AN: Ericka, you're my rock. Thank you for everything.
prompt given at the end.
when there is a lull on the battlefield i want to touch you but ―
you are quiet and i am
loud noise and residual echoes
and a litany of gunfire,
left scattered on the ground,
left wondering
why you picked me up.
- Madeleine C, The Absence of Silence
The mud caked to her cheeks does nothing to sheath the pink tint of embarrassment under his amused gaze.
"It's his fault," she defends, pointing to the mutt scuffling with his tail around their feet. She sees Castle purse his lips, trying to conceal the laugh that seems to be pouring out of him.
Jerk.
"I believe you," he smirks instead, letting her into his loft, the dog trailing behind.
He mutters something that sounds like adorable as he sets her smeared shoes asideon his way to get them fresh towels, and she retorts with a scowl that has him raising his hands in supplication.
She comes to a halt in the kitchen, operating the faucet with a practiced ease that startles them both. She pivots till her back rests against the sink, towards him, all in an attempt to hide the smile that's blooming across her lips at the look on his face.
"Your, uh- your sweater is torn."
Well, she didn't expect that.
"What?" Her brows furrow as she turns, still scrubbing at her face with the wet cloth in her hands. He's on his knees, making faces at the retriever who's still happily unaware of his hideous, stained state.
"There's a rip on your sweater near your elbow. Tell me, Detective, do you treat all your guests this way? Get down and dirty?"
"Keep talking and you'll never find out, Castle," she supplies to his waggling eyes.
She busies herself with inspecting the ruined grey fabric of her sleeve to avoid his widening stare, his cheeky smile faltering somewhat in its stance. Her scraped flesh pokes out of the gaping hole, grimy and bloodied. Oh, and painful, she realizes. It's sore to touch, eliciting a groan when she prods at it, earning perplexed glances from the male inhabitants of the room.
"You can keep the damn dog," she mutters, rolling her eyes at the affronted gasp he offers, followed by the theatrical covering of the dog's ears, as if to shield it from her harsh words.
"Castle, he dragged me in the mud. " The dog in question shrinks behind Castle's knees at her accusatory stare. "Look at this! This was my favorite sweater. And, shoot, this hurts," her tirade cuts short at the pain that licks up her arm at the way she twists it to show him the sleeve.
"Hey, are you okay?" The genuine concern in his gentle eyes has her doubling over, arm curled against her stomach.
"Yeah, no, it's alright," she placates. "I think I twisted my arm when your boyfriend over there, pulled on my leash and dumped me in a puddle."
He's beside her in a couple of quick strides, fluttering hands taking inventory of her wound. Her breath hitches in her throat at the proximity, senses overwhelmed with his scent.
The overhead lights cast a halo across his features and she's having trouble maintaining a steady intake of oxygen. There's too much love in his eyes. Such raw, jagged need.
She deflects from it, shies away from his worshipping gaze.
She can't look at him and not kiss him.
If she closes her eyes and leans a millimeter in, she could rest her lips against his, taste the hesitation flickering across his features.
She could kiss the crinkles around his eyes, the parenthesis of his smile.
He clears his throat and she startles, pulls back from where her subconscious had her going.
"We should, uh- clean that cut, it looks nasty. Do I need to get you a painkiller?"
He refuses to meet her eyes, fretting about the island of the kitchen instead to extract a first-aid kit. She shadows his path and parks herself in his space, closer than usual, because apparently her subconscious hasn't finished betraying her yet. He doesn't acknowledge it, just retreats till there's a foot of distance between them.
Just enough for him to play nurse.
With ginger trepidation, he curls the muddied sleeve up her arm, wincing at the sight of the swollen contusion. He uses the faucet sprayer across the cut reaching up to the blooming blue blemish (too much?) and they watch her blood whirlpool down his drain with bated breaths.
They haven't dealt with her blood since the shooting.
It blankets them –this heavy reminder of her mortality that they've been tiptoeing around for the past months.
She wishes it could be as simple as to reach up in the morning to find his lips instead of his coffee. Let's go home instead of I'll see you tomorrow.
I love you, too instead of I don't remember the shooting.
"This might sting," his voice booms, cutting her pining daydreams in half. He dabs the cotton against the laceration, the ointment biting at its edges, and she releases a sound of discomfort in response.
There's a nudge against her knees, a whine that replicates her own and they share twin grins at the dog who they've managed to forget for the past five minutes.
"I guess his tail finally lost its charm, poor guy has been chasing it for, like, two hours." She ruffles the patch between his eyes with the hand that is not being bandaged by her nurse, grimaces when she encounters more mud and dirt amidst the golden locks.
"I think our furry friend here is in need of a bath. And," she adds, as a shy afterthought, words getting lost when her eyes follow his finishing movements as he tapes the bandage, flashing a triumphant smile at his handiwork.
