A/N: I found out how much this song fits my favourite pair by accident (shuffle is an amazing thing) and then when I looked at the lyrics a whole story formed in my head within ten minutes! I know I shouldn't post the lyrics, but I am paying homage to her and they are vital as each italicised line inspired the paragraph below it and gives a whole new meaning to the phrase.
Disclaimer: I do not own anything.
One and Only - Adele
You've been on my mind
Katherine Beckett is haunted. Haunted by those three little words he said. The words from the moments she has told him she couldn't remember. The words echo through her mind every time she is alone. The time at her father's cabin had been self-induced torture. But she had needed that time to reduce her reaction to those words. Sure she had needed time to recuperate from her surgery and the fatigue her mother's case had weighed against her chest, but his words had taken up most of her time. Although, she knows they shouldn't have, to anyone else (someone more deserving she often thinks) it would have been simple.
I grow fonder every day
Each time she considers the way he is patiently waiting, at least in the past few weeks, she reaches the same conclusion. She is ready. But she is stuck. She can't possibly just bring it up.
Lose myself in time
Each time an opportunity presents itself it falls by the way side. She knows she is taking too long. She won't confess that she heard him, that she lied. That would be too much, too cruel and would damage that man in a way he should never be damaged – especially not by someone who he loves, who loves him. Yeah, she loves him. She's been dancing around the specific word (of course), but it pops into her thoughts more often now. A sign too much time has passed, too much time to digest the truth.
Just thinking of your face
Telling him she heard would absolutely shatter him. She would sink him into a darkness only she could pull him out of, and right now she isn't ready to have to haul him up and dust him off, especially if she is the one to have caused such wounds. But she knows how he would react if she can find the right time, the right place, the right moment to show him (she can't use words, they are his domain). The look she can imagine crossing his face gracing his features makes her whole.
God only knows, why it's taken me so long
She doesn't really know why the thought of telling him how she feels is suddenly so healing. Maybe it is time; maybe it is just that she is sick of healing herself alone. He would be there for her, of course, he is already there. But if she were to show him, then he would never allow her to leave his side. He would be attentive and nurturing as long as she would let him, as much as she could stand. Of course she wouldn't let him smother her (that wouldn't do either of them any good), but she would let him support her, hold her upright when she can't hold herself. He already does those things, but he doesn't receive as much credit as he deserves, as much gratitude as she can offer.
To let my doubts go
She needs to let him in. They both need her to let him in. she had been wrong. She had never been so wrong about something before. She had insisted on maintaining her independence during her time of crisis. Of course she had dragged herself through it, like always. But she shouldn't have. She should have stayed nearby, or at least in contact with him, and used him when she needed a friend.
You're the only one that I want
She had held her phone in her hand for hours, just starring at his number splashed across the screen. Of course she had been so far from cell service she would have had to drive an hour to find some, but she had considered it. On multiple occasions she had examined the landscape, seeking the most likely spot. Even now when his number flashes across her screen, whether he is calling or she is dialling, it puts a hitch in her breath, a feeling in her throat. She knows she pushed him when she left, he had proved that to her upon return. But of course he hadn't stayed angry long. He wasn't that person. He was too amazing, too enthralled with her for that. Maybe she had been wrong to take advantage of it, but at the time she had thought space had been her best option, allow herself to heal.
I don't know why I'm so scared, I've been here before
Richard Castle had been a womaniser. He knew he had a history and a tainted reputation. His playboy ways had been an exaggeration, but he had sought a string of women due to boredom and convenience. But the reputation took on a life of its own, and he didn't fight it. He had had too much time on his hands, too much money to burn, too many invitations to events that would fill his empty nights. But that had changed. Not only had his work consulting with the NYPD given him something to fill his days, it had given him someone to fill his mind, someone extraordinary for him to unravel and understand. She didn't let him very often, but when she did he didn't want to blow it. She had a mystery about her, a realism to her he had never seen in another human being, let alone a woman he had been with. But she was different, she was it and that scared him shitless. He could not hurt her, he simply refused to.
