Okay, I swear this thing started out as a focused story with an actual arc, but as I wrote, it just completely transformed into what's apparently my version of a Caskett love letter, not only from Castle to Beckett, but from me to the show. I just needed to make that clear to anyone jonesing for plot and/or a typical story format. If that's you: run! As for the rest of you, I hope this is something you can enjoy simply for the purity of its Castle-ness!
The muted drumming of the rain outside whispered through the loft, its rooms and halls shrouded in shadow, hushed and echoing with emptiness. The clean stainless steel surfaces of the kitchen gleamed dully as the fire in the hearth burned on, forgotten, its licking flames throwing heated silhouettes up the walls and polished furniture, teasing faint flickers of light along the distant pillars of the living room. The burnished hardwood floors stretched all-encompassing throughout, vast and even, the only blight upon their smooth expanse the slumped forms of a sodden leather jacket and two shirts, one black, one maroon, discarded and abandoned near the closed double doors of the master bedroom, rising tall and imposing, silent sentries keeping guard over everything within.
Within, where the staccato beat of water on windowpanes pervaded then diffused, fading quietly into dark corners. Within, where the faint nighttime glow of city lights curled past the edges of closed curtains, limning everything in satin half-tones. Within, where the bed stood fast, a solitary island in a sea of cast off clothing and thrust aside throw pillows. Within, where he lay, awake, propped up on one elbow, looking down at perfection.
She was fast asleep, stretched prone on her stomach, face turned towards him, breathing deeply. The lower half of her body was concealed by the soft swathe of the sheet, but he was still able to make out the contours of her legs beneath, lithe, supple, tangled thoroughly with his own. Her back was bare, soft skin pulled tight across beautifully pliant muscles. Her arms were draped above her, one tucked under the pillow and the other folded over it, partially veiled by the flowing waves of her chestnut hair. Her head was tilted down, chin hidden in the crook of her left shoulder, the sharp slant of her jaw drawing his eyes to the faint outline of long lashes, feathered dark and delicate against smooth cheeks.
Her face was peaceful, utterly relaxed, no cases creasing her forehead, no murders hooding her brows, no victims tugging down her lips, or her heart. He had so rarely seen tranquility in this woman, never, in all of his stolen glances or long looks, caught anything resembling serenity. And yet, that's exactly how he would describe her now. Tranquil. Serene. At peace.
And this, while she was with him.
He raised his right hand from where it had lain between them and reached up slowly, tentatively, needing to touch her but needing just as much not to wake her, unwilling to risk the dissolution of this moment. His fingers brushed lightly across her temple, barely there, catching on a few strands of wayward curls. Her hair was dry now, all traces of the rain gone, and he reveled in the soft tease of it, the tiny wisps dancing and fluttering as his breath caressed them gently.
She had the most beautiful hair. He'd always been captivated by it, ever since the very beginning, when it had been short and sharp and completely no-nonsense, just like her, just like how she'd been with him. He smiled slightly, lips quirking up as his fingers nudged beneath the stray locks at her cheek to slide them gently home behind the curve of her ear, his hand lingering for a moment in the warmth he found there.
Short-haired Kate. God, she'd been so unbelievably cute. So utterly tough and bad-ass. So quickly riled by his sarcastic comments and so easily flustered by his suggestive remarks. And he'd been exultant to discover it, this power to irritate, been so gleeful at the chance to pull her pigtails. The daily prospect of infuriating her, of eliciting that fire of annoyance in her eyes, that look of exasperation on her face, that unbridled aggravation in every line of her body, that's what had originally kept him coming back, all those years ago.
That…
And everything else.
She hadn't read him his rights the first night they met, hadn't held him, detained him, or cuffed him (although each of those things had happened very shortly thereafter), but she had arrested him, totally and completely. Arrested him, captivated him, ensnared him in every way. She had tantalized the writer in him, the seeker of stories, the teller of tales. She was the cipher he couldn't quite crack. The closed book he was desperate to read. The mystery he was never going to solve.
His fingers slowly traced the delicate cartilage of her ear before twining back through her thick, wavy locks. Another smile floated across his face. Short-haired Kate would have been appalled at the liberties he was currently taking. Appalled and incensed. He'd have been one-eared and no-nosed by now. Or simply shot dead.
She let loose a soft sigh then, lips twitching up, as if reading his thoughts, and he stilled, hand cupped at the nape of her neck, face so incredibly close to hers. He watched her brow furrow, eyes squeezing more tightly shut, nose crinkling adorably as she pulled in a deep breath before slowly releasing it, lips parting slightly as she did. He felt her left arm shift, elbow brushing gently against his chest as she hugged the pillow closer and nuzzled deeper. He allowed himself to exhale, the sound masked by the steady beat of rain against glass, watching in quiet delight as her face smoothed over, slipping further into dreams.
