No amount of coffee, no amount of crying
No amount of whisky, no amount of wine
No, no, no, no, no,
nothing else will do
I've gotta have you, I've gotta have you
The Weepies, "Gotta Have You"
Kate slides a foot into the hot water and hisses, grits her teeth as she pushes on anyway. Sure, it burns, but it's a good feeling. Cleansing.
It washes her chest of the tears she can still feel clinging, like she hasn't shed enough, like her eyes aren't still red and puffy from her own silliness.
She carefully lowers herself into the bath, sighing in relief when her back hits the cool, white tile, and then she sinks down until the water covers her completely. She holds her breath and stays as long as she can, enjoys the soundlessness, the sharp burn on her skin, before she finally surfaces.
She draws in a long, slow breath. Calm settles over her at last, and she runs her hands through her hair, pushing it back, before she lays her warm cheek against the edge of the tub.
Her glass of wine is there, waiting for her, but she doesn't reach out right away. She closes her eyes first and takes a moment to just breathe, in and out, in and out, as she lets the memory of their fight seep out of her.
Castle pours himself another whisky, but not even the swirl of amber liquid in the glass can make him forget his depressed mood.
He shouldn't-
He sighs, sits heavily back on his kitchen stool, shoulders sagging. He stares mournfully at the whisky, doesn't touch it, their argument playing once again before his eyes.
He shouldn't have let her go. He knows this much.
It's just - she can be so very frustrating sometimes.
Honestly. He loves Kate Beckett. He does. She's one of the most remarkable people he's ever met, and she's smart and strong and soft all at once, and he never thought he'd meet a woman with such contrasting facets, such entrancing contradictions.
If only she weren't so damn stubborn.
He curls his fingers around the glass, his eyes drifting to the end of the counter where the reason for his misery rests, an innocent, cream-colored square of paper.
Stupid invitation.
Stupid party.
Seriously, what was so wrong about him not wanting to go without her? Most women would find that romantic, right? Cute. Or sweet. Or endearing.
Something like that.
...Yeah, yeah. Okay.
He hears himself.
He can't exactly blame Kate Beckett for not being most women.
The water is getting cold, and yet she can't make herself move. She's drawn her knees up, arms holding them to her chest, and she wishes desperately that she could shake that sinking lonely feeling in her heart.
She's a strong woman.
She's an independent woman.
Maybe if she just called him...?
No. No. She can do it. She can spend a whole night apart from him, knowing he's probably sulking and every bit as miserable as she is. It's his fault, right? He's the one who brought up the party in the first place.
She'll let him suffer. Not long, just - enough that he understands.
Beckett takes a long breath and then slowly unfolds herself from the water, droplets separating from her whole body. She can almost see his admiring, hungry look, feel the way he'd lean in, put his mouth to her breast-
She groans, reaches for the towel.
It's going to be a long night.
When he thinks about it, okay - maybe he could have waited a little longer before he sprung the party idea on her. Maybe it would've been smarter to keep quiet until he'd fed her a nice meal, poured her a glass of wine, soothed the hard day's work out of her.
Or at least until she'd closed the door of the loft.
He just... he was excited.
He hasn't been to a party in a long time, and Heather is famous for both her hostess skills and the enjoyment that people always get from her little get-togethers, as she calls them. It sounded like a guaranteed good time.
It sounded like fun. And of course, of course he wants Kate with him for that. She works too much, worries too much, and he wanted her to forget the case, wanted the playful Beckett to surface again.
Yeah, the idea of showing her off didn't hurt either.
Fine. He can admit to that. He can even understand why she's not comfortable with it, with being flaunted around like an object, a possession. A prize. But it's so not what it is; he's surprised she can't see that.
He's been seriously unlucky with his love life. And part of it is his fault, he won't deny it. He's not always the most discerning person, not when it comes to women, and for some reason he's had a tendency to choose partners who could only hurt him. Meredith. Sophia Turner. Gina. Even the flings he's had with bimbos or actresses - none of them really ended well. He wasn't the perfect boyfriend either, true; most of the time he wasn't even trying. He's been self-centered, yeah, and egotistical, but he's...
He's trying to change that. For Kate. Because she's worth it.
And he really just wants to show the world how lucky he is, to have found her, found someone who makes him want to be better and who expects things from him. Who never stops expecting the best of him.
