Horizontal

So this is the first of my little stories to grace the internet. Be gentle, I beg of you.

And, oddly enough, the idea for this came from reading a Sylvia Plath poem; "I am Vertical" for those of you who are interested.

There's something about laying down that makes her feel at peace.

It also makes her feel incredibly vulnerable. Though she's in the comfort of her own home, she can't help but worry about a suspect getting the jump on her, something unexpected catching her off guard, or—god forbid—another bullet aiming for her chest.

But, no. She's home.

She's safe.

She's lying down on the floor like she used to do as a kid, when her favorite way to stave off boredom was to find patterns in the ceiling. Or on the few times her parents took her camping and all she wanted to do was let the grass tickle her back while she watched clouds with an innocent fascination.

Lying down makes her feel like a kid again. Like things are simple, and killers and victims and the victims' families don't plague her everyday life. Like the wall she's so carefully crafted doesn't exist. Like she could let the child-at-heart writer love her properly. Like she could love him back with no complications.

Kate's never been one for pillow talk. She'd never felt vulnerable after sex, and she didn't want needless chatter or the opportunity for real conversation to ruin the high, ruin her satisfaction. But as she's lying on the carpet of her den, she can't help but wish it was her soft sheets she was on top of, with the man who loved her—the man she most certainly would love back, if only she knew how—next to her. She wants things to be simple—no wall, no complications. Simple as collapsing onto a bed and talking about whatever came to mind.

Somehow, she feels like if only Rick was on the floor next to her, she could explain. Explain how she loves him, she really does, but she just doesn't know how to love him without screwing everything up. Maybe it's something about the different perspective one has when lying down: not upside-down, per say, but the sense that things aren't so concrete. That up is not always up, and down is not always down. That her stoic façade isn't always there, won't always be there.

A knock interrupts Kate's floor-thinking. She's honestly too tired to be bothered with checking through the peephole; she knows it's Castle, who's been entirely too intent on bringing her dinner after he saw just how sparse her cupboards were.

Instead, she yells for him to come in. "It's open." Now that she thinks of it, she doesn't know why the door's not locked. It should be. She always locks her door. God knows what's come over her lately.

Well, if she's being completely honest, she knows too. It's the same person who's walking through her door, holding takeout containers of what smells like excellent Italian food.

"Beckett? Where are you?"

From her position on the floor, wedged between her couch and her coffee table, Kate's hidden from sight. Through the space underneath her couch, she sees the soles of Castle's shoes—and a fair amount of dust bunnies.

"Down here," she calls out. She hears the takeout containers being plopped down on her counter and waits for Castle to notice where she is.

He comes around the edge of her couch and trips when his foot catches on her extended legs. With exaggerated aplomb, he flails his arms around wildly before falling to the floor. His body is perpendicular to hers and he peers at her between the coffee table legs. "Whatcha doin' down here?"

"Just thinking?"

"Anything in particular?" Though he masks the question with a slight leer, there's genuine curiosity in his voice.

"Pillows."

He looks confused. "You're thinking about pillows?"

"No," she says, rolling her eyes. She sits up and grabs two throw pillows off the couch, tossing one at Castle's head and tucking one beneath her own head before lying back down. "I meant that we need pillows. The floor's kind of hard."

Kate folds her hands across her chest and looks up at the ceiling, humming an unidentifiable tune. She's feeling peaceful again. She could start a mindless conversation, or she could be bold and open up the can of worms that's bound to explode soon.

It's not the time for that. The time for that is coming, she knows that beyond a doubt, but she's content to just lay on the floor with Castle and enjoy the silent company.

He still sounds a little confused when he speaks again. "You want to eat?"

"No," she smiles. "This is good for now."

Thoughts? Opinions? Love it? Hate? Want to hug me? Tar and feather me?