For Cathey, on her birthday.
I remember.
It's dizzying. The sway of her swing beneath her, the words that echo in her mind, the unsteady patter of her heart. The knowledge that his eyes are locked on her, bright with love that only cuts through the silence in her head.
Three words, the memory sharp since the fog of her shooting cleared.
Kate, I love you.
And her heart stutters with something beautiful, painful, something that feels too much like reciprocation. Like the well of words she's only spoken to her reflection in feeble attempts to unscramble the memories of her shooting. To learn to differentiate fact from fiction, reality from fantasy.
I love you.
Her grip on the chains tightens, drawing her spine straight as she lets her gaze cut to him. A rare moment of bravery that has her allowing him to see the emotion, the vulnerability, that simmers beneath the surface of her skin and must shine bright in her eyes.
She just told him about the walls that stand tall around her heart, keeping him at bay. Or trying to, at least, because part of her is certain that he can already see past them.
He looks at her like he can already see the wounds and the scars that mangle her broken heart.
But what has her scrambling to build the walls back up, stronger than ever, is the fact that he looks at her like he sees how broken she is, but loves her anyway. Like nothing, not even the shell of a broken woman with a wounded heart that he's looking at now can tamper the flame of adoration that burns bright in his eyes.
And it has words welling in her chest, replacing the fear with confessions and promises that weigh heavy on her shoulders. Words she knows would make his eyes light up, that almost escape, falling free from her lips just so she can erase the apprehension that lingers in his gaze.
Words she swallows back, even though it hurts, because they also have the power to erase all the progress she's already made. For herself and for them, for the possibility of their future together.
But some stay, heavy on her tongue, stealing her breath. The same ones that haunt her at night, before she falls asleep and they remain ever-present in her dreams.
The confession she dreads, the promise she's not ready to make.
I remember. I love you.
Her eyes squeeze shut, and her grip on the chains drains the blood from her knuckles. She hears the clank of metal links, feels his presence draw closer, closer, closer…
"Je me souviens," she blurts, the words falling from her tongue in misspoken fragments. The sounds of French are unpracticed, tainted with an English accent, and yet instinctual.
Useful. Because they let her keep her secret. all the while lifting the weight from her chest.
Only to replace it with another as she watches his brows furrow, sees confusion and fear and hope flash in the blue of his eyes.
Everything, laced with questions she can't bring herself to answer.
"Don't try to translate it," she says instead, asking of him more than she deserves to be given. "I'll…You'll find out eventually."
His gaze stays locked on hers, keeps watching hers. And the panic that has her heart pounding and her breaths coming too quickly must shine in her eyes, because he nods.
He agrees, even as disappointment wells in his eyes. Even he can't hide with a smile this time, and that alone has her stomach twisting with guilt.
Enough to make her nauseous. Too little to draw her confession out, in English.
And she opens her mouth, but no words come out. He's the one that fills the silence.
"Should I go call in that favor? Take back my spot as your partner?"
The question draws a smile to her lips, but all she can do is nod her response and watch him go.
I wish I could stay.
The wine starts to get to her hours after the bank, as she downs the last drops of her third glass. When she's leaning too close to him and wishing she could press her cheek against his chest and listen to the steady of beat of his heart to remind herself that he's alive.
And her whole body is warm, although that may have more to do with him than the empty glass perched in her hand.
"Kate?" he says, making her gaze snap back to his. "You getting tired? You had a long day."
He says it like he's actually worried for her. Like if it wasn't forbidden, he would reach for her, draw her against him and carry her to bed after falls asleep, pressed against his chest.
But it is forbidden. And so is her urge to lean over and press kisses to his face until it erases the effects of the day, has his smile returning without the pain in his eyes tainting it. The desire has her leaning back, pressing herself into the cushions, as far away from him as possible without moving from her spot that allows her knees to brush against his thigh.
He almost died today, and the memories leave her powerless to resist him completely, have her watching as bricks tumble from the top of her walls without any desire to build them back up.
"I had a hard day?" she asks. "You're the one who was held hostage and threatened…repeatedly."
The words fade away, sinking into the silence, heavy with fear that's betrayed by the waver of her voice. The shaking of her hand, as she remembers the sinking of her stomach and the stillness of her heart as she had watched the bank blow up and thought she'd lost him.