Every feeling, every word, I've imagined it all
He had written books on her but he doesn't think he understands her properly. There are more layers to Kate Beckett, more complexities, than anyone could ever imagine. He has unwrapped more of her, he suspects, than anyone else who has ever known her. He knows it infuriated her at first, but now he knows that she relishes it. She enjoys that she is not the only one to shoulder her burdens; he would never make her suffer alone.
You'll never know if you never try
He keeps pushing forward. He does it in small ways, hoping not to scare her away forever. But he is desperately showing her he will be everything she needs and more, that she should give into her feelings, admit them, if only just to herself. It will open her up to him and he will seek to never disappoint her, try to amaze her every day. He already tries both of them, but while she shuts him out, he won't succeed.
To forgive your past and simply be mine
She shuts him out because she is damaged, he knows that. That damage makes her who she is, she will never be truly healed. Her mother is dead, under any circumstance that damages a daughter, but under these circumstances, it would have destroyed her, it almost did. He won't let her let it destroy her again. He can't lose her, not now, not ever. To know she no longer walks the face of this planet would reduce his will to live ten-fold. Of course his daughter then would be scarred because she would lose a part of her father. Just like Kate lost part of her father with her mother. He can never let that happen.
I dare you to let me be your, your one and only
She has fought her own battles so long he isn't sure she will let him help. Sure he offers her help when she needs it, in any way he can (even if it isn't him who can help). He can always find a way to help, even if it is to distract her with coffee and a smile. Last time she had been upset, he still doesn't know exactly what happened, she called him and said his name through a sob. The only other word she had given him was home and he had gone straight there, dropped everything because she needed him. He would have dropped everything anyway, but she had sought him out in a time of need. That was something he would never forget, something he urged her to repeat. He offered himself as a place of solace, refuge from whatever she wanted, more often now. Suggested she call if she needs anything, wants to talk. To show her it is mutual he calls her more often now, telling her he can't sleep because he is haunted by some image of the day. A victim beaten and murdered, a suspect he doesn't understand, a family member battered and broken by the actions of others. He lets her in the hope she will do the same, and more often than not she confesses she is glad he called, she is thinking the same things.
I promise I'm worthy, to hold in your arms
It is nights like those where he lies in bed and stares at his phone, as if it is more than a device which projects her voice into his ear. He supposes it is, it is her lying beside him, speaking softly in his ear. She is always with him, her burdens carried as his own. He would carry her if he had to. He knows in the past he has held the pieces of her together for a brief moment while she collected her thoughts, licked her wounds, decided her course of action, then forged ahead, without him. Those moments grow longer each time. He isn't sure if it is her residing to the help he offers or if it is her too damaged, too tired to keep going.
So come on and give me the chance
He takes those opportunities, proving himself. He just needs her to step back, let him climb over her wall and drop into her refuge with her. He can't tear down the walls and leave her exposed and broken, that would do irreparable damage. But he sure as hell will climb over them, burrow under them, pop up when she least expects it. She'll have warning, see him dropping in from above, or watch the ground crumble beneath her as he digs. But he won't let her stop him, not anymore. Then they will navigate an escape together, for his sanity as much as her own.
To prove I am the one who can
He will get her out of this, she will be who she always should have become. Of course her mother's murder hasn't destroyed her completely, but it has hindered her ability to truly be happy. He had worked that out long ago, even told her in his fit of range before she was shot. She had tried and failed too many times, she wasn't a very good performer. She wasn't someone who smiled her way through and pretended she wanted something, at least never for very long. She is someone who has been, for too long, content with her loneliness, resigned herself to being alone, to never being happy. But he will make her happy.
Walk that mile until the end starts
He would drop anything to make her smile. When she smiles honestly she floors him, knocks him over like a baseball bat to the head. When he met her, those smiles didn't exist, or hadn't for a long time, he knows he has given her that. He will give her anything she could ever want. She doesn't ask for much, but when she does, he obliges.
If I've been on your mind
When he tells her he is worried after they wrap up the case, that if she needs to, or wants to, she can call. His concern never fails to touch her, the very fact he considers her in his life is astounding. But she doesn't want to call. She wants to have him there during the conversation. She wants to start a new pattern. She wants to not simply lie in bed and listen to his voice wrap herself around it, she wants to confess her feelings then wrap herself in his arms as thanks, have him kiss the side of her head and squeeze her tighter. She knows he will when she asks. How could he refuse a step in the right direction?
