I actually started this months ago at the request of a Tumblr anon. It's been sitting in my drive for awhile, as I had no idea what to really do with the idea, which grew from the first line. I loved writing this, so thank you to whoever sent this to me.
The way she fell in love with him is the best story ever told.
It had always been something she'd kept to herself, unfurled for his eyes only during the darkest of days when she needed a little light to shine through, when she needed him to breathe and keep her afloat, but was still too afraid to tell him she needed him.
She's still unfurling it ever so slowly, but the darkness has been all but vanquished by now, so she tells her tale in little pieces, in the only ways she knows how. She'll never be a novelist who can disguise fact as fiction. She embraces her truth instead, leaves it for him to find in rare and stolen moments.
Sometimes when they're alone and lying awake in bed, she showers his body with kisses while murmuring their story against his skin. She relishes the prickle of his body beneath hers as she tells him about all the times she'd fallen asleep in her bed alone, dreaming about loving him, about opening her heart to him.
Sometimes when she knows she'll have to stay late on a case, she plants post-its for him to find-on his computer and between the pages of his books. Occasionally when she's feeling a little bit cruel - a little bit adventurous - she tacks them to the places where they've made love. A note to find tucked underneath the fruit bowl on the island. A sticky pressed to the door. A mini love-letter in the backseat of his Ferrari. She writes a line for him to find, a piece of her story to hold onto on the rare occasion that their professional obligations keep them away from each other.
One of her favorite memories of him stumbling upon one happened during a night they were both home - he'd been locked away in his study writing while she spent her evening de-stressing on the couch with a glass of wine and a book in her lap, wrapped in his sweatshirt and a comfy blanket. She looked up to find him staring at her with renewed awe in his eyes as he shuffled to her slowly before kneeling on the floor, a blue post-it stuck between his fingers.
"Yes, Castle?" she hummed, the wine zipping pleasantly through her veins. She flicked her tongue across her lips, savoring the cabernet sauvignon before replacing her glass onto the coffee table.
She knew the one he must've found. She'd stuck it between the pages of In a Hail of Bullets weeks ago for him to find the next time he'd cracked the spine. He'd been away for a few days, traveling to Los Angeles for a few meetings about another possible movie deal. She'd been missing him, missing her mother, so she'd pulled it from his library and read a few chapters before sliding the note between the pages.
I fell in love with your words when I was 19.
She watched him struggle with it now, fingering the slip of paper with reverence.
"I found it with my mother's things shortly after she passed away," she admitted softly, her thumb tracing the shell of his ear as he propped his chin on the edge of the couch. "And you kinda stayed with me ever since then."
"You never told me," he said simply. But there was no crease of his brow, or frown around his mouth. He was merely making an observation.
"Yes, well, in the beginning I didn't want it to go to your head," she said with a smirk. "No, but it meant a lot to me, Castle. And I wanted it to mean something to you, too."
"This is...everything, Kate," he whispered, swallowing hard. "It's everything."
She let out a shaky little relieved laugh as he leaned up and captured her pink mouth with his, her fingers sweeping tenderly down his cheeks.
"You're incredible," he murmured against her lips.
"Backatcha, babe."
(...)
As time passes, her one-liners grow fewer and far between. She knows she could never become predictable to him, but she hesitates for fear of repeating herself. And even though she thinks it may sound a little conceited, she likes the enigma of Kate Beckett, loves that she can still surprise him after they've spent so much time together.
But sometimes she can't help herself in her yearning to communicate with him in his own language.
It's been six months since he found her last one - the longest period of time between them - but she can't think of anything more appropriate. So when he smudges his mouth against hers before slipping away into the shower, she pads to his study in her robe and lifts a stack from his desk.
She grabs his favorite pen and scribbles it across the page before she ducks into the bathroom, quiet under the din of the fan, and presses it smoothly across the mirror. She sheds her robe and joins him, sliding her mouth against his skin as she makes him come apart before her words completely do him in.
Congratulations, Daddy.