a/n: Scene insert for 5x01, "After the Storm." You'll know where it goes.
Credits to ournorthstars on tumblr whose tags inspired this little piece.
Ataraxia
(n) calmness or peace of mind; emotional tranquility
She flips the switch and the percolator starts brewing, the hiss and murmur and gurgling the only sounds that ripple through the stretched, empty silence of the loft. Kate fiddles with the hem of his shirt, her toes getting chilled against the cold tile in the kitchen, and she buries her nose into the collar, smells laundry detergent and the lingering musk of his scent, so unique to her now as it frissons through her blood, her insides fluttering with the delectable memories of their night together.
She abandons her post by the coffee maker, tiptoes back into his office to glance through the open bedroom door. She finds him still slumped into the mattress, arms stretched wide with exhaustion. She wells with warmth, her cheeks flushing and, smiling at the sight before her, she lets her eyes roam for long moments. Takes in his messy hair, still standing up wild from when she buried her fingers in the strands as his face vanished between her thighs. The morning stubble that blooms across his chin, her skin still prickling in various places at the phantom memory of his touch. The steady rise and fall of his chest, so peaceful - comforting after the tumultuous past days and the crescendo of last night.
She's glad he's able to rest; both the exertion and the emotions had taken a toll on him that she can still see brushed in a blueish tint beneath his eyes. Kate knows she should have more rest as well but instead she woke early to the sun kissing her eyelids at an unfamiliar angle, and her body still humming with restless energy, alive and vibrant with need.
She digs her toes hard against the hardwood floor, her hands balled to fist as she stops herself from tackling him awake so she sets off to wander his office instead, quietly browsing his space. It's familiar and yet not at all; she's been here before, in his home, his office, yet today everything feels brand-new, gleams with the bright spark of possibility. Her eyes travel the length of the shelves, browsing his extensive library. It's no surprise that he's well-read or that his collection is eclectic; the depths of his intellect have been a constant delight to her from the moment he'd let her see beyond the blatant façade of frivolous man-child and smarmy playboy he'd like to put on for the world. Sometimes it's hard to grasp how many years she's known him already, how well she's come to know him; at others she can hardly recall the details of her life B. C. - Before Castle.
The shelves are organized as well as a library and she rests in front of the crime novels, lets her eyes delight at Chesterton's works nestled next to the Doyle's, the stretch of Poe's work like she'd expected, and Bonfiglioni and Elroy and Hammett. A whole shelf just for the works of Georges Simenon. Dickens and Christie, Dürrenmatt and Chandler and Highsmith and Larsson, endless lines that promise depth and brilliance and hours of reading pleasure. She's excited at the prospect of tugging them from the shelf, one by one, maybe ask him for his favorites and then curl up on the couch with one of them, her feet resting on his lap while the fireplace roars, bathes his home with golden light. Her face flushes, her heart stumbling in her chest because she's thoroughly getting ahead of herself, they haven't even talked about- anything, really, and yet she can't imagine it any other way. It's like she's been infused with happiness, feels elated and euphoric and at peace all at once - or maybe she's just finally set herself free from the distress and worry that's been ruling her life for so long, allowed herself to feel it, deeply and wholly.
Up high on the top shelf the book spines look old and worn and she's curious what treasures he's collected over the years, if there's first editions or wonderfully personal dedications hidden beneath the covers, written with a fountain pen or even a feather in large, flowing letters. She looks around for a step ladder but when she comes up empty, she slides over one of the thick book stacks that are sitting on the floor, and lines the spines up neatly. Climbing onto the stack, she rises to her tiptoes to stretch high enough to see; tall though she is, she still has to lengthen her spine, feels the tear at her sore muscles and the bruises to her bones, breathes through it.
The bottom seam of his shirt caresses her thighs, tries to climb up over her butt cheeks and she grins to herself as she imagines the slack-jawed look on Castle's face if he found her just now. Heat slices through her, spears deep into her midsection as she envisions his eyes darkening with want, decisive steps that'd carry him to her, his large hands roaming up the back of her thighs, his lips...
The bedding rustles in the bedroom, the coffee maker chooses this same moment to click off, and she jumps off the book stack, hurrying for the kitchen. There'll be time for the books later, time to curl up, delight in the words and in his presence by her side. All the time in the world.
Right now all she wants is to bring him a cup of coffee when he wakes up on their first morning together. Just to see the smile on his face.
a/n: Visit my tumblr to see the tags and the image that served as inspiration: nic6879
Thank you for reading!