattered, if a little confused.

Raymond was thinking of what Amy had said earlier. What he himself had repeated at the bar. That as long as we’re with the right people, we can handle anything. His squad, certainly, was comprised of good people and he was proud to be their leader and their friend, but there was one ‘right person’ he had come dangerously close to overlooking tonight. How was he to convey how sorry he was, or how happy, how grateful, how loved? How could anyone bring themselves to write wedding vows at all? Then again, why did they need to, when three little words could achieve so much?

“I love you,” Raymond said.

Kevin’s expression softened.

“I love you too,” he said. Then, as they walked to the table together like it was any old Parisian street, he added: “Would you still like that salt?”

Raymond shook his head as they sat. “I don’t need it. Thank you.”

“No trouble at all, my love,” Kevin assured him. Of course, there was no need for the extraneous pet name, but after a long day, it never hurt to indulge. “No trouble at all.”

#holt x kevin #raymond holt x kevin cozner #captain holt #brooklyn 99 #b99fic #clara's fic tag #ask me stuff #prompt me stuff #long post #readmore