The pads of her fingers ache. The accompaniment of pain from being slung like a rag doll off a Manhattan rooftop. There are no bruises yet. Just deep-pink smudges of skin. A set of streaks along her neck, knees and shins, shoulder blades, tail bone - she can't see that one but feels it more acutely than the others. They'll all turn; a rainbow of evidence painted on her flesh, but for now they remain merely a ghostly reminder of nearly losing her life.
Only she did lose that life.
And started another. With Castle.
She hopes he is still sleeping soundly where she left him. Doesn't want him to wake and wonder where she is. Doesn't want him to be lying in bed waiting for her and wondering why she's been in the shower so long that the water has turned cold and pushed her in the corner, sequestered and collecting herself, counting her bruises and giving thanks that she's still breathing. And yes, maybe brooding.
She's good. Better than. Kate could never have anticipated how this would actually feel. The two of them together. It's. . . everything. She just needs to lick her wounds in private, sort herself out. And she would prefer that he miss this.
It's enough to worry her that if he is awake, waiting, knowing what she's doing, that he would doubt her. He's doubted her enough.
Kate sticks her foot out, toes interrupting the stream of screaming cold water. Lets it wash away some of the latent resentment simmering in her veins, send goose bumps racing up her calf.
He didn't trust her not to throw her life away.
She's going to prove that he can.
It's been exactly forty-eight minutes since Kate turned on the shower. The thunder of water, even through the closed door, was enough to bring him back. He reached for her.
Forty-eight minutes.
Forty-nine now.
Every minute after the first thirty spread evil little fingers of doubt through him, whispers insidious lies in his ears.
At minute fifty he has to leave the room. He staggers into sweat pants before changing his mind. If Kate's going to leave his bed, him, in the middle of the night after the world's longest shower, he should be wearing proper pants. There's no coming back from having your heart ripped out by the woman you love while wearing sweat pants. Or worse, naked.
Castle's in jeans and a t-shirt and through the door by minute fifty-two.
He has no idea where to go, moves awkwardly through his space. First the study. Then the chair by the piano. He ends up on a kitchen bar-stool, drink in hand. Orange juice. He wanted Scotch. Wanted to dull himself just a little so that when the moment comes that Kate closes the door behind herself, running full-bore into her own grave, it won't smart as bad. Scotch seems too predestined though, clichéd, so orange juice instead then.
The whole point of sitting in the kitchen and not the den or his study is so that he can't hear. Yet he strains to divine any noise whatsoever that might alert him to her shutting the water off. Nothing.
The digital display on the microwave mocks him. He turns away from the numbers. Tries to stop counting.
In the complete silence he swears he can hear the latch of the bathroom door click open.
Seconds later the smell of soap, his soap, woodsy, still kinda girly, and indulgently expensive, spreads through the loft all the way to his airspace.
Any panic sitting in his gut is momentarily superseded by the sudden possessive lust that settles there. Kate Beckett is naked in his bedroom and smells like his soap. It makes him want to get to her before she's had the chance to dry-off, to lick up beads of moisture as the slide down her body, not for the first time tonight.
But what is it that she wants? Him?
Castle sighs, throws back the last of the juice, slams the glass down perhaps a bit more dramatic than is called for. He needs to get his shit together. Stop second guessing everything.
A shiver turns into a shudder that won't stop, threatening to break her apart. Kate stretches around the spray, her hip popping, and flicks the water off. Her fingers tremble, unsteady, as she steps out of the shower and wraps the terrycloth around her shoulders, rubs up and down her arms, willing warmth.
The day suddenly weighs in her bone, hard and brittle. The edges of her control chipped away. She isn't sound, could so easily fracture completely. She shuffles to the toilet and sinks down on the closed lid; needs to sit for a moment, rest. Yeah, she needs rest. Should eat something and sleep. A shaky hollowness is roaring to life in her stomach. Kate can't remember the last time she ate anything. It might have been longer than a day.
She'll find something in the kitchen; she knows. These Castle's always have food. Weird. She'll make them both a snack and then wake Castle up. Hm, yeah, she's got ideas how to wake him up. She can see the delighted shock on his face now. The thought makes her smile, gives her some sparkling incentive.
Kate stands, holds herself still and steady for a moment, then squeezes the excess water from the ends of her hair, slips the towel down and secures it with a twist under her arms and opens the door.
Castle's gone.
Damn. So much for him missing her brooding.