She needs to control this urge to frame the edges of it with her own.
"I, um, I need to shower. I can't walk all the way back like this." She points to herself, the dusky brown forecasting the grey of her attire, hair still encrusted with grime.
She narrows her eyes at his when she sees a twinkle in them, knows whatever he's concocting in his mind cannot be anything but trouble if the gleam gracing his face is an indicator.
"Here's an idea. What if you don't?"
"Don't what?"
"Don't go back. Stay here. You can shower; we can find you clothes that fit –ish. And, c'mon, admit it. You'll miss him if you went away," he tips his head towards Royal, who's circling her feet, beady eyes pleading up to her as if advocating Castle's case.
"Wait, when did you even enlist his endorsement for this plan of yours?"
"It's an awesome plan," he grins, the childlike excitement at the prospect of a slumber party evident in his beaming face.
Even as sirens go off in her head, the strength to say no wanes against the clamor of her heart.
"I'm not going in the same shower as him."
"Castle?"
"Hmm?" he questions, splashing the stream of water at the hazy foam lathering up the fur of the shivering dog in the shower stall.
"When did we become one of those people whose lives revolve around their dogs?"
An involuntary grunt of a laugh escapes from him and she finds herself mesmerized by the scene in front of her, the unreserved domesticity of it tugging at the strings of her fragile heart.
They've squatted down next to the open door of the stall to play with their oversized puppy. Spraying trickles of water at each other every once in awhile, like teenagers who want to attract their crush's attention.
This is what Sunday baths with their children will look like…
She groans in reprimand at her own thread of thoughts and rises to evade his quizzical stare. Standing in front of the mirror, she inspects herself, cringes at the solidified strands of her hair. There's a sharp revolt in her elbow when she raises her hands to scrutinize them.
The bandage sits just above the swollen capillaries, angry still. No way for her to wash her hair, as much as she needs to.
Unless...
She strangles her traitorous subconscious, declines to even acknowledge the alternative.
She is not asking for his help. It's absurd. She will not stoop to that level.
"Beckett, do you need some help with that?"
The little red devil sitting on the throne of her shoulder pipes a silent what if he offers the help himself and she knows she's done for.
"So, this is what your future would've looked like if they hadn't picked up 'In a Hail of Bullets,' right? Dog grooming and hair salons?"
Her voice is throaty, raspy to her own ears. An instinctive response to his fingers ebbing and flowing in her drenched hair, massaging the scalp with a temperate reverence.
"I'll have you know, Miss Beckett, I would've been an excellent hair stylist. All those kids at Alexis' school were jealous of her princess braids."
He grins above her, drawing one from her as well. She's sitting with her back aligned to the counter, head dipped in the chasm of the sink as he rinses off the lather with the spray.
The angle is playing tricks on her, alternating itself with hypotheticals where they aren't in his bathroom. Rather, where they are sprawled on silken sheets; his cobalt blue eyes of winter colliding with the warm green summer of hers. She's infecting herself with images of him rising above her, smudging the smile of his lips against hers and leaving her writhing beneath the trace of his sharp tongue.
He kneads the base of her skull and the line she had been straddling between reality and the alternate version of it diffuses to ether.
"Casstle." His name escapes on a breathy moan from the clasp of her throat, echoing through the stillness of the tiles.
Embarrassment takes back seat when all she can see is abandoned lust in the cerulean irises above her. The gossamer threads of their control are at the ridges. He bends over till his face is inches from hers and her lungs have hollowed out, there's nothing but him all around her.
Castle.
He courses towards her neck, and this is it. He's going to obliterate her with his wicked tongue and this is how she dies.
The cool mint of his breath hits her skin, erupting gooseflesh along her neck as he blows on it, not touching, never touching.
How is she still alive?
"There was still some grit there," he whispers above her lips, thunderous blue swirling in his eyes, barely contained desire morphing into a self-satisfied grin.
"Oh, I am so braiding your hair after this," he informs, straightening up, the pretentious nonchalance in his actions worthy of making his mother proud. What would you prefer? Simple, Dutch, or French?"
French. Definitely, French.
She could contour his smirk with her lips, plunder his smug mouth with her tongue. A battle for dominance will ensue and she'll ruin him, oh yes. Most definitely, French.
"Are you okay? You feel feverish, and uh- you look a little flushed, Beckett," he simpers.
She straightens her spine under his skillful hands, clears her throat to rid herself of the array of inappropriate images.
She should've known this was a bad idea.
The steam bellows out behind her when she treads her way out of the shower of the guest bedroom. A crisp, white cotton tee and cherry pajamas await her on the bed, and she feels her pulse quicken.
