Proprietary Rights
A companion piece for "Significant Others"
Disclaimer: of course not… what were you thinking….
He studies the murder board, rubbing absently at the bruise on his shoulder, and when he glances back at her she's pretending to do paperwork. He knows she's watching him instead; studying him from behind lowered eyelashes, a smile lurking at the corner of her mouth. He rubs his shoulder again, remembering her teeth in the muscle, and wonders idly if she was trying to make a point. Her eyes travel down to the open collar of his shirt and he self-consciously adjusts it to hide the purple mark just below his collarbone. Over these last couple of days she seems determined to mark him, to stake some kind of claim. She fingers her handcuffs thoughtfully and a shiver runs down his spine.
"You know," he stutters, " I think we could use a pick me up….."
Her eyes widen.
"I mean a snack… something pastry like…bear-claw? Muffin? I mean I could… I'll just ah…" he gestures over his shoulder towards the elevator. "Can I get you anyth….."
He falters to a stop. Her gaze is clear and hot and burning right through him, and if the loft wasn't overrun with redheads he'd be begging her to go home with him for a quick bite. Her tongue slides over her lower lip.
"Nope," she says dangerously, "no pastry."
"Okay then… I'll just…" he sidles into the break room to make coffee. She watches him possessively. There's a part of her that's angry with him over his stupidity about Meredith. She's just finished defending him to Lainie, but she's not going to back down either for him or for his overbearing ex-wife.
It's a long and difficult afternoon. Ever since Beckett accepted Meredith's dinner invitation… no, wait… ever since Meredith arrived, things have been spiraling out of his control. He feels like he's trapped in some god forsaken Shakespearean comedy and he can't help wishing that just for once he could be the hero instead of the buffoon.
He prays for some kind of miracle to keep the dinner from happening… a break in the case, a small and injury free car accident, but his petition is denied, and he watches her leave to meet Meredith with trepidation fueled by Espo and Ryan's helpful advice. He has the uneasy feeling he could be "kitten" for the rest of his life, and all the pacing and worrying in the world isn't making the evening go any faster. Maybe his mother is right; a liquid dinner would be sitting better in his stomach than the leftover pasta Alfredo that he scrounged from the back of the fridge.
But there must be some kind of god that answers the requests of hapless writers because after all that worry he's coming out more or less unscathed. At least that's what it seems like because less than ten minutes after coming through the door Kate's got her arms wrapped around him and he's feeling the anxiety slip away. God knows he'll promise her anything when she's kissing him like that. Meredith is never staying here again because Kate's here forever, and he's about to explain that to her, lay it out clearly, when her phone rings and almost before he knows it they're putting their coats back on he's following her down to the station.
It's nearly 2 A.M. before they find themselves in the elevator on their way back up to the loft. She's running one end of her coat belt meditatively through her left hand and watching him with sideways glances. His eyes follow the progression of her fingers over the brown leather length of the belt. Overall he thinks it's several grades above the hard cold steel of her handcuffs, but when they enter the apartment she hangs her coat up in the closet and follows him through the study to the bedroom.
He shucks off his pants and shirt and stuffs them haphazardly into the laundry hamper. She pulls off the long blue silk scarf; wrapping it around her fist and tugging on it as she winds.
"Castle….," she says contemplatively.
He turns and silently holds out his wrists towards her, hands clasped together. It's not like he hasn't seen this lurking in her eyes since the nutmeg incident first thing this morning.
And it's not that he minds, really. God only knows, he's willing to follow Kate down pretty well any path; it's always entertaining, and often exhilarating. But these last few days he's been feeling dominated at every turn, by every female in his life, and on this particular evening just a modicum of control would go a long way.
She loops and ties one end around his left wrist then looks at him with a tiny glint of understanding before she offers him the other end of the scarf and holds out her hand. Just for a moment he's speechless, somewhat awed by her ability to see through all his layers of insecurity and he's undeniably grateful. But he's faltering and a little nervous, as if he can't quite find his footing. Her free hand curls at the back of his neck, fingers stroking through the close cut hair. He feels her love wash over him like a wave, lifting him up and carrying him along with her, and it makes him smile; lets his inner trickster surface.
She sees his eyes shift from resigned to mischievous, as he reaches out to finger the bottom of her sweater, and raises one eyebrow.
"You may want to be a little more prepared," he smirks. She peels off her turtleneck, camisole and bra, then tugs on the scarf to draw him closer, and offers her arm again. He takes the soft fabric and wraps and ties it securely around her wrist, then pushes the hair back from her face with his free hand. He leans in and kisses her long and slow, but she's pressing in to him with determination. He pulls thoughtfully against their bound wrists.
"Only a metaphorical tiger this time?" he says wryly before she hauls him over to the bed.
"Same coloring…" she replies, sighing into his mouth, "Same sharp fangs…" She uses their bound hands to undo the button and zipper on her pants and push them off, "Same razor claws…"
"Same fear and adrenaline?" he asks.
Her eyes widen momentarily with acknowledgement; fathomless pools of black and amber.
"I think we can manage to do the adrenaline without the fear," he whispers. But he's still a little jittery, still a little awkward as he drags them both down onto the bed, trying somewhat unsuccessfully not to land on top of her. She doesn't seem to care, just gathers him closer and murmurs into his skin… some Slavic language he doesn't understand… until his body remembers how this particular dance plays out.
He's on the precipice of sleep, spooned in behind her, one arm wrapped around her, with their bound hands curled to her chest when he suddenly realizes he's not certain that he locked the front door. He relaxes his hand and works the silk over his knuckles, flips his wrist and slides his hand out without waking her, then pads noiselessly out to the door and snicks the deadbolt into place. He crawls back into bed behind her, loops and turns the scarf back around his wrist, sighs, and slips seamlessly into sleep.