Set some loosely-defined time after Cuffed. Written for the June 2015 Pornado.
One bed.
One room.
No couch.
Well. That, she reasons, was why it was called the honeymoon suite. To the great amusement of the innkeeper when she'd explained that it was absolutely the only accommodations she had and that they were lucky to get even that in this kind of weather at the only place to stay in town.
"You know what's really weird?" Castle asks her, casting thoughts out into the anti-sound of the shared room of the tiny holiday cabin and waiting for her to ask him what it was that could be weirder than this.
"You?" teases Kate. She's too thankful for the attempt to skate around the elephant in the room on blades of snark to put any kind of malice into her guess. He smiles facetiously, sarcasm and affection mixing in the corners of his mouth and the lines of his eyes.
"I wrote almost this exact scenario once for a book. Except it was snow instead of torrential rain, and there was only one sleeping bag, and nudity to prevent potential hypothermia was involved."
She wracks her brain trying to remember it in his millions of words she's absorbed and made part of her from the time she was sixteen. Half a lifetime of him, whether he knows it or not.
"I'm afraid I don't recall that scene."
"Yeah, it got axed. My editor said it was too cliché and unrealistic, and that it was lazy writing," he breezes, "also, it was pretty much pure porn."
It's his strange way of reassuring her that in spite of the forced proximity, he's not going to push her. It's comforting, in an odd way.
"Gee, what could they possibly want from an effort in quality literature if that didn't make the cut?"
Best not think about those things at any length.
Castle takes up residence at the small desk, laying their case file out and futzing with his phone. At first she snaps at him that he's not going to get a signal in this weather (if he'd get a signal at all up here in the boonies). But when he produces it as a radio, tuning it until he finds the weather report, she wishes she'd held her tongue. It's hardly his fault that they're stuck here. He, for once, wasn't the one suggesting they chase down a longshot lead on their latest case – an interview with a recluse up in the Hudson highlands – but he'd not objected when asked if he wanted to take a road trip. And now here he was, stuck because of her. Again. And he had a hell of a lot more at home that he'd be missing than an empty apartment and couple shots of something stronger than memory.
Not wanting to dwell on that, Kate busies herself with taking inventory of their candles, wracking her brain from her summers in the family cabin to try and remember the burn rate, how many they would need and how they could conserve them. It's hardly three in the afternoon. She's not certain she should bank on the overbooked inn having extras, even in the main building, and by the weather forecast and purported state of the bridge – the only way out of this place – they might be here through the next day. Or beyond.
Castle's folded his arms and rested his chin atop them, slumped over the desk like a daydreaming schoolboy. A stray bolt of lightning cuts across the sky before the sheets of rain change direction, hammering at the window Castle's perched in front of. She jumps. He doesn't seem to mind; just takes it in with a dreamy fascination. Kate has to admit that she's never much seen the purpose of discussions on weather, or the obsessive attention paid to it. She's not what one would call in touch with the elements. Weather only even registers to her when it affects her ability to do her job in some way. Ice to slip on in pursuit of a suspect; a heat wave that changes the assumed time of death on a dead body and sets up reasonable doubt about a suspect's alibi; snow and the accompanying snowplows slowing traffic to a crawl. Beyond that, she couldn't care less – if she got cold, she was cold; if she got wet, she was wet; if it was hot, she drank water and dealt with it. That's just the way it is, and obsessing over it isn't exactly likely to change it.
But maybe she should have paid attention. They wouldn't be in this situation if she'd heeded warnings about a nor'easter heading their way. What would be a mild inconvenience in the shelter of the city with contingency plans and emergency services abound, she's long forgotten can be a major event in more rural areas. One downed tree to the only bridge out of town and everybody's stranded until the county sends someone out to fix it, or locals get too annoyed with the wait and do it themselves.
Still, there's nothing to be done except wait it out. Together. Alone. Alone together. She has no doubt that he'll be a gentleman. He'll not push; he'll keep his comments to a tame, acceptable level of flirtatiousness when she goes to take a bath. He'll even let her have the bed, electing to try to sleep in the armchair, or even on the plush but entirely unsupportive rug in front of the massive stone fireplace. The question is: does she want him to be a gentleman any longer?
Things are different, now. Have been since the day with the tiger, nearly two weeks ago. They'd both been too compromised to do anything about it that day, but ever since, she's held onto her promise, a promise veiled in an implication, that some day, they'd try it without the tiger. And here they are. No handcuffs. No life-threatening situation at all. Just a washed out bridge in a lonely mountain outpost and some truly nasty rain.
Things are different. She can't pin down just what, but she accepts it. She pulls the thought of it forward in her mind in her quiet moments, in her little personal reflections; the drive into work or the elevator trip down to the morgue or those sacred few seconds when she first gets her coffee, where nobody bothers her and the world narrows down to nothing until she's taken a long draught of her drink and had time to savor. Of what they are. Of what they might be.
