So this was a quick one-shot that ended up turning into something a little more epic. I really like it, though, so I hope you will, too. The title is from an e.e. cummings poem by the same name.
—
i love you much (most beautiful darling)
—
1.
The panic attacks came back.
And the nightmares and the fear—a constant, heavy thing, buzzing in her peripheral vision, clattering in the back of her mind.
And he was gone. There was that, too.
He came by every once in a while. He always brought coffee, but one time he forgot to put milk in it. It was startling to taste the black stuff, dark, bitter, unmuffled by the sweet, gentle cream.
(He was the milk to her coffee.)
She didn't really sleep anymore. She dozed on and off, never going deep enough for the nightmares to take hold. It was getting hard to cover up the dark circles under her eyes. She didn't have makeup that would work on the hollowness of her cheeks, her gaunt face, her dull eyes.
She missed him. And she was so tired.
—
She still texted him whenever they got a case. He showed up sometimes. Sometimes he didn't.
When a body dropped in the early afternoon on a Thursday, she texted him, not really expecting him to show up. It was a shooting victim. Long range. Right through the forehead. She was fine (she was) until she wasn't.
She didn't know what triggered it. She never knew. Even small things set her off now. But one minute she was walking under the tape, calling out to Lanie and the next she was huddled against a mailbox, her heart too fast and her breath too quick.
Dimly, she sensed Lanie's worry as she stood up quickly, her hands reaching for her. And Ryan—startled, jarred by the sight of her suddenly crumpled form. There were other voices too. Other eyes, watching, and her lungs felt too shallow and her heart was lead inside her. But then there was Esposito, his deep voice steady, and he was shooing everyone away. She was so grateful. She was beginning to feel crowded.
"Beckett, it's okay," he was telling her. "You're okay. Just take deep breaths."
She pressed her forehead to her knees and focused on breathing, trying to remember how to fill her lungs all the way, but her mind kept leaping, uninhibited, to him. She had this crazy idea that if he were there he'd be able to coax the oxygen back into her trembling body. He would remember how and maybe this time he would remember the milk, too.
—
He showed up eventually.
She had relocated to a nearby park bench. It was a little easier to breathe now, but she still kept her head bent forward, her back a defeated, sloping arch.
When she heard his voice, something came undone deep inside her, and she began to cry. She was too beyond to really care, but there was something almost surreal about the tears. She didn't really know what they were for.
He crouched down in front of her bench and put his hands on her knees. "Beckett?" he asked.
She drew in a shaky, shuddering, hiccupping breath and forced herself to meet his eyes. She knew she looked terrible—red-rimmed eyes and smudged mascara—but it was hard to care when his face looked like that. It was as if a veil had been lifted. There was something deeply familiar about the way he was looking at her—the warmth in his eyes, the concern, the love. This was the man she'd been missing. She was so glad he was back.
Her body leaned forward without any real direction from her brain. She pressed her face into the crook of his neck and willed herself not to sob openly. It took him a second, but then his arms were around her. The hug was a little awkward with him crouching on the sidewalk and her on the bench, but she didn't care.
(She was so tired.)
He held her for as long as she wanted to be held, which turned out to be a long time. His smell was deeply comforting. She liked the way it flowed into her body along with the oxygen. She could breathe again. She breathed deeply.
(She knew he'd help her remember.)
—
2.
It wasn't a switch and he couldn't turn it off.
He could will himself not to care, but that only worked in short bursts. It was easier not to be there. It was easier to avoid the precinct all together. Avoid the confused, slightly accusatory looks from Ryan and Esposito, the pure worry and concern from Beckett. He was so used to seeing the way she looked at him as love, that it was hard to train his brain to otherwise.
He limited himself to twice a week. She still always texted him brief descriptions of the crime scenes and he picked the ones he thought sounded the most interesting. He told himself it was better this way, better for both of them, and maybe he could've believed it, but every time he did show up the look on her face was nothing but happiness—delight that he was there. She would smile at him—open, giving, bright—and it took all his will power not to unfurl under her gaze, not to let every little thing he felt for her shine through.
(She didn't love him. She didn't.)
He knew there was something going on with her. Every time he went to the twelfth, her face was a little paler, her eyes a little duller. The smile she offered him was strained—desperate, almost.
He worried about her. (It wasn't a switch.) She was too thin. Her cheeks were hollow. Her shirts were loose. Her hipbones too visible, her hips too narrow. He wanted so badly to take care of her, but she didn't love him, and it hurt, so he stayed away. Hoped the distance, the indifference, was the key to make his heart magically, mysteriously stop loving her.
