This came to me when I was in the middle of revising 16th century love poetry. I, being an Olympic-level procrastinator, felt it necessary to put aside Sir Thomas Wyatt and grab my laptop. This was the result.
Disclaimer: To my deep and sorrowful regret, I do not own Castle. To be completely frank, I'm not quite sure what I'd do with it if I did.
When she wakes, it's raining.
The small window of world she can see from her position, face buried in pillows and blankets, is a muted grey. She can hear the tap tap tap of water on the glass, can see the small drops rolling down the windowpane, nudging others along the way, absorbing them before they hit the outside sill and fall to the street.
She shifts in her cocoon of warmth, the duvet whispering over her bare skin, telling stories of the night before. She thinks she can feel where the loose sheets have made a crease in her cheek, one that won't fade until long after breakfast.
More of the bedroom window is in her frame of view now, the light grey sky casting a weak, watery glow on her world of bed and room. She blinks, slowly, her eyelids heavy and full of dreams she can't quite remember – something about the rain, she thinks. Something about the rain and the dark and a warm pair of hands and blue, blue eyes.
Her mind has yet to cast off the comforting shroud of sleep that still holds her in its arms, like the warm embrace of someone you love, whose face you can never quite recall as it slips away like ink in water. She thinks it might be morning, although she cannot be sure. It feels like time is languishing next to her, making her limbs heavy and the rain keep falling until the sun itself succumbs to sleep's enticing call.
Sounds echo from another room, the clink of china, the quiet hum of a machine, the gentle rumble of a male voice, and she doesn't quite understand until the smell of coffee hits her nose.
Unfurling like a fern frond in sunlight, she sweeps her legs out from beneath the blankets, hissing as the cooler air curls around them. A shiver races from her toes to her hips, shooting up her spine and dispersing in her shoulders. Gritting her teeth, she pushes past the chill and levers herself upright, the soles of her feet hitting the cold hardwood with a barely audible thud, the sheets falling to her bare waist.
One hand snakes out to turn on her bedside lamp, bathing the room in a golden glow and making the silver raindrops on the windowpane dance. The other hand reaches for her sleep-shirt, another shiver spreading through her body as she slides it on, a barrier between herself and the cold.
A noise in the doorway makes her head turn, her hair brushing her shoulders and falling past her ears at the motion. She almost tucks it back again, but she doesn't.
He's standing in the doorway, accompanied by a tray of what she hopes is coffee and breakfast. She thinks his eyes are like sapphire and liquid golden love, the lamplight reflecting back at her and creating a smile on her face that rivals his. He's beaming, his hands barely staying still enough to keep the tray steady, and in two swift movements, his bare feet carry him to her side of the bed.
Setting the tray of what smells like fried heaven down on her bedside table, he tucks her hair behind her ear before straightening up, his gaze lazily flicking down her figure, a pout forming on his face as he takes in the shirt. He sends an almost petulant look her way, which she returns with an upturned corner of her mouth, teasing him. Come and take it off then, she says with her eyes, if you're so unhappy about it.
She sees the exact moment he realises what she's telling him, the blue of his irises nearly swallowed whole by the blown-black of his pupil. There's a moment of silence, save for the tap tap tap of the rain on the glass that serves as a metronome for the music of their hearts. It passes, though, when he sighs, a great exhalation through tight lips that ends in a dry chuckle.
"I made breakfast," he murmurs roughly, as if convincing himself. "It'll go cold." She laughs then too, a throaty thing that starts under her ribs and hums through her chest and out of her mouth in a siren song.
"Coffee first," she hums, reaching for her own mug as he gets a knee down on the bed and clambers over to his side. She passes him his own mug before looking at hers, and oh.
There, nestled in the white foam, is a coffee heart.
She can almost hear him smile, the waves of his joy caressing her skin as she slips her legs back under the covers and turns her head to look at him again. Her gaze travels hotly over his stubbled jaw, his straight nose, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes, the arch of his eyebrow. She knows he's the writer, the wordsmith in their partnership, but the curve of his lips and the blue of his eyes makes her want to preserve them in ink for all eternity.
"Made you a coffee," he says softly, and she always thinks she can never love this man more than she does, but every day he always proves her wrong. He will keep proving her wrong until they're old and grey and she forgets her teeth on the dresser and his fingers seize up after too much typing. God.
"So," she says, and then in a fit of whimsy she continues; "it wasn't a dream." He's confused at first, his brow furrowing and the light catching in his eyelashes when he blinks, but understanding soon floods his face like clear water and he lets out a small gasp.
"You are the perfect woman," he mumbles, the memory of that first morning washing over the both of them as the rain continues to roll down the window. Her cheeks heat under his far-away gaze and at the reverence in his voice, and she hopes that he will never stop making her blush, never stop showing her how much he adores her.
"I love you," she whispers in return, her voice in harmony with the beat of her heart in her chest, the throb of blood in her hands and the echo of his vows that still ring in her ears. She can't quite think of a better way to spend their second first morning in this room and this bed.
The light from the lamp winks off her wedding ring, the weight of which is still new, and her eyes slide over to where the matching one resides on his left hand. It's been less than forty-eight hours since she put it there, and she's surprised at how right it feels to see it there, knows that it would be odd, now, to look and find it missing.
His eyes track her gaze, joining it on his ring, before he takes her hand and places a soft kiss just above her own wedding band. The dry warmth of his lips and the rush of his breath over her fingers makes her feel as if she was joining the constellations in their dance across the sky of the night before. Dizzy and euphoric and love-drunk.
"First night in our own bed where I can finally call you my wife," he muses, staring out the window to the grey sky and the falling rain.
"First 'morning after' in our own bed where I can finally call you my husband," she counters softly, watching his head whip back around to face her, an almost ethereal smile gracing his features. She nearly reaches out to trace his smile with the pads of her fingers, longs to slip her hand through his soft hair and pull him closer so she can taste the bliss on his lips, but she doesn't. She's happy like this, basking in the feeling of loving, and being loved in return, knowing that loving will become literal later on with the slip of sheets and the caress of skin against skin.
After breakfast, of course.