The overwhelming rush of relief when she found him alive and safe and that almost had her throwing caution to the wind and pressing her smile against his.
"You're right," he says, the words cutting through her thoughts and dragging her back to the present, to him. His eyes are shining bright with sincerity, and she barely catches the way his hand clenches into a fist against his thigh, just inches from her knee, like he's trying not to touch her. "We both had a long day."
He's staring at her like he knows exactly how she feels. Because he does. He knows what it's like to watch the person you…love…die without being able to help them. He'd cradled her in his arms as he'd watch her bleed out, watched her die.
And it's almost too much, has her pushing away from him to keep herself from lunging for him, giving into the swirl of desire in her stomach and the relief that's still present in every one of her heartbeats, the love that has her vision going blurry, her gaze locked on his face.
"I should go." She pushes herself up, forces herself to stand. To put more distance between them, remove herself from temptation. "You need to get some sleep."
He hesitates. Just for a moment and then his hand is wrapped around her wrist, his fingers dancing around the bones that protrude there, drawing her closer as she fights to keep her eyes open.
It's a simple touch. They've touched before. But it feels—
"You could stay," he whispers. And her eyes snap open, to his. "The guest room is all set up."
She shakes her head, words caught in her throat. So she speaks with her actions, draws her hand from his to twine her fingers with his, squeeze his palm as she leans towards him. Her other hand reaches up to drift across his cheek, curl around the fabric at his collar.
And the words tumble from her lips without her permission. Another secret let free, spoken but not understood. But this time, something inside her hopes he knows what she's trying to say, even if he doesn't understand the words.
Hope the touch of her hands to his skin can say more than broken syllables of French ever could.
"Je voudrais pouvoir rester."
His eyes go wide, and she watches recognition flash in his irises. The realization that she's doing it again, telling him things she can't let him know, but can't hold back.
He nods, whispers the word into the space between them. "Okay."
And as she untangles their hands, draws her fingers away from the warmth of his neck and turns for the door, she can't help but think he understood.
I need you.
She's not even sure how she finds herself at the Old Haunt, sitting at the bar and sipping on a glass of water, alcohol still bitter in her mouth and ill-advised since the last time. Her fingers trace patterns in the droplets of water on her glass, tracing the letters of his name only to wipe them away with a smear of her thumb and do it again.
She sits there for a long time, staring at the swirl of ice cubes in her glass, forcing smiles at the bartender's questions of whether or not she's okay. Ignoring the way his gaze drifts to the bandage on her wrist, crisp and white against the tan of her skin and the brown of the bar.
When Castle shows up, though, she almost asks the bartender why he's there. How he knew where to find her. But she finds herself leaning towards him, letting his gaze draw her to her feet, and follows him down the stairs to his office.
He lets her curl up on the couch, her legs pulled up under her as he situates himself on the chair nearby. His eyes trip over her body, snapping to the bandage at her wrist that she doesn't bother hiding. Not now.
The silence drags on, his gaze locked on hers, swirling with questions that are clouded by worry, by his love for her that sends her heart stuttering against her ribs.
"How…are you?" she asks.
It makes his brows furrow, his lips part like he's going to quip about how he should be asking her that before he snaps his mouth shut again.
That line is still between them, carefully drawn and not to be toed. She hates it. She wishes she could find the words to thank him for it.
"I'm…okay," he says. "I'm better now that this case is over." And the rest stays unspoken, heavy in the silence, in the lock of his gaze.
He's better because she's better.
She swallows against the well of emotion, her hand curling tighter around her knee as her gaze falls to the expanse of floor between them, to hide the insecurity in her eyes as she speaks. "You can ask, Castle."
The silence drags on, though. And she looks up to see him pushing himself out of his seat and stepping towards her. He wedges himself into the spot next to her, his body angled towards hers and his hand reaching for the one curled around her leg.
His fingers circle her unbandaged wrist, the action brave, less forbidden since it last happened. He sweeps his thumb across the tendons at her wrist.
"How are you, Kate?" he whispers, his eyes boring into hers, past her walls, like he somehow does.
