He'd deleted her.
Dammit, he'd DELETED her. Her mother's case was gone from his storyboard, just as Beckett was gone from his life. For 24 hours now, he'd managed to walk around, speak, breathe, and even crack a few lame jokes with Alexis and her friends. Not that any of it was easy, but then what had he expected, really? He'd had four years of history to tell him that she was gonna run like hell in the opposite direction, but what choice had he had?
So he had finally done it, willingly carved into his own chest and lifted out his beating heart for her. And it wasn't enough. It was never going to be enough. He understood it now, down to his aching bones, that nothing would ever be important enough to supplant her obsession with her mother's killers. She might as well have buried herself in that grave 13 years ago. And while he would have willingly followed her into hell for a chance at a life together, he refused to follow her into that grave. So he'd walked away, straight into his own personal hell.
But he wasn't about to drown the pain with whisky or a willing woman. He would take this like a man. He could get through this; he just wished it didn't hurt so fucking much. The roller coaster of their relationship for the past four years was nothing compared to the complete death of hope he felt now. For the first time, he had to let himself acknowledge the stark reality; he was never going to be with her, not even as her partner now. The fodder of a thousand dreams, waking and sleeping, were disappearing from his reach. He would never thread his fingers through that soft hair, map her skin with trembling fingers, taste the hollow of her throat, or learn her vocabulary of sighs and moans as he worshipped her body with his own. For years now she had been his lodestone, his true north. So what the hell was he supposed to do now?
And then, as he stood quivering on the edge of an abyss of pain, a knock at the door, and she stood in front of him, soaked to the skin, her eyes shadowed and wet, but still so goddamn gorgeous. A small corner of his writer's brain made note of the fact that the pain could actually get worse after all. But the remainder of his mind was overwhelmed by a wave of anger and resentment so strong that it was hard to keep from slamming the door in her face. He dug deep for control, fought a fierce and bloody battle with himself, and spoke.
"Beckett, what do you want?" he gritted.
"You." she whispered, as she came for him, hands outstretched.
Backing away was instinctive, the fear-response of a wounded creature, wary and skittish. But this was a new Beckett, fierce and glorious, and she refused to allow his retreat. Slipping her hands to either side of his face, she pushed right in to him, crushing her lips to his in a desperate, wordless plea. He was undone, completely and utterly undone. The chaos of his thoughts and feelings, already so bruised and raw from the last 24 hours, sent him reeling. His hands half lifted to clutch her to him in an automatic response to those beloved lips on his own, before incoherent memory penetrated his brain. She was not his to hold, she had let him walk away without a word.
She pulled back slightly, her eyes seeking his, but he remained still, eyes downcast, trying to breathe their mingled air. Bombarded by sensations; pain, glory, lust, love, fear, exultation. He wanted to howl at the moon, drag her to the floor, curl himself around her, weeping and laughing. But he couldn't trust this, he wouldn't, not yet. He stood frozen.
"I'm so sorry, Castle" her fervent whisper, repeated like a litany against his mouth, was blessed, cooling relief to his burning soul. But her lips chasing his were not enough to distract him from his wary mistrust. He couldn't allow hope to return until he understood what had happened, could trust that this was real, not just a ploy to draw him back in to the case. A part of him was aghast that he could think that poorly of her. But he had been taught a harsh lesson in the past two days, and he wouldn't risk his heart, his soul, his very sanity, without knowing more.
Grasping her arms, he lifted her away from him. The startled look in her eyes helped to clear his clouded thoughts, and he met her eyes with his. "What happened?" he asked intently, watching the tears track down her face.
"He got away, and I didn't care," she murmured "I almost died, and all I could think about was you."
Castle was mesmerized by the truth shining from her lovely, tearful eyes. They met his without artifice or evasion, and he was stunned into silence by her words. He felt the fierce burning of hope flicker to life in his chest, half agony, half triumph. As he fought an internal battle for clarity, for control of himself, he watched her eyes flick hungrily to his mouth.
