"These arms of mine
They are burning
Burning from wanting you."
- These Arms of Mine, Otis Redding
Special thanks to Lindsey (ipreferwestside) for reading over this and helping with the title.
She drops the towel onto the hotel room floor, reaching for the shirt—his shirt—and bringing it to her nose again.
The scent is still strong, oh so familiar and comforting, bringing back memories of nights spent cuddling, her head on his chest, and of rough days ending in hugs and finding shelter in the crook of his neck.
She takes another deep breath, breathing it in, relishing it for one more moment before she rubs the fabric against her cheek. It's soft, worn. Soothing.
With a sigh, she slips her arms into the sleeves, slips each button through its hole carefully.
The shirt's too big. It hangs off her body, the barely rolled up sleeves falling far past her hands.
She climbs into the bed, tugging the comforter over her, one arm wedged between her face and the pillow, just to keep him close.
Remy's is probably not the ideal place to meet for something like this.
Then again, how many people deal with anything even remotely similar to this?
Her leg bounces under the table as she waits, the cotton tee she wore to bed these past few days clutched in her hands, wrapped around the button down she took just last week, leaving one of her own shirts in its place.
She asked him to bring the NYPD top she left behind with him today, when she quietly pulled him aside at the precinct and asked him to meet her here this evening.
She also asked him to bring one of his shirts, one he hasn't washed since he last wore it.
The bell above the door jingles, a quiet sound that has her dragging her eyes away from the table top and looking up at where he's standing, a bag in hand.
He smiles, happy and hopeful.
Her heart sinks, but she smiles back.
He slided into the bench across from her, setting the bag down next to him. "Did you order anything?" he asks.
She shakes her head. "I'm not staying to eat," she mumbles.
His face falls. Her heart sinks even deeper.
"I just wanted to give you this," she says, and she reaches across the table to hand him the shirts, tangled together. "Yours… It doesn't smell like you anymore, and I figured the one I left you didn't either, so I figured we could switch again."
He looks down at the fabric in his hand, and then back up. "That's why you called me here?" he asks.
She nods. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be." He smiles. "I wanted a new one, too, but I didn't want to push."
She finds herself smiling back again, his hope, his love completely contagious.
He slides the bag across the table, their fingers brushing when she takes the handles from him.
Inside it, under her NYPD tee, sits one of his red—her favorite—shirts, and it's all she can do not to bring it to her nose and take in the scent right there at their table.
It becomes a routine.
Once a week, they meet up somewhere and exchange shirts, and it quickly becomes the day she looks forward to most.
Because nothing she can do right now—nothing that will keep him safe—compares to the look on his face when she hands over a shirt. The flickers of emotion, of pain and joy and hope and love. The memories that rush through her mind as she imagines they do to him.
On the second week, she gives him the "I love New York" shirt he made her buy one of the times she came back while she was living in DC. On the fourth, he gives her the shirt he wore to the wedding, and she hands over one she bought on their makeshift honeymoon.
And on particularly hard days, after extremely long weeks, she'll stay for a drink at the Old Haunt or a burger at Remy's or a story at his office, letting everything disappear for a moment.
Letting the pain slip away, the emptiness of his side of the bed forgotten, and the look on his face every time she leaves becomes nothing but a distant memory.
On week five, they hold hands, fingers intertwined on the table.
Week six, she hugs him tightly before she walks away. And on week seven, her fingers are still brushing over her cheek when she enters her hotel room, the ghost of his kiss ever-present.
The eighth week is the hardest.
Two months since they started this little routine of quiet exchanges and dates they don't call dates, and the case has just about knocked her off her feet.
A mom, dead. Young children, confused. Their dad with his arms wrapped around them, sobbing in the break room.
She asked him if they could meet at his office this time, didn't want to go out, couldn't handle the people. And now here she is, sitting with him on the couch where he sleeps, his arms wrapped around her, fingers combing through her hair.
It's just like he would do at home, hold her close, offer her support. Be strong when she's vulnerable.
Except he would do more. And today, she needs more.
