Based on Stana's instagram pic of her staring out the window in Paris. Evan wanted a fic, I did my best to give her a fic. If this seems familiar to you, it's because it's been uploaded to Tumblr.
Richard Castle loves breakfast. It's the most important meal of the day after all. He's usually all for the bacon, eggs, pancakes, and the smorlette if it's just him and Beckett at home. He makes an effort with the meal, tries to include all the food groups, especially since it's the only meal he knows for sure Beckett will have, if he's not around the precinct to make sure she eats.
But today breakfast just depresses him.
He sits alone in the hotel restaurant, solitary among the beautiful Parisian decor, a lone figure in the corner of the large room while the other patrons buzz around him with excitement. He has a crepe on his plate, drowning in chocolate sauce. He can almost hear Beckett's disapproval in his ear, lecturing him about having so much sugar early in the morning.
Pursing his lips and sighing, he drops his knife and fork in favor of dragging a slow sip of coffee from the mug in front of him. The coffee is good, but the taste reminds him of Beckett, and how much he misses his wife, misses hearing her laughter in the morning as he blows raspberries against her skin to wake her up. His fingers itch to run through her hair, detangling it as she lies on top of him, sated and warm.
Ugh.
It's only been two weeks into the month long European leg of his book tour and he's already over it. They talk daily, managing the time differences fairly well due to their already abnormal sleep patterns, squeezing in Skype sessions whenever they can, but it's not enough.
He wants to drown in the scent of cherries and vanilla that he's come to associate with her, cuddle with her in the morning, hold her close at the end of the day until they drift off to sleep. Unfortunately he has another fifteen days until the tour's over and he groans at the thought. Fifteen days until he can feel her skin, satin smooth against his. Fifteen days until he can press his lips to hers again and taste her on his tongue.
Damn. He needs to hear her voice again.
His appetite's ruined now; he can't stomach the rest of the crepe thinking about Beckett at the loft, alone in their bed getting ready for sleep. The chair screeches against the floor as he pushes it back, the couple at the next table wincing as the sound echoes around them.
Castle sends the pair an apologetic smile as he scribbles his room number on the slip on the table. He's eager to leave, the possibility of catching Beckett for a quick chat before she settles in for the night spurring him on. He'll tell her about the crepe and how he didn't finish it because he missed her too much. She'll scoff, pretend to be unaffected and call him a sap - but she'll have a shy smile on her face, betraying just how much she actually loves his love drunk musings.
He practically jogs to his door, skidding to a halt outside his room as he pulls out his phone, thumb about to hit speed dial when he swipes the key across the magnetic panel. Holding the phone to his ear, he grumbles as he trips over something in the semi-darkness. He tosses his keycard onto the bed and hums in anticipation, dial tone clicking in his ear as the call connects.
What the-
He'd been so preoccupied with calling his wife that he hadn't noticed-
She's right there.
Mouth hanging open, his hand falls away from his ear, phone clattering on the ground as he gasps in surprise.
His wife, his gorgeous wife is standing in front of the wide windows in nothing but a giant silk shirt (when did he pack that?), her back to him, eyes looking out onto the streets of Paris. She's collected her hair in a loose bun on top of her head and she's barefoot, looking very much at home in his hotel room. She's pointedly ignoring him and his heart races, a million and one thoughts flying through his mind as he absorbs the image before him.
The morning sun shining through the window casts shadows against her silhouette, accentuating the lithe line of her body, the play of dark and light dancing across the soft material of his shirt. She looks like she's part of a goddamn modern art portrait and his chest constricts with love, knees almost buckling with the weight of how much he adores her.
Seconds pass with him just staring at her in disbelief until his brain kicks into gear. Why the hell isn't he holding her yet? He stumbles across the room toward his wife, drawn to her like a moth to a flame.
"Kate," he growls, enveloping her in a tight hug from behind when he reaches her, holding her tight against him so there's no space between her back and his chest. She's warm and pliant in his arms, melting into his embrace naturally, resting her head against his cheek as they sway on the spot.