You hang on every word I say
She calls him, like normal, even lies in her bed. "I need to talk. The door is unlocked," are all she has to say. She knows under other circumstances he would chastise her for leaving her door unlocked, but really what is going to happen, her piece is in her bedside table. If she hears footfalls other than his own she could put a bullet through their brain before they even open the door fully and see her. When he comes in he calls a soft hello, assuring her it is him. She doesn't respond, just rolls over in her bed, to face the door. "This time I needed you here," she confesses softly as he sinks onto her bed, resting against the headboard, crossing his ankles. He doesn't speak until she's finished and even then all he does is murmur into her hair muffled words which she can't hear over his beating heart, her head against his chest. "Thank you for coming," she says when her breathing evens out again.
"Anytime," he kisses her temple. "I better go," he says, lingering a second longer than necessary, his lips against her skin. "I'll see you tomorrow," he promises as he untangles himself from her. It is unspoken that he will lock the door behind him, turn the deadbolt and secure her into her apartment.
Lose yourself in time at the mention of my name
She has seen, on countless occasions, the moment she walks into a room he stops. Even if he is deep in conversation he pauses for a millisecond. She used to think it was his panic that he was encroaching on her space, on her investigation. Now it is him taking stock, checking up on her when he thinks she doesn't realise. He is a fool. Of course she realises, she is trained to pick up on people paying more attention than they should but acting as though they aren't. When Esposito nods and greets her, "Beckett" as she strolls across the bullpen toward him (beckoning her over) one afternoon she doesn't miss Castle crane his neck from behind the coffee machine, peaking out at her as per usual. She ignores him (as always) letting him have his moment, until he swears and a loud hiss is heard. They all turn to look, find he has burnt himself on the steamer – too distracted, he has his hand in his mouth and uses his other to wave their curious gazes away. But she knows she did something to cause it, she doesn't feel bad, it serves him right.
Will I ever know how it feels to hold you close?
She curses herself, tossing and turning, twisting the sheets around her legs. But none of it helps sleep come any quicker. She feels terrible. She knows he understands it was the case that got to her not him. At least she hopes he understands. She had yelled at him, not atypical, but he had called wanting to talk and she had told him she needed to be alone, she wanted time to think. She didn't really, she wanted to stop thinking, to stop reliving the day. But she couldn't.
"You're door is locked," she says when he answers the phone. When he opens it to her she crashes against him, burying herself against his chest. They sit at opposite ends of the couch, regarding one another as each speaks, it isn't awkward, it is space they need.
And have you tell me whichever road I choose you'll go
She needs him to verbalise it. To tell her he is waiting for her, she needs his words more than he will ever understand, if she is ready for them or not. He does as she leaves. He confesses he is glad she turned up on his doorstep in the middle of the night. "Next time you want to be alone I'll leave the door unlocked," he says teasingly. But she knows he means it, she knows he isn't pressuring her. He is just offering that next time she needs to be alone to centre herself, he will give her the chance to come and seek solace in his arms, in his presence when she is finished.
I don't know why I'm scared 'cause I've been here before
The next time she needs to be alone she runs until she can't stand, can't breathe and can't feel anything but pain. She doesn't call this time, he knows she's coming. Plus it's not late enough for him to be in bed, she knows he sits up for hours and writes, especially after a case like this one. "You okay?" he asks when she crashes against his chest again, she doesn't fight the sobs, simply letting them rake through her body.
She shakes her head against his chest and feels him tighter his grip on her, supporting her.
"This case was different. It wasn't the worst or cruellest act I've ever seen but it was so savage," she says as her body stills. Her tank top still soaked with sweat and now his t-shirt is wet from her tears. She knows he understands and that terrifies her today.
Every feeling, every word, I've imagined it all
She had gone back to her apartment after her run, drunk some water and paced back and forth, weaving amongst the furniture, through each room. She had stopped in front of her keys, then realised what she had been searching for. She had spent the drive over, the elevator ride up to his floor considering what he would say when he saw the sight of her, dripping with sweat, unable to stay still (even in the confines the car and elevator). She had only stilled once she had been in his arms. She had thought she would pace through the rooms of his loft, talk it out with him as she wore down the rug in his study, but she hadn't even progressed past the threshold, neither of them had even closed the door.
