Writing a Love Story

Author: Allyson Rae

Summary: "He'd written pages and pages of stories like this. But none of his stories could even come close to this." Just a post-ep for "Always." And my first foray into Castle fanfiction.

Rating: K+/T

Author's Note: Wow. Uhm..hi guys! I've been writing fanfiction since I was 13, and have been a proud Castle fandom member for the past year-but have never written and published a Castle fic...until now. It's just a little post-ep for "Always": now that I can finally breathe normally and formulate coherent thoughts again. I've seen a lot of things from inside Kate's head, but I find myself more attuned to Castle's thoughts-especially lately. So this is my take on Castle's thoughts during "the scene," as well as a little what came next? speculation. I hope you guys like it. :)

Disclaimer: Castle is not mine. If it was, I would not be worrying about how to pay next semester's tuition. Also, Nathan Fillion would live under my bed, and we would spend Friday nights playing rummy together. Right now, I'm stuck with my cat—he doesn't have thumbs, so I always see his cards. Anyway, special thanks to Andrew W. Marlowe for letting me play with his characters for awhile. :)

He'd written pages and pages of stories like this; hell, three of his novels were practically re-imaginings of this very night. But none of his stories could even come close to this moment: here, with his limbs tangled with hers, half-wrapped in his satin sheets. His skin was slick with sweat, and he pressed his lips into the hair at the crown of her head, sending a silent prayer toward the skies that this moment would never end. The last thing he expected when he swung open his front door to find a sopping wet Kate Beckett was to be lying here like this.

He was so angry at her: angry that she wouldn't listen, that she was willing to throw all caution to the wind and run headlong into her own grave. He couldn't watch the fallout this time; there was no way in hell that Rick Castle could watch her die for a second time. So he'd walked away; with a whispered it's over, he had broken the one promise he had made to her: always. There was no such thing as always anymore.

Or so he thought, until she barreled through his open door, clutched his face in her hands and kissed him, whispering I'm sorry's against his lips in a desperate attempt to make him understand—to earn his forgiveness. But for the first time in four years, he wasn't sure that forgiveness was something he was willing to offer. Gripping her arms, he'd pushed back to hold her at arm's-length, needing to know why. Why? Why now, after he had already walked away, did she chase him? So he had asked—and for once she provided him with an honest answer.

"He got away, and I didn't care. I almost died, and all I could think about was you." Her hazel eyes were specked with more green than he ever remembered, and gazing into them, he could practically see the bricks of her defenses—that wall she built inside—come crashing to the ground, brick by brick like dominoes falling. Her face alight with hope, and joy—and an ounce of fear—but mostly love. He could see it there, shining like a beacon through the fog: and for the first time in months, he'd felt he could actually let himself believe it.

And then he was pressed against her chest, his weight sending her crashing into the door, closing it with a slam, and his lips were on hers, insistent and needy and she kissed him back; their hands were dancing along the lines of each other's bodies and he could feel her breath hot against his ear. As his mouth blazed a trail along her jaw-line, he heard her breath hitch in her throat, almost like a strangled sob of want and joy, and he reveled in it, moving his lips along her collarbone to her sternum. There he stopped, his forehead pressed against her chest, and he let out a hot sigh, feeling the steady thrum of her heartbeat against his skin. Gazing toward the top button of her blouse, he hesitated, knowing what he'd find underneath. But he had lifted his arm and, with shaking fingers, unfastened the button while his other hand instinctively squeezed her hip. But then his hand was in both of hers, and she was pressing his fingertips against that tiny spot of marred flesh, the scar that served as proof of her strength, her resilience, and her existence—here, with him. He let his hand hover there, allowing himself to truly feel her, for the first time. She was there, tangible and real, and God, how he loved her. She'd lifted a hand to his face then: caressed his cheek and pressed her lips to his in a kiss—this one different from the others. This one had been less about need, and want, and passion. No, this kiss was filled with nothing but love—just real, open, honest love.

She'd pulled away from him, foreheads and noses pressed together then, and that smile had stopped him in his tracks; it had lit up the room with intensity stronger than the lightning flashing through his windows. And he didn't bother fighting the upturned corners of his mouth as her fingers tangled with his and they shuffled their way across the floor to his bedroom.

They had spent the night learning each other's secrets—secrets less threatening than the ones they'd kept from each other for so long. For hours, they had alternated between whispered words of love and languid kisses, promises and proof that none of this was just a dream, before they fell back, sated, into the pillows and each other's arms.

But now, in the hazy glow of early morning, Castle was reveling in the present: in the warm weight of an arm draped across his torso, and the tickle of brown hair against his nose. He was content enough to lie there and watch the steady rise and fall of her chest with her every breath, and to know that here, in this moment, he had everything he'd ever wanted.

When he felt the press of lips against his chest, and heard her whispered "I love you" cut through the morning silence, Castle smiled and tightened his hold on her. While he alone may have filled three whole novels with words that resembled a love story, none of those words could ever come close to describing the one that they, together, were writing right now.