Thin, dry air in the bedroom licks cold against her skin. Her clothes are still wet in a pile at the foot of the bed. Kate takes Castle's dark burgundy dress shirt off the chair, the one that he was wearing earlier, the one she took off of him. It's not particularly warm but it's dry and better than nothing, and she has no intention of going through his closet. Kate shakes it on, wincing when she raises her arms over her head, makes a mental note to take some Ibuprofen, after she has some food in her stomach. She leaves the towel on, taking whatever warmth she can get.
She finds him in the kitchen; shoulders hunched over the bar. He hears her come in, must hear her, because his spine straightens and head turns to her sound, but not far enough around to look at her. Straight and guarded.
So he's been up for a while then.
Well, she should say something that will help him understand, shouldn't she? Some kind of verbal reassurance. Because apparently her presence isn't enough. Maybe it's not.
But she's too hungry to sooth him, riding a fine edge of shaky turning sick. Surely rooting around in his crisper drawer wearing his shirt and very little else will be enough until she can stroke him with assurances that she isn't leaving.
She doesn't even bother throwing a look his way until she shuts the fridge, cold apple (she's hates cold apples, hurt her teeth, needs to remember to set one on the counter for tomorrow) and some kind of gooey French cheese in hand.
The look on his face is not the accompaniment of his posture. It's a marriage of surprised and leering. When his eyes flick down to her chest and back up she realizes just how far down the towel slipped when she bent over. Barely does it even cling to the rise of her breasts. The shirt gapes open at her sides.
Castle raises a brow, tries to affect predatory coolness but fails completely when she sees the nervous bob of his throat on a swallow.
Oh. Okay then. She's feeling much warmer all the sudden, the shakiness all but forgotten with the rush of his eyes on her. Why not?
Kate straightens, hands still full, sticks out a knee to catch on the towel, wiggles her torso just enough to loosen the tenuous bind of the cloth.
With a damp thud the bath towel pools on the hardwood around her feet.
He gasps. Castle actually gasps, when it falls.
"Hungry, Castle?"
He takes his time, drags his eyes over every inch of her not nestled in the shadows of his shirt. Feasts blatantly on her bare flesh.
"Mm, yes," he growls low, and it almost makes her forget that she meant to tease him.
"Where do you keep the crackers?"
"What?"
Kate can't help the smirk, the jolt of sexy aggressive power that floods her. The same feeling she's always gotten when she teases and he stutters, only so much stronger now that she knows clearly just how she affects him. She can feel it still swimming in her blood. But she's hungry and the teasing and arousal will just have to wait a few more minutes.
She sets the fruit and cheese on the counter, his eyes still on her body, and starting from the bottom up slowly fastens the buttons.
"Uh, no, Beckett. No buttons. Off."
"Food, Castle." He shakes his head petulantly, gaze wandering all the while. "That later. Soon. Food first."
His eyes widen slightly at the easy promise of "soon," but it doesn't deter him. He slides off the stool and comes for her. With every step closer Kate can feel her resolve crumbling to ash, can feel acutely the heat of his gaze, the sense-memory of his hands on her. She can't look at him or it's all over. Just barely does she slip away from his touch, his fingers grasping at the tail of her shirt before she can get away.
Kate flees to the pantry. Hides the flush of desire that burns vivid in her cheeks. Tries to tamp it down, get her wildly beating heart under control and not let him see. It is ridiculous, really. Hiding it. He gets her. Castle gets to her. There is no need to hide it now. Not when mere hours ago she was unabashedly breaking apart into a million pieces beneath him, because of him, his name the breath on her lips. No more need to hide how very much she wants him. She's not sure how well she was doing with that anyway.
She grabs for the first box of crackers she sees, table-water crackers, not her favorite, but goes with them anyway. Kate doesn't care what it is; can think of nothing but stuffing as little food and liquid down her throat as will sustain her so they can get back to other things.
Castle is grinning at her when she closes the pantry door. So smug, isn't he? So suddenly confidant.
It unnerves her. And damn it, she has to touch him, just for a minute, even at the risk of not being able to stop.
She tosses the box on the counter and steps into him. He doesn't move to touch her, his grin softening into a smile as he studies her face. He waits for her patiently, enjoying her reaching for him, watching her.
Kate wants to touch his skin, have his warmth seep into her bones, but if she kisses him - No. If she kisses him she won't stop. Instead she snakes her fingers up under the sleeves of his t-shirt. It's just as surprising to her now as it was the first time how thick his arms are. Solid under her fingers and so that her hands span less than half way around.