—
He got the text just as he was dropping off a lunch date at her apartment. He scanned it quickly, not planning on going, but certain words made him pause. GSW. Long-range.
I hope she's okay.
The thought popped up before he could steal his brain against it. He closed his eyes and leaned back against the headrest of his Ferrari. He tried to make himself not think about it, tried to lock down the indifference, but the love was there, and the worry, right there in his chest, his heart, his bloodstream, and he couldn't make it go away.
He sat in his parked car for a good fifteen minutes before another text made his phone buzz in his lap. He looked down at it. It was from Lanie.
She needs you.
He put the car in drive.
—
He had to park a couple blocks from the scene. He spotted her when he was still a block away, and the sight in front of him made his breath catch, his feet stumble. She was sitting on a park bench, her head bowed towards her knees, her shoulders hunched. She looked small and frail and so very alone.
The worry bloomed and flooded his chest. He couldn't keep it at bay. He hurried to where she was sitting and crouched down in front of her. "Beckett?" he murmured softly, resting his hands on her knees.
Her shoulders hitched at the sound of his voice. A deep shudder ran through her body and then she was crying. When she lifted her head and met his gaze, he felt his own eyes burn with tears. Her face was pale and drawn, her eyes haunted. But the way she was looking at him—he would've called it love if he didn't know any better.
His chest ached. He'd never loved her more and he knew she was seeing it in his eyes, because he couldn't hide it. Not in that moment. He just couldn't.
(It wasn't a switch.)
She leaned into him and her head fell heavy onto his shoulder, her face pressed to the crook of his neck. He could feel the dampness of her tears and her shaky breath. He wrapped his arms around her, a friend comforting a friend—that's what he told himself.
But the way her hands gripped his shirt, the way her body relaxed into his, the way her heartbeat slowed and her breathing deepened, it made him think that maybe she could…maybe she might…
She didn't love him. She didn't.
Did she?
—
3.
When she finally pulled away from him, the light had changed, and she was almost sure he'd lost the feeling in his legs. "Thank you," she said, meaning the words more than she'd ever meant them.
"You're welcome," he said and his face was so handsome and familiar and she could see it in his eyes, just like before—I love you. I love you, Kate.
But then he was pulling away. His eyes flickered downward, away from her, and when he lifted them back to her face it was like a shutter had been pulled down. He was gone. But, no, but—
She needed him.
She reached out and grabbed his arm. "Wait, I—"
He turned towards her. He regarded her hand and her face as if they were deeply unfamiliar to him. "What?" he asked. So blunt. So…not him.
"I just…" She trailed off. What was she even trying to say? What did she even want from him? Come back to me. Come back. Don't change. Just wait, just… "Will you stay with me?"
"Today?"
"Yes, today and…" Forever. She swallowed. "Today."
He pulled in a great lungful of air, watching her, deciding. Since when was spending time with her something to ponder over? But then he nodded and she could breathe again.
"Okay," he said. "Today."
It sounded like an ultimatum. Today, but never again. She wondered what she'd done wrong.
—
4.
She was trying to kill him. Stay with me. Of course he'd stay. If only she knew for how long. But he knew she didn't want him like that. She was sad and rattled and he was a good friend. She just needed some support.
They went back to the precinct. Esposito and Ryan had already set up the murder board. Castle walked behind her as they exited the elevator and Beckett kept glancing back over her shoulder as if to make sure he was still there.
"I'm not going anywhere," he told her.
She nodded. "Okay."
"I keep my promises," he said.
She paused at that. Turned to face him. He watched with a certain amount of wonder and trepidation as she lifted her hand and ran her fingers along the lapel of his jacket. "No, you don't," she said.
—
5.
She knew it was a low blow, but as far as she was concerned, the past few weeks had been nothing but a series of low blows from him. He'd told her he'd wait for her. And then he didn't. No explanation. No warning. Just gone.
The look on his face went from stunned to hurt to angry. "Excuse me?" he said, his voice low and hard.
"You said you'd wait," she murmured. "You didn't."
She wasn't bitter. She wasn't. She was too tired for that. She just felt defeated and more than a little abandoned. She just wanted an explanation.
It took him a long time to answer. His body was rigid, his face dark, filled with accusations that she didn't understand.
"You said you didn't remember," he said. "You did."
—
6.