"Was gonna send a hunting party out for you soon," Beckett says, words muffled as she speaks into his skin, lips brushing across his jaw. "Thought I could surprise you in bed."
Castle groans, images of her creeping into his bed in the wee hours of the morning, slipping between the sheets to wake him up. Oh wow, why had he decided on an early breakfast today? He could have had her-
God.
He spins her around in his arms, drags a palm up to cup her cheek and descends upon her lips. They both gasp at the contact, muted exclamations of pleasure dissipating into the air with each press of flesh against flesh. He feels her smile, her lips parting as she sucks and nibbles, teeth grazing the inside of his bottom lip. Castle pants into her mouth, tongue slicking in to touch hers. He grunts as she pushes against him, hands around his waist as she pulls him closer, fingers digging into the flesh of his lower back.
Being around Beckett has always been all-consuming; an eternal thread of love, need and want that's been present since the first time he laid eyes on her. He'd assumed that once they finally got together, and later, married, he'd be better at controlling his desire, but he'd been wrong.
If anything, the idea that the miracle of a woman - currently standing before him, kissing him without abandon in nothing but a silk shirt - had voluntarily promised to love him and spend the rest of her life with him only served to magnify his feelings for her. Two weeks without this and he's already losing it, how did ever think he'd be able to last an entire month?
He's such an idiot.
He steps back, flushed and entirely aroused and threads his fingers through her long locks. He tilts her head up, marvels not for the first time at just how much shorter she is when she's barefoot, and leans in for one last chaste kiss.
"This is a surprise."
Beckett laughs - the sound he'd been yearning for all morning - and growls, playful and full of mirth. She inches up on her tiptoes and swipes her teeth along the bottom of his jaw, scraping against the shadow of stubble he's yet to shave off for the day.
"Couldn't stay away from my ruggedly handsome husband," she murmurs. "Took a personal day, used my brand new Mrs. Castle credit card and caught the red-eye straight to you. Good surprise?"
His heart stumbles at the tail end of her sentence, picking up on the uncertainty that laces her words. He wants to take it away, all the doubt that still lingers, hiding behind the clear green of her eyes. She flew to Paris for him - god, how could she even think that he'd be-
What? Disappointed? God, no-
"Oh, Kate, good surprise. Definitely good surprise. The best one, even," he says as he peppers kisses along her cheek, follows the curve of her cheekbone to the tip of her nose. "And I love you so much for it."
She winks at him, flirty and teasing, traces of her earlier doubt gone for now. Squirming out of his grasp, she walks to the still unmade California King bed in the middle of the room. Castle gulps, body reorienting as she moves, like the earth around the sun, caught in her gravity and he never wants to leave.
Beckett climbs onto the bed, turns around to face him as she kneels on the blankets. Never losing eye contact, in one swift movement she pulls the silk shirt over her head, letting it fall in a heap on the floor.
"Show me how much you love me, Castle."
They make it out of the hotel room two hours later, satisfied, loose-limbed and utterly love drunk. Beckett's stomach had rumbled, noisily, during their third round and through fits of giggles and embarrassment, they'd agreed to venture out into the city for food before he had to leave for the first of his tour events.
The sun's shining, bright but not overly hot and he's eternally grateful for the good weather because it means he gets to see her in a loose flowing sundress. The material falls just above her knees, brushing against her smooth skin with every stride, toned calves winking in and out of his line of sight as her heels click rhythmically against the asphalt. He follows the strong line of her muscles up, lands on the curve of her ass, partially hidden under the flare of her dress.
Oh, he's aroused again. Two weeks without her really did a number to him.
"I know what you're doing back there, stud."
Castle blinks and whips his head up, coming face to face with her raised eyebrows, a smirk on her lips as she stands with her hands on her hips a few paces away. He clears his throat and takes bigger steps, snagging her hand as he catches up to her.
"I was only doing what I do best. Watching your back," he says with mock innocence, kissing her temple as she leans into his side.
"You're a perve," she mutters, but there's no bite to her words and he's too happy to care.
They arrive at a bakery, quaint little shop bustling with activity. He gestures at the small establishment and speaks with excitement. "Let's go in here! I'm sure we'll find something to satisfy your hunger."
