rasasvada:
(n.) perception of pleasure.
The first time he snuck a picture of her had been long before he'd gained the privilege of calling Kate Beckett his. Castle had only just begun shadowing her, their unorthodox partnership only a few months old, and he had just arrived at the precinct that morning with her coffee in hand. She had still hated his guts, glared holes into him most of the time, but day by day, she was softening. Ever so slowly, hatred simmered to tolerance.
He had balanced the coffee in one hand, used the nearby wall for cover, and surreptitiously lifted his iPhone just high enough to capture a shot of her filling out paperwork. Research, he had called it, justifying the candid photo as a visual image for Nikki Heat.
He never uploaded the photo to his storyboard, never called up the image for his writing, but he kept it on his phone, stared at it a lot, tracing his thumb along the cutting line of her jaw, the intense furrow of her brow. Especially during the first summer he was forced to spend away from her.
He didn't manage an updated photo of Beckett until more than a year later, when she was staying in his loft because hers had become ashes. It had felt rather voyeuristic, wrong of him to snap photos of her while she was unsuspecting in his home, but he hadn't been able to stop himself. And he had limited the at home photography to just three pictures.
One of her on the couch with his daughter, watching a movie before bed with a bowl of popcorn between them. Another of her perusing the bookshelves in his office while she thought he was cooking dinner, her fingers caressing the spines of novels, jealousy rising in his chest every time he called up the photo to the screen. And the final featured her in his kitchen, alone in the morning light before anyone else had awakened, standing in streaks from the sun bleeding across his floor with her coffee in hand and contentment lining her face. The last morning she would spend in his loft for nearly two years.
The next photo is a year younger, one he became all too familiar with. One that brings back clashing memories of joy and anguish. The picture he had taken of her just weeks before her shooting, her eyes bright with amusement, her smile effortless, evoked by Ryan and Esposito's antics and allowing him the perfect opportunity to snatch the shot, adding to his small collection. The picture he had placed on his storyboard, what almost became her murder board. Beauty amidst so much death and tragedy.
He didn't take many pictures after that, the sight of the photos sometimes too painful for him to bear after her shooting, after she had turned him away in her hospital room and disappeared for three months without another word. When she returned from her summer away, they were able to mend, months of deconstructing walls, weeks of breaking his heart all over again, until she showed up on his doorstep, drenched in rain and apology, wanting nothing but him.
"What're you doing?" she had whispered in the middle of the night, her eyes half closed but following him as he retrieved his phone from his office, climbed back into bed with her.
The moonlight had bathed her in a soft glow, caressing her naked back, kissing her cheek and streaming through the riot of her hair, and he had been unable to resist reaching out, following the line of her spine with his palm as she had drifted in and out of sleep. He had refrained from taking the modest photo of her in his bed, her arms curled up against her chest and the sheets pooled at her waist, until she was well and truly asleep.
He would always savor that particular photo more than most, the memory of that first night together, how it all began.
Since becoming a couple, Kate became quite accustomed to his habit of photographing her, eventually ceasing her glares at him each time he lifted his phone to snap a picture of her, even welcoming it every once in a while. Rarely did she know about the pictures he stole while she slept, though. Not that there were many. A collection far smaller, but typically born from nights that followed harsh cases, when the sight of her asleep beside him sent gratitude flooding his chest and the need for reassurance had him reaching for his phone.
The assortment grew once he was returned home from his mysterious disappearance that ruined their first attempt at a wedding. His first night back in their bed, he hadn't been able to sleep at all, hadn't been able to take his eyes off of Kate, the woman he had essentially abandoned at the altar, abandoned for months that should have been spent as newlyweds. She had curled in close to him, her body compact, her limbs twined with his and trapping him there, as if she feared he would leave her again in the middle of the night.
He hadn't slept, but he had taken a photo on his phone, captured proof for them both that he was home and he was with her.
The times she catches him are few, her eyes peeling open to find him watching her, sometimes with coffee and a tray of breakfast in hand, phone in the pocket of his robe, sometimes propped beside her in their bed with soft awe fluttering through his chest, the photos of her stored away on the device atop the nightstand.