And it draws the honesty from her chest, has her confessing the very thing she tried so hard to hide from him. The weakness she never wanted him to see.
"I…wasn't good. The case…it got to me," she says, watching his silent nod of response. "But I'm better now. I'm working to be better."
For you.
"I'm glad," he responds.
She lets the silence drag on for another second, lets him feel the race of her pulse at her wrist and see the pain that must shine in her eyes. Until she forces herself to speak, forces herself to tell him the truth. "I'm sorry," she whispers. "For pushing you away."
Her free hand lifts. The bandage drifts over his knuckles, her fingers tracing the sharp angles of them until her palm settles over the back of his hand. So his palm is pressed against her wrist and hers are cradling his hand, holding him close to make up for pushing him away all week.
"Rick?" she whispers, drawing his wide-eyed gaze to hers. "J'ai besoin de toi."
And she watches the smile spread across his face, sees his eyes light up even though she doubts he understands what she's saying. Like he only knows it's something good, even though it has her exhaling a shaky breath and her heart skipping beats.
For the first time since her French confessions started, she needs him to know what she's saying. But she can't force the words past the lump in her throat, the well of her love for him that threatens to escape as soon as she opens her mouth.
So she squeezes his hand between hers, and hopes it's enough.
I want you.
She can't bring herself to say no. Not when he's looking at her like that and she's his plus one and the soft sounds of a love song are filling the room. And he's holding his hand out to her, the shaking of his fingers betraying his nerves even as his eyes shine bright with hope.
It has her standing, the way she wobbles on her heels in no way because of the handful of drinks, all because of him. Her hand slides into his, the kiss of their palms gentle and sweet as he draws her with him. To the corner of the dance floor where they're away from prying eyes and she can escape if she wants to.
But looking up at him, as their joined hands raise and her fingers curl around his neck and his palm flattens against her spine, she knows she won't be able to. She doesn't want to.
He keeps them at a respectable distance, like they're in middle school and he's scared of the teacher. She's the one that steps closer to him, lets her chest brush against his to see the widening of his eyes. The surprise that lingers there even after she's squeezed his hand in reassurance, even as they sway to the soft notes of the song.
His touch is gentle, sweet in its tenderness. The brush of his thumb over hers, the slight circles he rubs against her spine as he leads her in their dance. As he draws her closer and she doesn't bother to resist. Not when all she wants to do is press her head against his shoulder and feel the swell of his chest as he breathes against hers.
Her heart leaps in unsteady beats that almost match the final notes of the song, her breath catching with unspoken disappointment as his hand lifts from her back even as another song begins. Just as soft, just as slow. Just as befitting of them, even though the brush of her lips against his is not allowed and this dance is already stepping on that line.
So she steps even closer.
His arms band around her when she does, his palm drifting lower on her back as her fingers comb through the hairs at his nape. As her head falls to rest against his shoulder, her forehead pressed against his neck.
He holds her close as he sways them, the movements making her eyes flutter closed. The notes of the song and the sounds of the crowd bleed together, fade into the background until she can't hear them anymore. Until she can only feel the press of his body against hers, can only see the images that flash behind her eyelids.
Images she's not supposed to let herself imagine. Images of more dances like this, of them swaying in the loft with no music playing, of one just like this with hundreds of eyes watching and a white dress draped over her body, his lips pressed against the side of her head.
"Rick?"
He pulls back. So does she, just enough for the hand at his nape to drift, to curl around his jaw. For her eyes to catch his so she can see the joy, the love shining in his bright blue ones.
So he can see the same thing shining in hers.
"Je te veux," she whispers, just loud enough for him to hear her over the music, over the guests at Ryan and Jenny's reception. Her hand drifts down again, over his chest to feel the beat of his heart under her palm. "And one day, I'm going to tell you again, in English."
He smiles, nods, his hand pressing harder against the base of her spine, drawing her back to him, back into the warmth of his embrace and the comfort of this moment. Until she's pressed against him once again, both hands folded around his neck and both his arms banded around her waist.
Holding her there as he speaks the words into her hair, his breath as gentle as a kiss. "One day."
She nods, presses the movement against his shoulder and neck. "One day," she echoes. "I promise."