Beckett hums in agreement and nods, giving the small shop a quick once over. Castle pushes the door open, waves her through, gentleman that he is and lets it swing shut as he enters. The moment he steps into the bakery, he's assaulted by the rich aroma of fresh bread; warm and sweet, with a faint hint of butter and cheese.
Dear god, he's in heaven.
Castle crowds behind Beckett, breathes in excitement at the rows and rows of bread and pastries on display and then-
Huh, he doesn't know what they are. The little description cards are in French, 'z's and 'c's and 's's with accents everywhere and his brain hurts just trying to read them.
"Beckett, I don't…can't read French. What do these say? Which one has chocolate in it? Oh! Cheese! And maybe-"
Beckett silences him with a kiss, chuckling as she pulls away. "I thought you already had breakfast?"
He huffs as he remembers the half eaten crepe. "I didn't finish it. I missed you too much."
"Oh, please," she responds, and expected, gifts him with an exaggerated roll of her eyes. "Stop being a dork, Castle. This one has chocolate and custard, if you want it."
Beckett turns away and starts conversing with the young girl behind the counter, the foreign language flowing easily from her tongue, beautiful and exotic. His attention is diverted from the food, can't concentrate on anything but her voice and cheery lilt of her words as she speaks.
He catches bits and pieces of their conversation, manages to translate a few of the words flying back and forth between them. 'Big' and 'clumsy', and maybe 'stupid', oh wait, hang on. At this point Beckett turns to him, a sly smile on her face, and the young girl blushes as she giggles.
Frowning, he inches closer and rests his chin on her shoulder, hands closing around her small waist as he whispers, "What are you talking about? Me? Are you being mean, Beckett? Tell me what you're saying."
"Should have paid more attention when Alexis was trying to teach you, huh?" She elbows him, making him step back. She turns around and shoves a paper bag at him, a few loaves of bread peeking out over the top. When did she even do that? Wow, ninja.
He doesn't get a chance to look into the bag before she's bidding goodbye to the girl, waving pleasantly as she leads him out of the bakery.
"Beckett, what did we get? What did you talk about?"
"Nothing that concerns you, babe. C'mon," Beckett laughs him off and slips her hand into the crook of his elbow, fingers caressing his bicep. "We can sit over there."
Castle grumbles, not at all amused at her casual avoidance of his question, but lets her tug him to a quiet bench under a tree, shaded from the sun.
They eat in comfortable silence, exchanging bites with each other. He pesters her about her conversation - not because he actually wants to know, he doesn't care, really, but because she's cute when she's annoyed, lips pursed, eyebrows angled downwards.
"I told her you were an annoying pervert, if you really want to know," she says eventually, raising her eyebrows as if she's daring him to prove her wrong. "And that I'm leaving you for the baker who made these croissants, mm, god this is amazing."
He pretends to be affronted, starts to protest but gets distracted by her tongue darting out to lick the remnants of chocolate on the edge of her mouth. He follows the slow sweep of her tongue across her lips, entranced, and leans in for a kiss.
He detects hints of chocolate and butter on her tongue, adding to the already sinful taste of her and it threatens to drown him. She groans into him and he feels her fingers trail up his neck, fluttering along his pulse point as she drags him in for a deeper kiss.
Ha, she can laugh all she wants about his lack of skill in speaking French, but there is no way she can deny just how good he is at French kissing.
They part ways at the bookstore after he fails to convince her to stay for the signing. His hand feels empty without hers to hold, after almost an hour of having her fingers twined with his as they strolled through the streets of Paris. He'd pleaded with her, begged for her to stay but she'd yawned and his heart melted, realising that her being there with him right at that moment meant she'd barely had any sleep the night before.
So he'd left her with one final kiss, wrapped her in a brief hug and bid her goodbye before preparing himself for the day.
Many hours, and even more fans later, as his hand throbs and threatens to cramp up, he packs up for the day and darts out the door. His messenger bag collides with the back of his thighs as he weaves in and out of the evening crowd, barely taking any notice of the Parisian night, solely focused on getting back to his hotel - to his wife.