"Staring while I'm awake and asleep?" she'd mused once, turning towards him with a smirk on her lips. "Am I that fascinating, Castle?"
"Endlessly fascinating to me," he had promised her with a grin, but oh how he meant it. He would never grow bored of Kate Beckett.
Today she wakes just as he's stashed his phone in his pocket, his knees bumping the foot of the bed as she shifts onto her back to see him, a quizzical smile gracing her lips in the gentle glow of morning light suffusing their bedroom. His series of photos has grown lately, ever since his wife had moved back into their home, and Castle offers her a smile he reserves for her, soft and a little lopsided, one she evokes so easily.
"What're you doing?" she mumbles, her hair falling around her cheeks, straightened and begging for the comb of his fingers. She had come home late last night, work keeping her chained to her desk, and he had woken from his light slumber at the press of her body against his back, her arms slipping around him and pressing in close, spooning him. She had drifted to sleep within minutes, her breath at his neck and her lips whispering an 'I love you' into his skin.
"Watching you sleep, is that creepy?" he inquires, even though he already knows her answer, just to see her lips spread and her eyes glitter with affection.
Kate shakes her head, stretches beneath the comforter. "Mm, no, I think it's sweet."
"I took some pictures," he admits, his lips quirking as amusement merges with exasperation. "They're part of a series, usually you don't wake up."
"Less sweet," she informs him with a narrowed look, but the grin still claims her lips, and Castle descends to the bed, curves his palm over her calf beneath the bedding.
She discovers his 'series' only a couple of months later on his laptop while they're in the middle of their planning for the trip to Paris. She's searching for accommodations, attempting to compare prices, and he doesn't know how, never thought to ask, but she ends up opening a folder with her name on it.
The astounded look on her face has color rising to his cheeks, shame bubbling in his stomach, because he had hoped if she ever saw the shots, she would be flattered, but what if she genuinely just finds it creepy?
"Castle, you were serious?" she questions, her eyes glued to the screen as he comes around his desk, sees her scrolling through the photos with wide eyes. "I thought you had just taken a few since we've been together. And there are more than just me sleeping. You – you have a few here from before we were even dating."
Rick swallows, but nods, owns up to it and resists the urge to steal the laptop from her hands, hide it away from her. She's his wife, his muse in every sense of the word, and she has every right to those photos. He just hadn't been prepared for her to find them yet.
"I… was fascinated with you for a long time?" he tries, but no, that probably makes it even worse. Yeah, the curve of her brow confirms that. "Kate, I can't pinpoint the exact moment I fell in love with you, but even before then, I knew we would have a story worth remembering. I guess… I guess I just wanted to capture as much of it as I could in every way."
Kate pushes back from his desk, rising from his office chair to stand before him.
"And the ones of you sleeping, those are just - every time I wake up beside you, I'm reminded how lucky I am to call you my wife, my partner, and I-"
The warmth of his wife's palms slide along his jaw, cradle his cheeks as she arches on her toes to capture his mouth, to seal her kiss to his lips.
"I love you," she whispers, her lips curling into a smile against his. "I'm so lucky to love you, Castle."
His chest expands beneath hers, his heart skipping, exalting at the words as he bands his arms around her waist, reclaims her mouth and draws her backwards with him.
"Paris?" she breathes, her fingers gliding to comb through his hair, her body surging with need until he gives in, picks her up and carries her into the bedroom.
"We'll book a hotel later," he mumbles, descending with her to the bed the second his knees hit the edge of the mattress, swallowing her laughter, her moan, as he settles on top of her. Kate's eyes flutter open as she sucks in a breath, her lashes tickling his cheeks, and grins up at him, her hair in a riot of golden brown against the vibrant red of the comforter. Her legs twine around his waist, drag his body deeper into the haven of hers, and he almost abandons her for his phone. But no, no camera lens could capture the sheer beauty of her in moments like these. "This first."