His skin tingled now where hers had briefly made contact, and he suddenly wanted more contact, needed to imprint the essence of her on every one of his senses. He'd explored the entirety of her body mere hours before, painstakingly lavished attention on every soft surface, fervently mapped out every fascinating feature, but he already knew that he'd never get enough, never have his fill, never be sated. She was a drug, his drug, and this kind of addiction was forever.
He gently disengaged his hand from her hair and returned it to the valley between them, bracing himself before lifting up and leaning forward, body hovering slightly above hers. He was careful to keep his legs still, keep them in place, unwilling to lose the touch of her there, the solid feel of her anchored so securely against him. The warm press of her toes, the smooth slide of her calves, the long length of her thigh, draped casually over his.
Her legs were stunning, a fact he'd been aware of long before he'd actually touched them, or stroked them, or grasped them tighter to his hips as he rocked deeper inside her. The first time he'd gotten a glimpse was seared into his memory, never to be forgotten. The way she'd sauntered into that reading, slowly, seductively, shedding her jacket and striking him speechless. It had been wicked. Deliciously so. To this day, he still couldn't read the last sentence of Storm Fall without flashing back.
And since that first, heart-stopping vision of them, the lure of her legs had only increased. Watching them as they chased suspects. Studying them as they paced the precinct. Staring as they went undercover. Respecting as they crashed through walls. And nearly having a heart attack as they glided wet, glistening, and endless from the cool waters of an L.A. swimming pool. No one would ever call Kate Beckett a killer, but her legs were guilty as charged.
He took a long moment to just gaze at her, starting with the outline of those beautiful legs and working his way up, eyes drinking her in. He traversed every inch of her, every gorgeous inch, and then couldn't help starting over again. If she thought the way he watched her do paperwork was creepy, she'd be mortified at the way his gaze was ravishing her now.
Except that she wouldn't be. Not anymore. He was allowed to ravish. Encouraged to ravish. He shivered slightly as the recollection scorched through his mind, igniting his thoughts like dry tinder. He had always known she would be amazing in bed, had never doubted it. And not because of the hints, and innuendos, and far-from-subtle sexual subtext they'd been batting about for years. Although that had all been really, really fun. And amazing. And hot.
And yeah, okay, he was looking forward to experiencing the cuffs without the tiger. And to getting some potential use out of his safe word. And to finally seeing that thing with the ice cubes...
But no, those weren't the reasons why he'd never doubted. Not even close. It was her passion which had made him so certain. The passion which she radiated, day in and day out, the passion which permeated every aspect of her and completely defined her life, suffusing every goal set, every task undertaken, every challenge confronted. He'd never met anyone so fierce before, so utterly unafraid, not only to face the raw truth of things, but to fight for that truth, to champion it when no one else would. He'd been correct all those years ago, when he called her extraordinary. But at the time, he hadn't even comprehended the deep truth of that word. Or the true depth of her.
And she wasn't amazing in bed. She was life-altering.
His eyes would never grow tired of her, but the rest of his senses were now begging for the same consideration. He tracked the slight rise of her body as she breathed in, then leaned down towards her, careful not to touch, his skin blistering at the nearness of her, at the reflected heat blazing up from her exposed back. She was Heat. Pure, unadulterated Heat. Never before had he named a character in one of his books so aptly.
His eyes slipped closed as he inhaled the intoxicating scent of her, unable to stop himself as his nose dipped lower, brushing gently along the length of her spine, nostrils flaring at the myriad fragrances he discovered upon her skin. She smelled of replete desire and spent exertion, fulfilled want and satisfied need. His throat tightened, body stirring at the memory of her hunger for him, of her insatiable craving for them. He stopped moving, paused, eyes shut tightly as he struggled to catch his breath, struggled to keep his distance, to remain silent and separate, to preserve this still fragment of time just a little while longer. The faint but distinct aroma of cherries brought him back, lighting his features with a sudden grin.
He remembered that day clearly, remembered the closeness of her body, how he couldn't help but lean into her and search for more of that enticing cherry scent, couldn't help but comment on it, the words spilling from his lips before he'd even realized he was speaking. Her gaze had whipped to his, her eyes dropping without permission to take in his lips. It had been startlingly intense, unexpected, unsought. It was just one of many times they'd been staggered by the pull of each other. He still didn't quite know how they'd managed to resist it all of these years.
But he was unbelievably grateful that he didn't have to resist it any longer…
Sorry! Sorry! I know it's an abrupt cut-off. The second half is nearly finished, and will definitely be up sometime tomorrow. Scout's honor. (Damn, I was never a scout...but it's still true!) Like I said at the top, this piece is really nothing more or less than a heartfelt tribute to the amazing characters and extraordinary relationship that we already know and love from the show, and I hope that comes across. Also, I can't even begin to express how delightful it was to revisit all of the past Caskett goodness referenced here! I hope I managed to include/reference some of your fave scenes as well!
As always, thanks a ton for reading, guys! Your thoughts, comments, and insights would be and are completely appreciated, so if you've got a sec, the 'Review' button beckons... :)