Title: Forever and Always
Rating: If you have to ask, you didn't watch the finale.
Summary: Words cannot describe it.
Disclaimer: To paraphrase the fantastic Dave-ck, I am a recent high school grad who owns absolutely nothing. (Except for my filthy imagination.)
Dedication: This work is dedicated to any and all Castle fans. We did it! It took four years, but we did it! Time to celebrate!
He isn't sure who he expected to be on the other side of the door. But he never expected it to be her. She doesn't just show up like this. She doesn't take that risk.
Except she is there, dripping wet, and if her mascara weren't waterproof it would be running all over her face in great black rivers. Her hair, usually silky and kind of bouncy, is plastered to her face in dark wet strings. She shivers just a tiny bit, and he resists the urge to slam the door in her face.
"Beckett, what do you want?" It's barely even a question.
"You."
The world grinds to a halt.
When she lunges forward, almost staggering, her arms reaching out and cupping his face, her lips latching onto his, the world begins to move again. It spins frantically, off its invisible axel and whizzing through the air, making everything tilt and spin.
The kiss is quick, making that soft sucking noise as their lips disengage. Her hands slip from his face to his shoulders, anchoring him. It's the only thing keeping him from falling down. She whispers frantically, tears leaking out and slipping down her face. She doesn't bother to wipe them away. She wants him to see them, to see that she is hurting just as much as he is. She wants him to see that she loves him, too.
"I'm so sorry, Castle." The words slip out on her breath. She doesn't have the time to find her voice, and she doubts that she could if she tried. "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry."
She leans forward to kiss him again, but only manages to slip in a quick one before he latches onto her wrists. He needs answers, needs them now. He can't risk his heart until he is absolutely sure. The grip is gentle, but it's enough to force her back. He can see her face now. See the tears. Her eyes are rarely this gentle, this calm. Before he even asks her, he knows that something big has happened to calm the storm within her.
"What happened?"
"He got away, and I didn't care." She's not gleeful, not by any means, but she's… accepting. There's a kind of stillness inside of her chest that has not been there in possibly forever. "I almost died, and all I could think about was you."
Shock, then disbelief, then joy, all flash across his eyes. She watches the emotions flash across his deep, entrancing blue eyes, and resists the urge to kiss him again. The deep, pounding need for him is nearly eclipsing all else, but she understands that she can't just lunge for him again. She has to wait and let him move.
After all, he did wait for her for four years.
"I just want you." She admits. Her eyes zero in on his lips again, and her exhausted body sways towards him of its own free will. She is so tired, so drained, between the fight and nearly dying and getting yelled at and resigning and walking for a whole hour in the freezing rain to get to his house, that she knows if she isn't in his arms soon she's going to just collapse.
He pulls her back, holding her so that he can still see her. He searches her face, looking for any signs that she's holding back, anything that might suggest that she is not fully committed. He wants to believe her so badly, but he has to check.
As he does so, her fingers reach up and gently brush against his lips. She has to keep touching him. It's no longer an option of if or when or wanting. She just has to. It's either that or stop breathing.
He bores into her, dark and intense, reaching in and pulling out her soul and reading it like an open book, one of his books. All he can see is love and desire; so, so much desire. Upon seeing it, discovering that naked lust and pure, pure love, he snaps.
Kate Beckett is in his arms. She is giving herself over to him, body, heart, and soul.
He can't resist.
There's a flash of lightening, illuminating the dim room for half a heartbeat before he moves forward. The door snicks shut, slamming her up against it. His mouth is on hers, covering her, smothering her, consuming her. She opens her mouth to him, letting him do this to her, allowing him the possession and exploration. She is all his tonight, and for every night afterwards. She is his forever.
He's wanted to do this to her since she was shot. Not the sex part – he's wanted that since she first waltzed into his book signing four years ago. No, he means the affirmation. He's wanted to mark her as his, claim her, ensconce her in his embrace and hold her close. Keep her as safe as possible, and confirm her as real in the process.
It's all hands and lips and skin and heat, tons of heat, slow and fast and burning bright. He wants to feel her skin, taste her everywhere, his lips moving down her smooth throat to suck at the sweet spot just above her collarbone. She doesn't moan, but her breathing hitches and then deepens, her body pressing desperately against him. She needs him with such a passion that it is consuming her.
When he reaches her chest, he has to stop because there's an annoying something called a shirt in the way. He pauses, raises his head, suddenly unsure. She takes the last step for him, unbuttoning her blouse. He can't help but be drawn to the sight. Her bra is something black and sexy and under normal circumstances, he'd probably take some time to admire it, but this is not a normal circumstance by any stretch of the imagination. Instead, his eyes are fixed on that little circular scar on the edge of her left breast. The remembrance of what he nearly lost.