The precinct wasn't the place to have this conversation. He realized that as soon as the words left his mouth and registered on her startled face. He had been expecting panic, guilt, perhaps even unfounded anger, but what he got instead made his resolve weaken, his anger soften around the edges.
There was true regret in her face, real tears shining in her eyes. She took a step away from him, her hands reaching out blindly behind her for something to hold onto. When her fingers met the back of her chair, she grabbed it, falling abruptly into the seat. He watched, frozen, as she dropped her head into her hands and fell absolutely, hauntingly silent.
"Beckett?" he asked, feeling awkward and unsure.
He moved closer, glanced around briefly at the nearby, curious onlookers, before lowering himself to the floor in front of her. He felt his knees crack in protest. He was getting too old for this. "Beckett?" he said again, this time softer.
"You heard," she said, her voice muffled by the hands that still covered her face.
"Yes."
She lifted her head. Her eyes were bright and watery. He hated it when she cried. "I'm so sorry, Castle," she breathed. "I never meant for you to find out like that. I never meant to hurt you."
"It's fine," he said quickly, trying to shake it off, trying to distance himself from the raw, desperate something (not love, never love) shining in her eyes. "I'm glad I know. And it's okay. I get it."
She shook her head slightly. "Get what?"
"How you feel."
She frowned. She looked scared. Then relieved. Then confused. "You do?"
"Yeah, so you don't feel the same way. That's fine. We just got our signals crossed briefly, but now it's all straightened out and I'm…I'm fine. It's not really a switch you can turn off, but—"
"What isn't a switch you can turn off?"
"Love."
"Oh."
"Yeah, but. Like I said. I'm fine. I'm working on it. I'm—"
"Don't," she said.
He paused. Frowned. "What?"
"Don't turn it off."
"Why not?"
She was quiet for a moment, her eyes steady on his face. "Because I…Because I love you, too."
—
7.
She had to force the words out. They tumbled from her mouth on a gush of air. It was scary, hearing them come from her own lips, but she felt better for having said them.
"You-you do?" he breathed.
She nodded. She wanted to explain, to elaborate, but she couldn't seem to find any other words. "Yes. I love you."
He rested his hands on her knees, ran them partway up her legs. "You love me. You love me." It was like he was trying to convince himself and she realized he'd really thought, really truly believed that she didn't love him.
The thought broke her heart. It made her want to say it more. "Castle, I love you," she whispered. She rested her hands on his shoulders and leaned close to him, brushed her lips across her cheek. "I love you," she promised, right in his ear.
Something was coming undone inside her, replacing the darkness and the shadows and the fear. Love. "I love you," she mouthed, shaping the words against his jaw.
He let out a shaky breath, his body trembling against hers. She wanted to be closer to him. "C'mere," she murmured, taking his hand and standing up.
He stood too and followed her. This time, she didn't look back. She knew he was right behind her.
—
8.
She led them into an empty conference room and tugged down the shades so they were all alone. As soon as she was close enough, he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her tight against his chest. He loved how they fit together. Loved how she nestled into his body, tucking herself against him.
"I love you so much," he breathed, feeling overwhelmed in the best way.
He was glad the lights were off, the shades pulled down. He liked the quiet comfort of this dim room and the woman in his arms, the woman who loved him. "Why did you doubt me?" she asked.
He could feel her lips move against the hollow of his throat. "I don't know," he said. "I don't know. I'll never do it again."
"Good," she said.
She smiled and lifted her head. Pressed her lips against his. He hummed softly in the back of his throat and tugged her closer. Ran his tongue along her bottom lip until she parted her mouth, let him delve deep. She tasted like coffee with cream and Beckett. If love had a taste, he decided this was it.
He never wanted to stop kissing her.
She pushed him backwards slightly. He felt the back of his knees hit a chair and sat down, pulling her onto his lap. He groaned at the sudden press of her hips into his and shifted his lips from her mouth to her neck, pushing aside the slightly disheveled locks of her hair to nibble at her earlobe. She gasped. He loved the sound. Vowed to draw it from her every chance he got.
"We should stop," she said, leaning away from him slightly, her hands pressed to his chest.
"Never," he said.
"Castle."
He sighed. They were in a conference room after all. Who knew what kind of residue was on that table. The thought made him shudder and rethink his earlier plan to throw her on the table, strip her bare, and have his way with her. Anyways, his bed was much more comfortable and far more romantic.
"Come home with me," he murmured, pressing his lips to her collarbone.