He wants to show all those people whom he knows have been whispering about him, pitying him or commenting on his short-lived relationships. Because, shit, yeah. He cares.
He cares.
And he knows that's what Kate doesn't understand.
So...it wasn't only his fault.
Beckett sighs and drops the still-blank notepad that she grabbed when she realized sleep wouldn't come. She got out of bed telling herself I'll just work on the case for a little while, but really - all she can think about is Castle.
He's a parasite. A soul-eating, blood-sucking, life-altering-
Jeez, why does her apartment feel so cold without him here?
She snuggles deeper into her couch, tugging the fleece blanket around her, but it's got nothing on Rick's subtly-radiated warmth, the strong cradle of his shoulder.
Maybe she should call him. She went off at him harder than she should have, because she was so tired and he was such a child, over-excited and dependent and needy. Everything she hates.
Everything that scares her.
He was really thrilled about the party, though, she admits to herself, tilting her head back. And not just about the party - about taking her with him. About having fun together, showing her a good time. Ugh, Castle.
Why does his way of loving have to be so very different from hers?
She worries her lower lip, tangling and untangling her fingers under the blanket as she ponders.
She still wants him, doesn't she?
Even when he's being childish and needy and stubborn, when he's not even trying to understand. Even then.
She still wants his voice and his touch, wants to kiss his pouting mouth and dance her fingers across his chest as she makes him forget the words she said. The words they both said.
That's...new.
And unusual for her, who has always been ready to bolt. One foot out of the door.
Clearly her prolonged contact with Castle has caused her early descent into insanity.
Kate pushes herself off the couch, drapes the fleece over her shoulders as she heads for the kitchen counter and her phone. Might as well embrace her own madness, right?
Her thumb swipes easily over the screen, typing in the password and then finding his name, but she presses the end button before the call can even go through, certainty settling deep in her chest. His voice is not going to be enough.
Sighing at herself, she makes her way to her bedroom instead, quickly changes her sweat pants for a pair of jeans, inspecting her shirt with a critical eye. Heh. It will do. She can't be bothered to put on a bra, and honestly Castle is not going to mind.
She grabs a sweater, carefully skirting the old, grey, shapeless one for a green that brings out her eyes, and slips her feet into a pair of black boots. Okay. She's got her phone; she needs keys, some money-
What else?
A look around reassures her that she's not forgetting anything, and she flicks the lights out. A sense of excitement pulses in her stomach, pushes her to the door - ridiculous, she is ridiculous-
-and she stumbles into Castle's arms.
He sways but catches them both, his balance carefully kept, and for a second she stares, cannot believe he's actually here.
At her door.
He gives her a look, blue eyes flickering over her clothes, her shoes, probably noticing her lack of a coat, and he says with the beginnings of a smirk, "Going somewhere, Beckett?"
Fuck, she doesn't even care how satisfied he sounds. She just lunges at him, her mouth landing hard on his, arms instinctively coming up around his neck, and she kisses him until she doesn't know her name anymore, until he's panting and held tight against her.
"You're here," she breathes into his neck, her body crushed against him, wanting wanting wanting.
Insane, really.
But shit - so good.
"I'm here," he echoes darkly, stunned and aroused, voice scraping her raw.
He walks them back into her apartment.
It's dark inside but he doesn't care, can't spare a second to feel for the light switch when Kate Beckett is rubbing her hips against his in a deliciously evocative way, making those little moans at the back of her throat. He absolutely adores those little moans; those little moans could probably cure cancer, put an end to all the wars.
"Kate," he murmurs, overwhelmed, taking her mouth again.
She's warm and rich, a faint taste of wine that he finds entirely too erotic, and soon they're collapsing into the wall, his balance completely offset by the way she clings to him.
Looks like someone really missed him tonight.
The thought reminds him of the reason he's here in the first place - the reason they were apart in the first place - and he breaks from her inviting lips, feels himself shiver when her hands push his coat off his shoulders.
"Kate, I wanted to say-"
"Shhh," she whispers urgently, both scarf and coat sliding to the floor as her nimble fingers move to the hem of his shirt. She kisses his neck, his jaw, his nose, comes back to his mouth for a long drink. "Later, Castle," she breathes into his lips. "Later."
Huh. His eyes slide shut when her hands slip under his shirt, neither cold nor warm, just fresh enough to feel perfect against his skin. He struggles a little longer.