His fingers move to trace it for the barest moment, and she takes his hand in two of her small, lithe ones, and then they're kissing again. He never, ever wants to leave this spot. He never wants to stop this. Her mouth is tangy and sweet with the barest hint of something underneath, like cherries and dark chocolate swirled into one amazing Beckett-concoction.
She grips his hands, pulling on his lips with her teeth just a little, just enough to ensure that he can't escape. If she had her way, this would never end. This pure, golden moment, with the one lamp illuminating his every feature, and his firm, tall body wrapped around hers. She feels exposed, and safe, all at once. She once hated it but now she revels in it, craves it.
Oxygen forces them apart, but only just. Their noses still touch, his large, barely curved one against her tiny, pert ski slope. His roguish smile is just starting to tease the corners of his lips when she can't hold it in, and she flashes her teeth in the sweetest, most genuine smile he's ever seen from her. It may just be the most real smile she's ever given since that dark day thirteen years ago.
They still aren't talking. For once, they don't need to, either in code or in raw, exhausting honesty. The connection they've had for so long, usually confined to cases for fear of an emotional explosion, has bled into the here and now. No words are needed. None are wanted.
She slips a hand down, her fingers twining inside of his, and she turns slightly, pulling away and to the side. She's barely moved an inch, but it's enough for him to understand. His look is beyond puppyish, beyond kid-at-Christmas-morning – and she's certain that her face wears an equally indescribable look of joy.
Despite the fact that she has never been to his bedroom before, she manages to lead him to it just fine. She's walking backwards the entire time, her hands at his collar. She still prefers that deep blue blazer of his, but the burgundy silk is nice. It brings out the lust in his eyes, that dark desire that he is not taking any care to conceal. His hands are at her waist, occasionally squeezing and running up and down, and somehow her wet blouse becomes completely unbuttoned as they move down the hall.
He loses patience and presses her up against the wall again, her feet leaving the floor for a moment. She wraps her arms around him completely, reveling against in the feel of his shirt under her hands. She begins to realize how broad his shoulders are, and he lowers his head back down to her ear. He kisses the spot just behind it, nuzzling a little, and then bites gently on the lobe. Her skin calls to him, the sweet smell of her refusing to be hidden by the wet, clean smell of the rain sticking to her skin in tiny drops of quicksilver. He drinks her up, sucking and lapping at the feast laid out for him, devouring her. He would be leaving marks but he's moving too quickly, never satisfied to stay in one place. Instead, his lips trail over her skin, constantly investigating new places, researching her body like he researches his books.
Her mouth is at his ear, her breathing heavy. It's a sensual symphony to accompany his ministrations. Her fingers dig into his skin, her entire body at once taut and fluid against him, every muscle straining to be closer to him, almost a part of him, but it molds itself perfectly against him, melting against his lips and hands.
Again, there are no words, but at some point they decide that the bedroom is the best place for this. It may be clumsy, and it may be rushed, but they are going to at least get that part of this whole thing correct. The bed it is.
This time, he is the one that leads. Their mouths are currently fused together, their tongues dancing and sliding along one another, feeding each other their heat and their desire, stoking the fires ever higher. Unable to break the suction and really, not wanting to, he lifts her up. Instead of protesting, she gives a little jump, wrapping her sinfully long legs around his waist. He's spent the good part of four years sneaking glances at those legs, but now is the moment that he fully appreciates just how long they are. They lock around him, holding him in a vice, and he never wants to leave their sensuous prison.
He carries her slowly down the hall, stumbling at times, but she is relentless in her assault on him. She doesn't care that her wet clothes are now soaking him. She doesn't mind that her hair is still sticking to her face and getting in her way. She doesn't notice that they have knocked over three books, a lamp, and nearly went sprawling when his toe caught in the carpet. Her world has narrowed itself down to one thing, and that one thing is him. Everything else has fallen away, vanished, eclipsed by his smell and his touch and his skin. She is burning for him, and quite frankly the world can burn as well as long as it means she can keep him for eternity.
She doesn't know what his bedroom looks like. She's never been inside it before. And she certainly couldn't say what it looks like now. They could be anywhere, for all she knows. He's hovering over her, and for a moment they can only gaze at one another.
The thought doesn't strike so much as glide into their minds, an instinct more than a conscious realization. She half sits up, ridding herself of her sweater and blouse. Her bra is slowly unclasped and pulled off of her, one strap at a time down her honey skin. He palms her breasts, his large hands completely covering them, his thumbs rubbing in small circles around her nipples. She gives the tiniest of gasps, her body trembling slightly as her back arcs. Her jeans are next, the dark material peeling away from her carefully. As inch after glorious inch of her is revealed, his eyes grow darker, until only the thinnest rim of burning blue can be seen. The rest is swallowed by the deep dark of his pupils, the base animal revealed. The tenderness remains, though, that tenderness that has buoyed her through every raging storm.