Soon.
She's sitting across from him in a booth at Remy's, the weight of the past few days lifting from her shoulders as she sips at her coffee, finishes off her burger, and watches the tension in his shoulders fade as time ticks by.
The strain in his smile disappears, his words coming easier, his laughter ringing between them more and more as the conversation continues.
Until it's replaced by easy silence as he eats the last of his fries and she debates ordering herself a milkshake, if only to avoid going home alone. To avoid the nightmares, to avoid leaving him and letting the night steal the image of his smile, the way her heart flutters with love for him.
"Thank you."
It breaks the silence, has her blinking away her thoughts to catch his gaze with hers, to see the sincerity shining in his eyes.
"For what?" she asks, her hands sliding from around her mug to drift under the table, smoothe across her legs in a feeble attempt to relieve the swarm of butterflies in her stomach.
"For being there this week. And for…not pushing too much," he tells her. "It really was hard to learn those things about Sofia, but you…make it easier." His gaze falls, drifts upwards slowly, like he's shy and it makes her chest warm with endearment. "You make everything easier."
And the love floods her chest, draws her to her feet without a moment's hesitation. She reaches for his hand, squeezes his palm and watches as he slides towards the window, presses himself against the glass so she can sit next to him, their hands still locked in the space between them.
"I was only returning the favor, Castle," she whispers. "For all the times you…didn't push."
He smiles. "Well, thank you, anyway." His grip on her hand tightens, and he draws her closer, the inches between them fading until her thigh is pressed against his and all she would have to do to kiss him is lean forward, dust her lips across his. "And, for what it's worth, even before all of this…Sofia was never my muse. You're the only one."
She hates the relief that floods her chest, hates herself for it when she knows he's hurting, but it has her nodding her head, her forehead all but brushing against his. And she hates herself for her hesitance, for the question that makes it's way past her lips. "Really?"
He smiles as he nods, squeezing her hand even tighter. "Really," he promises. "I did base Clara Strike on Sofia, and we did sleep together, but I never…cared about her the way I care about you."
I never loved her the way I love you.
The words flood her chest, have her tearing her hand from his grasp to flatten her palm against his cheek. His breath quickens, lips parting, his forehead kissing hers as her eyes fall to land on his thigh, the hand curled into a fist there.
"Bientôt," she promises.
He nods, his forehead still pressed against hers. "Soon," he breathes. "I know."
It makes her eyes widen, has her drawing back from him to put space between them, to calm the race of her heart and the mess of her mind.
He reaches for her again, his hand curling around her shoulder this time, offering a reassuring squeeze. "Soon, Kate," he repeats, smiling.
And she finds herself smiling back, mirroring the upturn of his lips with her own. "Soon."
I miss you.
The promise is broken when three weeks pass and she's watching him talk about another woman, watching him smile at images of Jacinda instead of her because he's angry and she has no idea why, can't wrap her mind around the idea of losing him even as she watches him shove his hands into his pockets and square his shoulders like they're a barrier against her..
Even as the smile he aims at her is more vicious than sweet, more angry than loving.
"She's fun and uncomplicated," he says, like he knows it's a dagger to her heart that has her chest hitching around a broken breath and tears stinging behind her eyes. "I think that's what I need in my life right now."
And it's laced with so much subtext. The unpleasant kind that so rarely hangs between them, the kind she usually reads when she misunderstands him. But this time…her heart sinks with it, her stomach twisting with nausea at the words, the heavy implication that lingers in the silence, unspoken but so very obvious.
She's not you.
His smile is forced, his nod the only goodbye he offers before he turns away, leaves her standing there alone with only the sting of his words lingering. And she watches his back, lets her gaze trip over the stark red of his collar against his skin, the tension in his shoulders that she put there but can't seem to make go away.
"Rick?"
It escapes without her permission, yet dread settles in her gut, mixing with disgust at herself, at him, at this whole situation that she somehow screwed up.
She almost doesn't expect him to turn around, but he does, his eyes like steel and his lips pressed into a thin line. He shoves his hands deeper into his pockets, frowning at her when he speaks. "Yes, Beckett?"