"But-"
She opens her mouth at his collarbone and bites, hard enough to make him jerk in surprise, his whole body sinking into hers in response.
"This now," she says, a little feral, and then - holy crap - she rips his shirt open.
The buttons scatter to the floor, little drops of arousal sprinkled into his blood; he retaliates by pushing her against the wall and sliding a leg between hers, hands pulling her too-thick sweater over her head.
"Oh," she moans, riding his leg as he drops the garment and presses his mouth to the side of her neck, that sensitive spot that makes her arch. He could get off just on that, the beautiful knowledge, the parts of Kate Beckett's body that make her writhe when he touches them.
He bunches up her shirt and grins to find her bare underneath, not even one of those sports bras she sometimes wears when she's exercising at home.
"You were in a hurry to leave, Beckett?" he murmurs, nudging her mouth with his, giving her a glimpse of his tongue.
She grunts, frustrated and adorable, pushes harder onto his thigh. Ah, she needs to stop that-
"Yeah," she pants, her fingers gently rubbing at his nipple before she ducks her head to press her lips there. Shit.
Her wet mouth at his skin sends jolts of electricity down his body, make him align his abdomen to the smooth heat of her, seeking. He nearly whines with the intensity of the contact.
"Hurry to come and find you," she says breathlessly, a hand sliding down.
Oh fuck.
She's found him all right.
"Kate," he wheezes, all air knocked out of him when she reaches for her own t-shirt, pulls it over her head. She leans in, breasts brushing over his chest in the most tantalizing way, and kisses his chin, his mouth.
"My bed," she manages to utter, her whole body curled so close around his. "I want you in my bed, Castle-"
"Okay, okay," he breathes into her lips, can't say no to her. He reaches under her ass to hoist her up against him, a little more bounce to the movement than he aimed for, and he feels her suddenly tighten around him, arms and legs squeezing as she whimpers against his neck, her hips shuddering.
Wow.
Wow.
Really?
"Kate?" he questions softly, tracing the curve of her ear with his mouth, running a soothing hand over her back.
She grazes his shoulder with her nails, answer or threat, he's not sure, but he heads to the bedroom anyway because his back is starting to complain and he'd rather have a fully functional body for whatever is going to happen.
Whatever just happened.
He lays her across the bed and sinks heavily onto her, grins into her still-panting mouth.
"Made you come with your pants on," he boasts softly, can't help himself.
But instead of punching him, twisting his ear or inflicting some sort of bodily harm on him, Beckett simply smiles back, wanders her tongue at his bottom lip.
"Think you can do it again with the pants off?"
She's too buzzed to sleep.
Castle has slipped into slumber next to her - he's got reason enough to be exhausted, she thinks with a fleeting smile - and she slowly rolls onto her side, brushes her mouth over his shoulder. Her thumb strokes at his bicep, her heart catching at the look on his face, slack and trusting and beautiful.
She feathers her lips over his cheek and then rests her head onto the pillow, watching him with her love curled inside her chest, warm and safe.
She was going to him and he came to her, and that-
She doesn't have the words for how right it felt, how good it is to know that he's in this as deep as she is. That they're both trying hard enough to overcome their hurt feelings and make the first move.
Maybe it shouldn't surprise her. But she's spent such a long time keeping her hopes down, expecting to be disappointed, guarding her heart. It's hard to change it all at once.
She waits a moment longer, but sleep eludes her. While her body's sated, her mind keeps flittering from thought to thought, a bird that won't rest; she quietly slides out of bed and tiptoes into the kitchen, filling a glass of water.
She drinks it in one long gulp and then shivers, naked body longing for the warmth of her bed. She grabs her notepad from the couch first, finds a pen on her desk and then hurries back into bed, keeping herself from jumping onto the mattress since Castle is asleep.
She can turn on the small lamp at her bedside table, though; he's told her before he doesn't mind the light at all. Never wakes him.
Kate buries under the sheets and covers, arranges her body around the notepad so she's got an arm free. Right.
So Mrs. Levenson said she heard a commotion downstairs at 5 in the morning, and Lanie placed the time of death between 6 and 7...
He rolls over and heaves a deep sigh, ready to sink back into sleep, when a faint, familiar sound catches his attention.
Huh. Is that...a pen?
Pen on paper.
He knits his brow, curious but still reluctant to open his eyes, and yawns.