How inviting that hollow of skin and jut of bone looks right at the top of the v in his shirt. Kate lists forward until she can nudge that soft little spot with her nose.
Castle's hands skirt up to rest on the ridge of her hipbone but he doesn't pull her closer, just holds her there steady.
Her lips, those traitorous things, seek out and brush his skin. He swallows hard against her.
"Kate."
The low vibration of her name against her mouth propels her along, teeth grazing at his jaw, even as his hands are drawing her away.
The pads of his thumbs spin circles in her sides in an effort to sooth but ultimately failing. A swirling reminder of all the places he is touching her. He stops and she breathes past this clingy, blooming need. Kate scrapes her eyes open, doesn't remember closing them, gritty and sleep-deprived.
Castle is watching her intently. Too much understanding and concern in his eyes. And he doesn't even know the half of it.
"Kate?"
She lets go of him and takes a half step back; sags with the sudden flash of memory. The desperation as her obsession sucked her down, head barely above it, gasping for air. Castle's face twisted in pain with eyes brimmed with tears. That brutal goddamn stab of betrayal. Teetering on the gaping mouth of death - again. Handing in her badge.
Oh God. She quit her job.
Kate sways.
The hands on her waist tense and it's enough to steady her.
It's all going to be okay. They're going to be okay. Just as long as they're in this together.
And as long as she doesn't pass out.
"Feed me," she says.
Castle laughs relief and it washes the memories out of her head again. It leaves nothing but tired joy and hunger in her.
He keeps a fish-eye on her once deposited on a stool. She sits propped, cheek in palm, elbow slanted across the counter-top, eyes drooped, fluttering, then drifting closed.
Castle goes about spreading Camembert on crackers soon filling up a plate. Kate cants more to her side, slipping across the counter, and he's sure that she will fall in the floor any moment.
He pours a glass of water and walks around the bar to hand it to her. Tries not to be blatantly obvious when he nudges her shoulder in an attempt to right her again.
Kate drinks it slowly but in one fluid motion and hands him the empty glass before he can get back to slicing the apple. He refills it and sets it on the counter in front of her and gets an unconscious, lopsided smile in return. Watery. Exhausted and so un-Kate-like.
I almost died. And all I could think about was you.
God, he doesn't even know what happened, does he? How? How did Kate nearly die this time? He needs to know everything. Even if it leads to an argument. Even if it leads to one of them storming out. He wants to wake her up, press from her all the details about the day he missed.
He got away and I didn't care.
Got away.
Kate may say she doesn't care, but she can't mean it. The man responsible for putting a bullet through her chest got away. And he's still out there somewhere. She should care.
The realization sinks like a stone in his gut. God, he's still out there.
No, this isn't over, but Kate is alive and here. With him.
Castle drops the paring knife in the sink, in a hurry, needing to get to her, needing to wrap himself around her to feel her heart beating. The blade clatters against the stainless steel. It startles a nodding off Kate, eyes flying open, surprise and panic both.
He is by her side and arms around her before she can exhale a ragged breath, shaking.
"What is it?" she asks, her hands cradling him to her gently.
Oh. It is he who is shaking.
"Just -" Kate is present but unsteady in his arms. This is SO not the right time for this. "Shaky all the sudden. I need you to prop me up."
He gets a puff of air at his neck that feels reassuringly like a laugh and pulls away to get a look at her face.
Eyes so serious, a thunder storm gathered behind dark lashes. So much for hiding it from her. Every ounce of fear and uncertainty thrumming in his system is shining right back at him through her gaze.
Castle runs his hands up her back until he can cradle her head, fingers catching and tangling in her still wet hair. He can keep her safe. Smith - Smith will do what he promised. What he's done for the last year. Smith will keep her safe. He won't let them get to her.
Castle brushes his lips across hers, closed and soft and oh, so sweet. A prayer in the burnishment of her lips.
"There's time, Castle," she whispers against his lips. "We'll talk. We have time." With that she slips away.
Kate takes the plate of snacks in her hands, walks toward the sofa, then stops. She turns to him with a look too sleepy to pull off mischievous, but close.
"Can we eat in bed?"
Mm, yeah, "Kate, we can do whatever you want to in bed."
There it is - those clouds and sleepy haze burn away - bright shining mischief sparks in her eyes. "Oh, I'm holding you to that, Castle."