The sharp syllables of her surname burn, seem to cut deeper into her heart, yet another reminder that everything is wrong and she has no idea how to make it right.
And she doesn't know what to say, not when he's looking at her like she tore his world apart and a thousand questions, a thousand apologies are bubbling in her chest, each one a jumbled mess of emotion and words that has her squeezing her eyes shut and swallowing them back.
The words that do tumble from her lips, though, are unexpected. A stuttering mess of words he doesn't understand and do nothing to make the anger fade from his eyes.
"Tu me manques."
He doesn't say a word, doesn't smile or nod or offer any sign that he's heard her, that, somehow, he understands. He just turns away from her, walks towards the elevator like she never said a word.
And she knows he doesn't speak French. Knew before she said it that he wouldn't understand, and yet she wishes he did. Wishes she could tell him that whatever pain he's in, she is, too.
That watching him walk away from her is the last thing she wanted, that it's what has her crying into her pillow when she falls asleep that night.
I love you.
He's warm, gentle as he rolls onto his side and draws her with him, his panting breaths matching hers. She curls up against his side and lets her head fall against his chest, the race of his heart loud under her ear, but the touch of his hand on her back and his lips to her head are soft, sweet.
Laced with everything unspoken, all the love that lingers, bright and happy and beautiful, between them.
And her hand trails up his body, flattens against his sternum so she can feel the rise and fall of his chest as his breathing slows, as hers does, too. The sheen of sweat of her body dissipates, leaving her cold and reaching for the sheet and draping it over their bodies as she nestles back against him.
This time, when her hand drifts, it's to curl around his neck, draw his face towards hers as she lifts her head from his chest. She keeps the touch of her lips to his quick, soft and sweet, her fingers combing through his hair as she pulls away with a smile.
And he's smiling back at her, with happy eyes and his lips curled upwards in bliss and his hair messing from the work of her hand.
Beautiful.
It has her pressing upwards again, stealing another kiss from his mouth in a feeble attempt to communicate her appreciation, her adoration, her love.
Her heart jumps, her breath catching, the words there.
And she pulls away on a gasp, the well of the words in her chest stealing what breath she had and making her hand land against his cheek as he clutches at her, his grip tight. His fingertips dance across her ribcage, where bruises will surely be apparent come morning, and over the bumps and ridges of her spine.
His nose nuzzles the high of her cheekbone, his words a breath against ear. "You okay, Kate?"
She nods, reaches up to curl both her hands around his head, to cradle him between her palms and pull him away so he can look her in the eyes. Feel the warmth behind the words that tumble from her lips, the sincerity that has them bubbling from within her without her control.
"Je t'aime, Rick."
His eyes light up, only for the spark to fade when she shakes her head, her eyes snapping shut against the evidence of her own stupidity.
And she says the words again, even though she knows he understood her the first time.
"I love you."
In English this time, the words flowing easily, bleeding into each other as she tries to wipe the worry from the corners of his eyes with her touch.
In English this time because French is her way of hiding from the honesty of her words. But these are words she never wants to hide from again.
"I love you, Rick."
He laughs, happy and bright and muffled when he presses his lips against hers in a sloppy kiss they're both smiling into. The bump of teeth and the barely there catch of lips as he grins, presses it against her own smile a second, then third time.
And the words he whispers are breathed past her lips, heavy with emotion, laced with the reminder of how long and hard he held them back. Sweet in the way they flood her body, leaver her warm and happy and pressing up into his embrace and smearing kisses to any expanse of skin she can reach.
"I love you, too, Kate." He pauses, kisses her two more times and smudges his lips to her cheek. "I love you, too."
And the kiss her presses to her lips turns into two, then three, until she's rolling him over and sliding into his lap and pressing promises of her love to any bare skin she can reach as the caresses of his palms over her body echo the sentiment. Over and over again until it tumbles from her lips.
Free and beautiful and perfect.
"I love you."
Happy birthday, Cathey! I know is isn't exactly what you asked for, but I tried to included minimal angst just for you. I hope you had a super awesome day, because you 1000% deserve it. And I hope this next year is everything you want it to be and more. XX
I hope you all enjoyed. And a huge thanks goes to Lindsey for dealing with my procrastination and beta-ing this at the last minute.