Part of him feels guilty because he knows he hasn't given his fans his full attention all day. He's smiled, signed books, even posed for a few photographs but his mind keeps wandering back to Beckett and counting down the seconds until he can have her in his arms again.
Finally arriving at his room, he smashes the key card onto the reader, not bothering to swipe it and yanks the handle down, pushing the door open.
He's immediately arrested by the sight before him. She's curled up on the armchair in the corner of the room, feet up, head bowed down, engrossed in a thick book. It's dark, save for the illumination from the single lamp next to her, and she looks like an angel, bathed in shimmering yellow and white - almost like she's glowing.
His bag slips off his shoulders, thuds on the ground and he walks in her direction, once again falling into her orbit, drawn to her.
His shadow falls over her frame when he approaches, and she looks up from her book, a smile blooming across her features. His heart skitters, clenches at the easy grin, still ever so captivated by her despite having been together for so long.
"You're back," Beckett murmurs, sliding the book onto the floor as she reaches up to pull him down to her.
They kiss as he climbs up to join her on the chair, his knees sinking deeper into the armchair, hands braced on the back. Her tongue probes between his lips and he allows her entry, happy to let her have her way with him. So maybe she missed him as much as he missed her too. She groans into him and he sighs, arms starting to ache from holding himself upright.
"I missed you," he whispers as they part. He unfolds himself and steps back onto the ground, holding his hand out to help her up. "Did you have a good day?"
"Slept for most of it really, went to the Louvre, walked along the Seine. So, pretty quiet. Yours? Signed many boobs today?"
He chortles at the quirk of her eyebrow and leers at her. "Wouldn't you like to know," he teases as he steps into her personal space, traps her between his body and the foot of the bed. He relents when she narrows her eyes at him. "No boobs, Beckett. No more boobs, ever."
"But if you want, I'll make an exception, just for you. Right now." Castle's hands slip under the loose shirt, the pads of his fingers sliding over the smooth skin of her lower back and upwards, thumbs caressing the underside of her breasts. He feels her shiver, tremors rippling down her spine and he grins. "Want my autograph, Beckett?"
She laughs, breathless, and he knows from experience that he's getting to her. She doesn't respond to his question but the lack of denial is an answer in itself. Castle grunts, tightens his hold on her and lifts, backing her over the bed and laying her on the sheets, climbing up with her.
Her legs wrap around the back of his thighs, anchoring him to her and he exhales at the contact. Beckett toys with his hair, massaging his scalp the way he likes it, and he relaxes into her embrace.
"How'd you get by with the language? Did you write things in French, muddle your way through conversations with your fans?"
"I don't muddle my way through anything, Beckett. Thank you very much." His tongue dips into the hollow of her collarbone, licks a path down her skin just above her shirt. "But it was fine. Wrote in English. Pretended to understand the rest."
Beckett laughs as her fingers dip into the waistband of his jeans. He bucks into her, can't control the involuntary shudder that travels through him as her nails dig into his ass. He's about to lose it, wants to take her right there, slide into her heat and make love to her until the sunrise peeks over the Parisian skyline.
He starts undressing her, sliding the soft material of her shirt off her body as his hands map the skin that's slowly being revealed to him. He marvels at the golden brown that contrasts with the stark white bedding; sunkissed, he thinks, from her day wandering around Paris. He's so preoccupied that he doesn't hear her the first time she speaks, quiet among the rustling of the sheets on the bed.
He looks up at her, jaw resting on the flat plane of her stomach, eyes blinking in question. "Whaddya say?"
She winks at him, undulating beneath him and sinks her fingers into his hair. "Je t'aime, Castle."
Oh, oh that he knows. He may be hopeless with the French language, had stumbled through most of his day with the bare minimum, but he does recognize the pair of syllables that just left her lips, exotic and arousing. He smiles, nuzzles her stomach with the tip of his nose and elbow walks his way up to meet her lips.
The kiss is sloppy, teeth nibbling her bottom lip as he cradles her cheeks in his hand. "Je t'aime too, Beckett.
Thanks for reading!
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