It's as if they're in some kind of limbo. Passed over some unspoken threshold, unable to return to the way things were before (and what, then, were they?), but held in an inert state of the moment just before contact. The hunger howled between them, stuck on starving and though much of the time they were able to keep it stamped and beaten down with practiced control, there were unguarded moments. It's evident in the casual touches that produce entirely unwarranted reactions; in glances held just a little too long; in the blithe teasing they've always shared that's understood to mean so much more now. She alternately despises and delights in it. In her better moments, she knows it's only a matter of time now. The line's already moved, and it won't take so much to cross now. If she can find her nerve. If they can find the right time.
He's still content to watch the deluge outside, and Kate finds that she's just content to watch him.
After braving the run in near-freezing rain under a shared umbrella from their positively toasty cabin to the inn, Castle and Beckett arrive mostly dry. He's pleased to discover a tiny all-purpose shop and excuses himself there for a breath while tasking Beckett with finding out where and if they can make phone calls to inform work and family of their absence. She went along with his plan surprisingly without argument or dissent. Maybe, absent a case and the boundaries of family and friends, this is what they're like; more balanced versions of their same old partnership. Where he's not the civilian and she doesn't have to be in control all of the time. Maybe this is his chance to find out.
He selects the necessities – toothbrushes, toothpaste, disposable razors, shave cream, flashlight, batteries, and a backup lighter. Hesitating around the clothing section, he's not sure what his place is. He knows he'll never sleep in his day clothes, particularly now that the legs are wet to the knee, and Beckett's not fared any better. He's certainly not going to presume on her comfort with him going round in his boxers. The options for pajamas are limited – blue or red flannel bottoms, and a small selection of plain black or white tops.
...What the hell. How much trouble could he get in for making sure she has an option? If she wants to sleep in her suit and four inch heels, let her. He throws in a tank top, a long-sleeve waffle-knit shirt (he doesn't know if she sleeps hot or cold, after all) and the red sleep pants for her, on top of his own selection.
Now – what are they to do for a meal? The store has stocked some bare-bones options – delicacies from his childhood like ravioli in a can and soup – and he'd assumed the cooking insert in the fireplace and the dishes on the mantle in their cabin were functional. Deciding it's better to be prepared than to rely on the assumption that there's some kind of dining hall at the inn, he throws a number of cans in with the other items and proceeds to checkout.
She sidles up to him at the shop's entrance, considerably more cheerful than when they parted twenty minutes prior.
"They've got a land line in the lobby still working," she informs him, "called in to work and they know we're here, you can go phone Alexis and your mom any time."
It's a relief to hear; ever since the bank, Alexis has become increasingly worried over him whenever she doesn't hear from him for several hours. He thinks a good part of it is no longer being distracted by Ashley, but just the same, he's grappled with how to handle it without encouraging her to behave as if he's a child for her to keep tabs on. None the less, in this case, checking in is entirely appropriate.
"Good," he answers.
"Also, there's a buffet in the dining hall. No promises of quality, but at this point I'd eat shoe leather." Her stomach punctuates her declaration loudly, voicing its displeasure of having had nothing since breakfast.
He surreptitiously moves the bag of miscellaneous necessities out of view, following at her heels to the dining hall, and tries not to think about that king-sized hand-hewn log bed waiting back in the room.
Dinner was a shockingly pleasant affair. The dining hall reminds her of the public restaurants she ate at in Ukraine: massive tables with everyone seated together, a dull roar of happy conversation between old friends and strangers alike over courses of filling stews, succulent game, vegetables fresher than any healthfood market in the city could sell her. Simple and wholesome. They stay well into the evening, stopping to talk with other stranded visitors in good humor about their shared predicament until she feels her eyes growing heavy with the long day on the road and the unpredictable detour they've taken.
The run back to the room only furthers the suspicion that she's in trouble; the sideways rain soaks the both of them despite the umbrella. Slamming the door shut when they reach the cabin, Castle swallows thickly, his back to the door, and digs around in his bag while she fumbles uselessly for a candle and the lighter.
Suddenly, the room goes light. Kate blinks until her eyes adjust, to see Castle efficiently lighting a few candles before killing the flashlight (where'd that come from?) and approaching her with trepidation.
"I…" he starts, offering a bag from the inn's shop to her awkwardly, "I got some stuff I thought we might need. I mean you don't have to take anything, of course, but since neither of us planned for this and we're both all wet now I just—"
She shuts him up and puts him out of his misery, taking the bag from him and pecking his cheek for his thoughtfulness. Something about being alone with him away from work and city life has her looser than she's felt in months – years, maybe – more free with her better-natured impulsivity than the kind that takes strangling hold of her when she can't let go of something at work or about her mother's case. Giving a tinkling laugh at the stunned expression on his face, she scurries to the bathroom first and lights a few candles there along the sink.