The scratching doesn't stop.
He opens his right eye first, lets it blink fuzzily to adjust to the soft glow that illuminates the room: Kate is curled on her side, her back turned to him, and apparently she's-
writing.
Writing? At - he opens his left eye, peers at the alarm clock - at three in the morning?
He grunts and then shifts closer, nudges his nose to her neck as he takes a look at her notepad. She doesn't jump, so she must have heard him emerge, but she doesn't acknowledge him either. She just keeps scribbling away.
He tilts his head.
That looks like... ohh, the murder board. He recognizes the timeline. Right. She's working in the middle of the night. Yeah, that makes more sense.
"Solving the case without me, I see," he gruffs, distracted by the way her hair trembles with his breath.
Kate finally stops, craning her neck so he can see the sharp line of her profile, and her teeth catch on her lower lip. "Did I wake you?"
"Not really," he lies easily, brushing his mouth to her cheekbone as he glances at her sheet of paper. Looks like she's been working hard.
"You gotta a bunch of new theories, then?" he asks, nestling his body close to her heat.
A smile shimmers in her eyes. "Maybe I do," she says with a little arch of her eyebrow.
"Wanna run them by me?"
The soft tease falls off her face, replaced by a startled, tempted look.
"Really?" she says, bumping her nose into his chin. "You look like you could fall asleep again in a second."
He gives a light shrug, observes her, that lift of a smile, shadows half draped over her gorgeous face.
"You're sexy when you spin a theory for me," he confesses, his voice still dark with sleep.
Her mouth parts, that pleased little giggle in her throat - he can almost taste it - and she moves, lands on her back with her dark hair spilled over the pillow. He hums his approval.
"Okay," she says, a happy glow on her face, and then she proceeds to tell him who killed Eleanor Cameron.
He gives her his opinion, helps her work the tiny inconsistent details into her theory, and by the time they're done she thinks they might just have their murderer. Well, they won't know until they get to the precinct, of course, and get to interrogate the guy, but still-
It runs through her like a drug, the elation of figuring it out, and she softly presses her mouth to his, feels the murmur of his breath mingling with hers.
Wonderful, wonderful man, who wakes in the middle of the night because she can't sleep, and instead of grumping at her offers his help to solve the case.
"I love you," she whispers, rests her forehead to his temple. His hand comes up to stroke over her cheek, fingers curling at her neck.
"I know," he says, smiling. "I love you too, Kate."
He's such a big part of her life. And he never says anything about it, never complains, but she knows that there are things he's given up to be at the precinct with her every day, sacrifices he's made.
She can make a few of her own, can't she?
"Next time," she says, rests two fingers at the hollow of his neck. She loves his pulse, the soothing rhythm of it. "You give me a little more notice, Castle, okay? And I'll come to the party with you."
His face lights up, a little kid joy that leaves her breathless, and he beams at her. "Yeah?"
"Yeah," she promises, her mouth quirking up at him. "And the time after that, if you really want to go, and I'm too tired-"
"I'll go on my own," he says more seriously, awareness unfurling in his blue eyes.
Good. Good.
"Or maybe I'll stay home and keep you company in your bath," he adds cheerfully with a wriggle of his eyebrow. She thumps his chest and he feigns hurt, claims a kiss to soothe his bruises.
"I don't even have to be in the tub," he says excitedly when they break apart. "I can read page 105 aloud from the bedroom, my deep, male, entrancing voice wrapping around you from a distance, charming you away from your bath-"
"Nothing can charm me away from my bath," she laughs, reaching away to turn off the light. "But sure, Rick. Go ahead and try."
"I can already picture the scene: you, naked, water glistening all over your body, walking through the bedroom door with those dark, dark eyes-"
"Picture in silence, Castle. Some of us are trying to sleep out here."
"Like a mermaid come out of the sea, drawn from the waves by the call of my voice-"
"Castle."
"-tail turned into human legs by the sheer force of your love-"
Fine then. She feels for the soft skin of his side and then pinches sharply, making him squeak like a girl as his body jerks away.
"Beckett!"
"You asked for it."
He moans something about kissing it better, but she's left her fingers at his skin, flirting with his ribs, so she just strokes them along his side, listens to his breathing slowly settle down.
"Sleep, Castle," she says, her mouth light over the warm curve of his shoulder. And she follows her own advice.