She's in the guest room again, synapses of memory awaking at the familiar surroundings. She brings the shirt to her face, inhales the musk and ink on it, and it wraps around her as a placeholder hug.
She collides with the firm frame of his body on her way out, his hands branding around her upper arms to ride the change of inertia. He holds on for what is far too longer than necessary and she can see the pattern developing.
His actions have been getting bolder and part of her wishes they would elevate further still.
She wishes he would jerk her body against his, pin her to the nearest wall and imprison her hands in his somewhere above her head, smother their lips together till air becomes obsolete, till they combust or become one.
"You smell good," he says, the hoarse timbre of his voice swathing around her serrated edges and she manages a noncommittal hum of an answer.
There's a kinetic crackle in the space between them and she knows he's feeling it as well. His lips part and her eyes are drawn to them in an instant, flames and moths in their temperament.
She's giving away too much of herself, laying it all out for his perusal and she can hardly even condemn herself when that's the look on his face her naked vulnerability provokes.
He enfolds his palm along the cursive of hers and pulls them out of their shared reverie, navigating the stairs and leading her towards the couch. He puts a tender pressure on the skin of her shoulders, the calloused pads of his fingers blazing the points of contact and she sinks under the gravity.
When she reopens her eyes, she finds herself sitting on the floor, being loved on by the dog as Castle's fingers – once again –interlace themselves with the wet tendrils of her hair.
How has she let herself be coaxed into yet another situation where his hands perform with a sinful dexterity that could draw moans from the dead?
This is not how she'd envisioned the night going.
"Why did you even want to braid my hair, again?"
"Because it's romantic and I'm really good at it."
His fingers still at his admission, ringlets hitting her skin as they escape from between, as his words buoy around them.
"I meant, uh… I didn't. I'm sorry, I–"
"It's okay, Castle," she smiles, petting the damp, smooth waves of her dog. "I think it's romantic, too."
She feels him relax behind her, and she wonders why they are so nervous around each other.
This apprehension is her fault. She wants to make it better, bridge this valley between them, but she still needs time to heal.
But it doesn't make the wait any easier.
"Castle?" she whispers, anxious butterflies lining her insides.
He drawls out her name in response, slides down from his position on the couch till he's wedged between its front and the trembling skin of her shoulders.
"I'm still not ready," she sighs over her shoulder, half turning in the embrace of his arms. He halts her movements, and she feels her heart quiver at the harsh arrest.
He's going to wait. He needs to wait. This isn't how their story ends.
Right?
Not this abrupt stop, no, she needs their happy, soft epilogue.
"I know," he murmurs, as he brands his hand around the oversized cotton on her arms.
The constricted space between her lungs slackens by a fraction. She feels him unveiling the skin of her shoulder from beneath her fallen hair, gasps as he ghosts his lips along it.
Her eyes shut down on a whimper, the overwhelming sensations are an avalanche on her pounding heart.
He needs to stop before the resolve to wait crumbles between their crashing mouths.
"We can wait," he gentles, feathering kisses up the column of her neck, nipping the pulsing flesh till he reaches the skin beneath her ear. He gathers the pearls of water that cling and her nerves swamp her vision, the crest of tenuous resolve reached.
His arms coil around her middle to keep her upright as she feels herself slipping further and further down the abyss where everything ceases to exist but him.
The elevated thumps of their beating hearts simmer down in the anonymity of silence. She's still cradled in his lap, with her back stuck to his chest, Royal passed out by their legs, oblivious to the heightened atmosphere of the living room.
"I'm so tired of waiting, Castle," she admits on a murmur. "I just –I want. Oh, this is pointless." The frustration is washing over her in waves and she wants it to stop.
She wants so much and almost everything with him.
She wants to wake up to the day breaking on her thighs, her head pillowed on the warmth radiating from his chest. She wants to skip this agonizing symphony of moments where they are stuck in a limbo: in love but not loving, together but so far apart.
"Kate," he says, breaking the hush around them. "It's okay. We'll get there."
"When?" there's a whine to her words which has him tightening his hold of her. "I don't think I can wait much longer after tonight."
"I'm sorry," he hurries, distancing himself from her back by edging her forth. "I shouldn't have done that. Maybe asking you to stay wasn't the right thing to do because I have no control when it comes to you, Beckett. I'm sorry."
She doesn't respond, a thick fog still preventing her brain from functioning. She turns around in the vee of his legs, manages a faltering smile as she rests herself against the cage protecting his heart.
"Don't be," she assures him, twining her fingers with his. "Now we know what we're waiting for."
Prompt: Based on "An Embarrassment Of Bitches:" Kate is the first to take Royal home. While taking him to Castle's, he suddenly jerks hard on his leash, sending her sprawling into a mud patch in the park they're cutting through. They both show up at Castle's loft muddy from head to toes.
I hope this was okay :)
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