"I just want you." she breathed, and after a final silent struggle, Castle broke. Lunging forward, he pinned her against the slamming door. Frantically he devoured her mouth with his, the desperate agony of the past day feeding his frenzied caresses. She offered herself up to him, meeting his passion with her own as he trailed his lips down her throat, placing heated impressions of his mouth on her chilled flesh. Kate felt his tongue dip into the hollow between her breasts, then just as suddenly his lips left her skin, his head pulling back sharply. He slowly lifted fingers made suddenly clumsy and unbuttoned her blouse, peeling it back to reveal the small puckered scar left by that ill-fated bullet.
Trembling slightly, he reached for it, only to hesitate. Kate softly propelled his fingers to her skin, holding him there, above her heart. Cradling him there with one hand, she lifted the other to his face as she softly kissed him, their frenzied movements calmed by the memory of her wounds, of the price they had both paid to be here, together. Pulling back slightly, she smiled at him as she met his blue eyes with hers. Castle was awestruck by the look in her eyes; tender, joyful and finally whole, but burning underneath, a fierce blaze of heat and need meant only for him.
Trailing a hand down his arm, she met his hand, palm to palm. His large hand immediately enfolded hers, gripping tightly as if to convince himself that this was real, this was actually happening. She quirked a smile at the stunned look on his face, and tugging on their joined hands, led him through his study and into the bedroom. He followed her docilely, neither of them speaking, his brain still trying desperately to wrap itself around the idea that she was here, leading him through his home like it was her own.
As they reached the foot of his bed, she turned to face him, tugging her hand from his and placing them both on his chest. As she looked up at him with tears still drying on her face, Castle was overwhelmed by need. With a suddenness that startled her, he crushed her to him in a fierce hug, almost painful in its intensity. Her head lay over his heart, hearing its frantic rhythm as his hand cradled her head, fingers threading convulsively through her wet hair. His other hand had barely crept under her jacket, warm fingers quivering against the skin of her lower back.
Castle gasped for air, trying to calm himself as the adrenaline surge of her kisses began to fade. His breath came in choking, heaving gulps, just on the edge of sobs. Burying his nose in her hair, he breathed in her familiar scent, and felt peace slowly settle on him again. Her hands were wrapped around his back, moving in slow circles as she sought to soothe the ache her actions had caused. They stood like that in silence for long minutes, as he pulled himself together.
Drawing back, his look was sheepish, embarrassment etching his features. "I'm sorry…" he began, only to immediately be silenced by the press of her hand against his lips.
"No Castle, don't apologize, not for that, not ever for that. The way you feel about me is the most amazing gift. I'm just so sorry it took me so long to accept it." Sliding her hand to cup his jaw, she leaned in to press a reverent kiss against his lips, and just like that, the electricity between them crackled and burned anew.
Castle had spent hours imagining how it would be to make love to Kate Beckett; fast and furious, clumsy and awkward, he honestly didn't know how it would be, other than amazing. But this was beyond imagining, beyond anything his mind had ever concocted.
As they undressed each other, their movements were clumsy with desire. He felt like a boy again, fumbling and desperate. Yet overlaying their heat and haste, was a reverent stillness. Neither could forget the import of the step they were taking, the long and rocky road they had travelled to this place, this moment. They paused often to lay long, heated kisses on the skin they exposed, like benedictions pronounced by teeth and tongue against beloved flesh.
Castle was intoxicated by the rain-sweet smell of her; the scent of rare exotic flowers seemed to rise from her skin. He nuzzled and tasted as she quivered in his arms. For Kate, each layer of clothing removed another barrier to the lean strength of him. His broad shoulders rose over and enfolded her. Muscled arms and wide, strong hands effortlessly lifted her over him, tucked her under him. She, who had always had to be so strong, so fierce, felt protected and safe in the circle of his arms.
As he lowered her to the bed and cradled her beneath him, each touch they exchanged was significant. Sighs and whispered words became a part of a solemn rite, old as time, but made gloriously new in this place, for them alone. As they neared the pinnacle, he curled his hands over hers against the sheets, met her eyes, and desperately gasped "I love you, Kate, God, I love you so much!" She broke apart, carrying him with her as she shuddered and called out his name.