"Castle…"
"Please?"
"I have a case."
"Later, then."
"Later."
—
9.
Later turned out to be dinnertime and she found herself hesitating outside his apartment. She knew he was big on family dinners, especially now with Alexis' imminent college departure weighing on him. Maybe she shouldn't interrupt. Maybe she should just head home and call him later or…
She knocked on the door. She wasn't going to run from this.
When Castle opened the door, she felt her breath catch and her heart stutter. His face was just so joyful, so happy to see her, that she felt the soft smile on her face widen into a ridiculous, face-splitting grin. I love you, she told him silently. Funny how easy the words came to her now.
"Um, Dad? Are you going to invite her inside?"
Beckett blinked and glanced at Alexis. How long had they been standing there in silence, staring at each other? She dropped her gaze to floor, feeling a blush bloom in her cheeks.
Castle, also, seemed to be returning to his senses. "Oh, right. Kate, please come in."
She smiled and stepped inside. She had been right about the family dinner. Martha was in the kitchen, fluttering about, checking various steaming pots, but as soon as she saw Beckett, she abandoned the food and walked over, pulling her into a hug. "I'm so glad you're here," she told her softly and Kate could tell immediately that she knew what had happened between her and her son that afternoon.
Alexis also seemed to be clued in, based on the warm smiles she kept throwing Kate's way as she set the table. Kate smiled, glad to be back in the Castle family's good graces.
"You're thinking too hard."
She jumped slightly at the sound of his voice, low and close. She hadn't even noticed him walk up behind her. "Am not," she protested.
"Mmm," he hummed, right into her ear, making her shiver and lean back into him. "You have your thinking face on."
"My thinking face?" she asked, feeling a little breathless. They weren't quite touching, but she could feel the heat of his body, the faint outline of his broad chest at her back.
"Uh-huh," he whispered. "You're thinking face. Your lips pucker and you get this little furrow in your brow. It's kinda sexy, actually."
He reached out and rested his hands on her hips. Slid them upwards into the curve of her waist. "Castle," she breathed. She closed her eyes, trying to get her bearings. It was ridiculous what this man could do to her. He had barely even touched her and already her mind was hazy and blurred with want.
She turned to face him, partially to put a little distance between their bodies, but also because she wanted to see his face. He was smiling down at her, smirking almost, as if he knew exactly what he was doing to her. "Don't do that," she said, pouting a little.
"Don't do what?" he asked, all innocence.
She narrowed her eyes at him. "Don't get me all hot and bothered right before I have to sit through dinner with your mother and daughter."
"I have no idea what you're talking about, Detective," he said, but he was grinning that goofy, knowing grin of his.
She kind of wanted to smack him. "You're a jerk."
"You love me."
Well. He had her there. "I do," she said.
His grin widened even further. He moved a little closer and wrapped an arm around her waist, tugging her close enough to press a kiss to her forehead. "Love you, too."
—
10.
He spent the whole dinner with his hand on her leg. He barely moved it, but she was terribly aware of the weight and heat of it against her thigh. She was finding it hard to focus on the conversation.
When Martha served the dessert—cheesecake with raspberry sauce—he upped the anti a little. Slipped his fingers to the inside of her thigh, traced the seam of her jeans. She squirmed in her seat. He slipped his palm a couple inches higher and she had to clamp her mouth shut to keep in her helpless whimper.
Perhaps out of mercy, he didn't push it any farther than that. But when the dishes were finally cleaned and Martha and Alexis retired for the night, she felt like crying with relief. She grabbed Castle's wrist and dragged him into his bedroom.
"You're cruel," she announced, pressing against him and slipping her hands under his shirt.
"I couldn't resist," he admitted. His eyes were just as dark as hers. His hands just as insistent.
She glared at him, but she knew there was more lust in the expression than anger. She wasn't trying to fight it anymore. She didn't have to. She wanted him to see everything. No more secrets.
She hated secrets.
She thought, suddenly, of how it must've been for him—standing in the observation room, thinking she didn't love him at all. How hurt he must've been. How lost. It made her hate herself. It made her afraid. She'd come close. She'd come so close to losing him…
—
11.
He had always pictured their first time being slow and passionate and romantic. All soft touches and soft words. It seemed, however, that Kate was not interested in slow and soft. Had his teasing really gotten to her that much? No. There was something else.
She wasn't just impatient. She was almost…frantic. It made him pause. Worry. He caught her hands in his as they reached for the buttons of his shirt. "Hey, wait," he murmured.