There are the expected items, yes, but it's with a combination of surprise and delight that she finds pajamas waiting for her. Clean, dry pajamas. It's true, they're not exactly silky strappy slips or anything else she's ever imagined showing off for her partner (and oh, has she imagined it), but the thought of wearing them still makes her ears go red and her heart pound a little faster.
The luxurious hammered copper and cast iron bathtub behind her calls to her briefly, but she's tired. And more importantly, interested in the other potential for the night. Rifling through their supplies again, she feels the sparkle of mischief pull at her, and panic right behind that, nipping at the heels of any happiness she allows herself, it seems.
Is this it?
She gazes at herself in the mirror, unbuttoning her blouse and hesitating a moment before, in the interest of comfort, she removes her bra with it and gathers them together to neatly fold at the sink. Fingers unconsciously seeking the bullet scar, she doesn't even realize she's doing it until she sees mirror-Kate circling the puckered wound. It still pulls sometimes. It's still red. She's still not fully herself. And… he still loves her.
Maybe – just maybe – she can be his while she works to be more than what she is. She's not what she used to be, and she's coming to terms with the fact that, like her mother's death, her shooting has changed her forever. But he loved her before. And it's apparent that he loves her now for exactly what she is.
Decision made, she removes and folds her trousers, slips into her well-chosen attire, feeling dressed to impress in spite of the simplicity of the garment.
Padding back into the room, she finds her partner scribbling furiously on their paperwork, making notes on the interview they'd conducted during the day. His attention is thoroughly distracted until she moves to the fireplace, stoking it a bit and laying her damp socks and boots in front of it in the hopes that they'd be dry by morning.
She rises and can't seem to look him in the eye the way she wants to, but an effort produces a ghost of a smile and a cocky posture, hand on her hip and one foot arched in a stance to show off the bareness of her legs that ends an inch above decent.
"Thanks for the pajamas," she quips saucily.
When his brain evidently finishes short-circuiting and power is restored to somewhat functional levels, he speaks, his words a mile off their usual sharp clarity and even tempo.
"That's… that was mine," Castle says lamely, as if looking for something to say that's not presumptuous. As if she could make it any clearer what exactly she's offering.
"I like wearing your shirts," she answers. It's true. At home, she has a certain maroon shirt practically in rags now for how often she's worn it since she got out of the hospital.
He doesn't say anything. His desire is evident in the way his eyes continue to roam her, in the thick swallow she watches in slow motion, in the way he shifts in his seat and more importantly the quite visible evidence of why he needed to move to begin with. But there's something else, too. Nerves. Fear. She's left wondering if her momentary boldness was temporary insanity. She's been so trapped in her own head for so long that it didn't ever occur to her that even if she was ready, he might not be. Castle's been through a lot, too, and it's her folly that she sometimes fails to remember how much he's endured for his association with her.
Kate begins to back out and move back to the safety of a locked bathroom, but only gets one step away before it spurs him to action. He's on her in two large strides, his hand on her shoulder burning skin with the energy that crackles between them where the shirt is falling off her shoulder. Even Castle would be swimming in it, and on her it leaves a large swath of previously off-limits skin exposed to his deliberate touch.
"Wait," he requests, "don't go, I didn't… you surprised me," he offers it with a tight smile, "you always surprise me."
"Okay…" she remembers to breathe. Not well, but she's getting air at least. He drops a kiss to her forehead, because yes, that's something they do now. The thought buoys her even when he pulls back. It's more than they had when they set out this morning, and that's something big already. More over, the explicit intent is out there. She's not had any questions about his intent or his feelings, not for months, but she's suspicious (and regretful) that he still has his doubts as to whether his feelings are reciprocated. There's no way he can second guess at it now. It's out there and irrevocable.
"Beckett… I need a few minutes," her partner explains, apology in his voice and in the squeeze of his hands, and the way he calls her Beckett with such plain affection competing with a desperate need to remove himself that little bit from her, "I need to sort my mind out."
A small part of her is utterly devastated, but the bigger part recognizes it for what it is – not a rejection, just a plea for her to give him a tiny fraction of the space he's given her as he's waited so long, so patiently for her to get to this moment.
She can wait a little longer.
Feeling the life and a bit of bravery return to her, she stands on her tiptoes, grazing her lips along his and reveling in the sweetness of its return. And then she watches him go, the door closing behind him, followed shortly by the hiss of the shower running.
He didn't say no. He wants her. He still loves her.
Flinging herself on the bed, she's almost giddy with the knowledge. Her cheek rests on the bony caps of her knees as she scrunches up, pressing her back to the wall. She pulls the old memory quilts over herself out of habit and eventually snuggling down into their heavy warmth and the cottony cradle of the pillow.
She doesn't mean to fall asleep. Really, she doesn't. But the day's been long and she's played herself out physically and mentally. The relentless white noise of the rain pattering on the tin roof and the shower running in the other room level her mind out until she's unable to fight her need to sleep any longer. The last thought she has before the dark takes her is that this is the last time she'll fall asleep without knowing what it's like to be his.
Second part coming up soon.