Her underwear takes its time getting to the floor, as he takes it off. He hooks his fingers in it and slowly drags it down her thighs, his blunt nails working in delicious counterpoint to the soft lace of the thong. She closes her eyes, her lips swollen and gently parted, reveling in the sensation. He can't tear his eyes away from her face, so exotic and angelic, both mythical and more real than anything else on this earth.
She unbuttons his shirt. She insists on it. Her fingers are smooth, thin and dexterous, and they work nimbly until the last button is undone. She gently pushes the shirt off of him, her eyes not quite flashing as she soaks in the sight of his bare chest. Before he can even take in the crackling flames in her eyes, her hands are slipping beneath his pants, running along the waistband before undoing his belt, snap and zipper. Their eyes never leave the other's face, and they both smile infectiously. They rest their foreheads together as his hands come to rest on top of hers, and he helps her to push his pants – silk boxers and all – down until they join the other superficial coverings on the floor.
Slowly, like sinking in the ocean, they fall backwards. Her hair is still wet (and beginning to frizz) but the rest of her is not, thanks to the careful kisses he's been bestowing upon every fraction of skin he can reach. There's desperation, a feeling of need-you-now, but there's that camaraderie, that partnership that runs through it all. It's their foundation, and it's what tempers the heat. It controls the fire, focuses it, and channels it into one soaring column of dancing, snapping air dervish. Minute by minute, they explore one another. They need each other, but that doesn't mean they need the finish line. This has been a marathon, and now that they're in the final mile they find that they want to savor it, take in everything that their senses can give them.
Finally, he raises himself up, just enough to get into the proper position. Their eyes lock, and they get to absorb every detail as he slowly enters her. He is buried in her, hers in every sense. His body, his senses, his mind and heart and soul are all lost in her, always. He will be forever wrapped up in her.
Just as she is in him, he is in her. She will never be able to shake the feeling of him, the lingering sense of his presence. She is no longer herself, but rather more of herself, for a piece of him has lodged within her, a ghost of him, a spirit cloak about her soul. She can feel it in every pore, every nerve, all the way too her core where it shakes and melts and consumes her. She will never be rid of him.
Even as they move together, they make little noise. They are like precious metal in a fire, melting, molding, losing themselves and yet reshaping themselves all at once, becoming who they are. Sweat begins to form until it pours over them, replacing the rain that once wet her skin. Skin glides over skin, tongue slides against tongue, breath mingles with breath. It isn't a question of where one ends and another begins, but whether they want to be separate. And they don't.
Sound eventually pierces the night. Cries, unable to be contained, announce to anyone caring to listen that they belong to each other, always and forever, claiming and expressing and sacrificing and forsaking and giving, giving, giving.
When they collapse on the bed, their legs get a little tangled in the sheets. She rests against his chest, one strong arm for a pillow and the other for a blanket. Her own hands are curled into his chest and shoulders. The hand attached to the arm that's draped over her is running through her drying hair, smoothing and straightening and detangling better than any comb. He takes great pleasure in feeling the silky strands, letting his fingers get tangled in them.
They lie there like that, more than comfortable. They are utterly sated in their little golden bubble, clad in a panoply of love, wherein human pettiness, hatred and pain cannot reach them. The exhaustion of their act eventually allows slumber to steal over them, sliding their eyes shut as they hold one another.
The human brain is a remarkable thing, capable of creating complex, nearly boundless languages of great beauty. Yet despite our (often frantic) need to label and define everything, there are still things that neither require nor allow labels. We are merely finite beings, and when we touch upon the infinite, we are at a loss.
And so despite being a bestselling, word-loving author and an extremely articulate, wit-and-barb wielding detective, neither lover could fully define or describe their experiences upon waking up the next morning. But, as many find upon feeling the fringes of something of such magnitude as love, they discovered that they did not need to discuss it. They had their certainties, and that was all they needed.
They belonged to each other, forever and always.
By the power vested in me by absolutely nobody, I hereby declare that May 7th of the Georgian Calendar, due to the singular and earth-shattering events occurring on that day of the year 2012, will henceforth be forevermore known as Caskett Day, for it was at precisely 10:55 pm Pacific Standard Time (give or take a few seconds) that all Castle fans' wildest dreams came true. I declare this in the grace of God/Allah/Buddha/Shiva/Whoever and to Stana Katic and Nathan Fillion. In the name of Andrew Marlowe, amen.