She stilled. Their eyes locked. Oh.
He suddenly recognized the look on her face. It took him a while because it was overlaid with want and love and need, but it was there, just under the surface. She was scared.
"You okay?" he asked softly.
He cupped her hands in his palms. Ran his thumb over her wrist, her pulse point. "I don't want to lose you," she breathed.
"You won't," he said. She blinked up at him—wondering and vulnerable and beautiful. "You won't," he said again, fiercer this time, needing so badly for her to believe him.
He lifted her hands to his chest and held them over his heart. "I'm here," he promised.
She nodded. "Okay."
—
12.
He'd almost lost her too, she realized, as he gazed down at her, his face so raw with everything he felt for her and everything he wanted her to understand.
He reached for the hem of her shirt. She lifted her arms wordlessly and let him pull the garment over her head. She watched him as he took her in, his eyes tripping hungrily over her skin. It should've made her feel vulnerable, but it just made her feel loved.
He reached out and touched his fingers to the bend of her waist. Trailed them up her side, his thumb dragging across the edge of her breast. She shivered slightly and swayed into him. He caught her around the waist. Kissed her lips and her jaw and the hollow of her throat. He worked his way downward, bending, his arm secure around her hips.
When he came to her chest he paused, his eyes fixed to the valley between her breasts where the scar lay, just visible beside the fabric of her bra. She fought the urge to cover it, to take his face in her hands and drag him back up, away from all the memories. But she could tell he needed this.
(He'd almost lost her too.)
He pressed his palm over the puckered skin, glanced up at her with shining eyes, then he bowed forward and kissed the spot, so gently that it made her ache. He loved her. Every part of her.
When he straightened again and looked into her face, she smiled. She'd had enough of memories and fears and scars. She just wanted to have fun with this man who she loved so desperately and so completely. She wanted to forget all the stumbles, all the heartbreak and just be in the moment. She'd spent enough of her life living in the past.
She leaned forward. Pressed her lips to his ear. "Take me to bed, Castle," she whispered, hoping he'd get the message.
—
13.
"Take me to bed, Castle."
All husky and seductive and Beckett. He shivered. This woman. He'd never stood a chance.
"As you wish, my lady," he said, wanting to make her laugh, knowing she needed it.
He wasn't disappointed. She let out a little giggle, followed by an eye roll, before reaching out and making quick time with the buttons on his shirt. She began to push the garment off and he rolled his shoulders back to help her.
He backed up, tugging her with him. Lay down on across his bed and pulled her on top of him. The moment their bodies met, thigh to thigh, hip to hip, bare chest to bare chest, she let out a little sigh. He grinned—he couldn't help it—and rolled them so she was tucked under his body.
He rested a hand against her cheek. Admired the rising color in her cheeks, her soft, half-smile, the cascade of hair across his pillow. "You're beautiful," he said.
Her smile widened. She pulled him down to her and kissed him deep and full on the mouth. "Thank you, Castle."
—
14.
She had a nightmare. A bad one. Apparently saying I love you and falling into bed with your partner wasn't a cure-all for the kind of haunted that she was. Though it did help that when she woke up in the middle of the night screaming with blood and crosshairs and gunfire stirring in her mind, someone woke up with her. And not just someone. Castle.
"Kate?" he murmured, voice husky with sleep.
She sat up in the bed, clutching the sheet to her chest. She felt bare, vulnerable, in more ways than one. Her lungs heaved and her pulse threaded loudly in her ear. She closed her eyes in an attempt to will the demons away, but as soon as her eyelids slid shut she was back in it. And it wasn't her dying this time. It was him.
He felt her scoot closer to her on the bed. Felt the press of his hand between her shoulder blades. "Nightmare?" he asked.
She nodded, not trusting her voice. I love you, I love you, I love you. She'd said it. He'd died anyway. But he didn't. He didn't. He was alive and he was here and they had all the time in the world.
She turned towards him and felt like crying at the concern on his handsome, sleepy face. She leaned over and kissed him softly, then deeper. She pressed her hand to his chest, because she liked the steadiness of his heartbeat beneath her fingertips. A constant reminder. "You're alive," she whispered, almost to herself.
"Yes," he promised.
He drew her into his body and she relaxed against him. Her heart rate slowed and her eyes drooped, but she forced them open long enough to look up at his face. Meet his eye. "I love you," she told him.
"I love you, too. Always."