Her lips crash against his, hard and desperate as she traces the seam of his mouth with her tongue. This is what she needs. Him letting her take control, letting her dig her nails into his shoulders and cry into the crook of his neck as holds her, consumes her, brings her indescribable pleasure in moments of such pain.
She climbs into his lap, hands everywhere. On his neck, on his cheeks, on his jaw, in his hair. She's clumsy when she undoes the buttons of his shirt, shaking and needy and crying.
He pushes her away, gentle as always.
"Kate."
It's a warning. One she doesn't listen to. One she can't listen to.
"Please, Castle. Rick. Please, I need this."
And so he lets her, tugging her hips against his and flinging her top aside as she scrapes her nails over his chest. Her skirt gets hiked up over her hips as she pops open the button of his pants.
This is what she needs. This closeness that she hasn't felt in almost three months.
It's hard and fast and needy, but she ends up biting into his shoulder to muffle her screams, her tears coating the side of his neck as she cries afterwards.
It's what she needed, but suddenly, the idea of leaving is so much more painful. Almost unbearable.
He offers to help her clean herself up, but she's already climbing off his lap and standing on shaky legs, tugging her skirt back into place and adjusting her bra.
"I should go," she whispers.
It's almost as painful as the day she left.
But before she leaves, she swipes his shirt off the floor, buttons it up in place of her own.
It feels like nothing now, just a piece of fabric draped over her body when he's sitting right there, eyes still foggy and lips still swollen and all she wants is to curl up against his side and let him hold her until she falls asleep.
And yet she pushes his office door open, and slips out without a sound.
She stays strong until she's lying in an empty bed, crying into her pillow until she can't anymore.
It's stupid, but they do it again. And again after that. For three weeks straight, every time they meet, she leaves with the shirt he had been wearing and lets him have hers.
She knows they shouldn't, that it's only making everything more painful and messy and that every time she leaves, the guilt overwhelms the pleasure.
But she shows up at his office and after giving in once, it's impossible to resist letting him have her, letting him take what little she can offer.
Sex and a shirt, and for the tenth week in a row she leaves without looking back.
Because if she was to look back, she would never leave.
The call comes late that night, the unfamiliar ring of the burner she keeps with her, just in case.
She knows who it is before she answers, and yet the voice on the other end has her heart swelling with hope and sinking with dread all at once.
It might be a mistake. It might be risky. But she agrees to meet at one of the city's parking garages, already walking out the door wearing nothing but one of his shirts and a pair of yoga pants.
She needs answers. She needs to know.
She needs this to be over, and this is the best bet she has.
The parking garage is dark, as always. An abandoned one off the island, outside the city.
Rita comes out of the shadows like a scene from a movie, her own shadow in front of her. Her eyes are dead serious, but there's the smallest hint of a smile on her face.
"It's over."
Her heart lifts, that hope Castle always has seemingly finding a home within her. The words—it's over—she spoke them once. It hadn't been over, though.
"Are you sure?"
Rita nods. "We've identified LockSat. He's in custody. You can stop. You're safe," she says. "And you can go home, make Castle happy."
The exchange isn't long, and there's so many unanswered questions that, as she leaves, she knows she'll never get answers to.
But she hops into her car, turns the key in the ignition without caring.
Because she's going home.
She knocks on the door, even though she has the key.
His eyes go wide when he sees her, a hint of a smile curling at his lips. That hope again. She recognizes it. She's thrived off it. She's shared it.
"Hi," she whispers.
"Hi."
Apprehension has his voice shaking, that fire in his eyes wavering as they scan over her outfit. He doesn't want to hope, she realizes. He's hoped so many times, and has watched her walk away just as many.
"Did you, uh, need a new one?" he asks with a tilt of his head.
She looks down at herself, at the shirt that's draped over her body, too big and loose and hanging off her shoulders and arms. His shirt, that she was just about to go to bed in when…
"No," she answers. "I won't be needing them anymore."
His face falls, just for a second, before his eyes meet hers, wide and loving like he's never looked at her before.
"Kate?"
She smiles, reaching out to brush her hand over his, to let her fingers drift across his cheek.
"Rick, can I come home?"