She is clinging to him like a lifeline. She has been held against him like this on several other occasions, but none of them like this, none of them with no way out other than the truth. She needs him to stay with her, to stay with him really (she is after all in his home).
You'll never know if you never try
She isn't sure how long it's been, but when he steps forward, back toward the door, she goes with him. Obviously he is aware it is open. She clings to him tighter, afraid she will topple over and irrationally afraid he wants her to go, to leave. But he doesn't, he swings the door closed and turns the deadbolt, holding her close the entire time, manoeuvring her as if they are doing some kind of dance, she supposes they are. Her body is still flush against his, his arm never ceasing to crush her against him, the other only darts away the split second it takes him to shut and lock that door. Then he is manoeuvring her again, then he drops onto the couch, tugging her down with him, splaying her across himself, letting her stay against his chest. When he runs his fingers through her hair, tucks her head against his neck, murmurs into her hair she realises she hasn't stopped crying. It is as though this is the last straw on that poor camel's back. She is feeling the weight of everything as it crushes her, at least this time she is being crushed against him.
To forgive your past and simply be mine
When it finally stops strangling her, she doesn't move from his embrace, he eased the soothing pressure of his arms when the sobs had stopped wracking her body and simply gave way to stifled whimpers. She had worn herself out, physically she was dead weight against his chest but mentally her mind would not slow, choosing to kick into high gear the second his grip had loosened, assaulting her senses with the world around. She is so grateful he understands her need for silence, she knows it is eating at him that he can't see her face to just study her eyes to get his answers. He keeps twitching his head against the top of her head, trying to sneak a peek. She isn't ready yet, she needs a few more minutes.
She knows she won't be the first woman to ever cling to him like this, and she won't be the last either. He is a father, right now she is in his daughter's territory. Her reminder of his daughter causes her to shift against his chest a little, looking around the room for the teenager. She never expected her to be present, sure she would have ducked upstairs at the greeting at the door, but she needed to be certain.
He misunderstands her movements as panic. Kissing her head and draws her tight against him once again. It is then she realises, she once told him she was a one and done type of girl. Of course she still is, that won't change. But she wonders if he remembers this fact. Who is she kidding, of course he would remember, he could probably quote the things she has said to him the past few years. But she needs to be 'one and done' with someone who will be done. She wonders if he is done, he doesn't have her just yet, but he is teetering so close to the edge that he has her.
I dare you to let me be your, your one and only
She may have been hurt by her mother's death, but she knows his divorces changed him. Altered his perceptions on love. The first time he had had Alexis to distract him, she had needed him so he had focused on his daughter, but the second time she had been a bit older and resented him a little for marrying Gina in the first place. Neither woman had been right, he had admitted that to her once, that he had married Gina after a long term relationship mainly in an attempt to provide Alexis a steady home-life. He had admitted that backfired. She can't help but wonder, curled against his chest, what Alexis' reaction would be to them becoming involved (of course she has debated this thought, one reason she has held off – she can't hurt them both), to waking up finding Kate and her father eating breakfast in her kitchen, or watching a DVD in her lounge room. While she is sure the girl wouldn't be completely repulsed by the idea, she isn't sure she would be thrilled. Maybe with time, she knows she would be happy to have the girl around. it would never just be the two of them, he has a daughter and she would never ignore that fact.
I promise I'm worthy to hold in your arms
She decides that she will need to talk to Alexis, arrange a coffee date with her, put them both on foreign ground so neither has an advantage and neither feels threatened. She will talk the girl before she talks to Castle about it, she knows his feelings on the matter, but she wants to discuss it with his daughter as well. If Alexis isn't quite ready for this (her opinion is as important as either of theirs) then they can hold off a little longer, give her a chance to adjust.
So come on and give me the chance
"I can hear the cogs turning in your head," he says softly, his breath hot against her scalp, his nose buried in her hair.
"What?" She startles, as she jerks she feels him duck his head away, just in time.
"I said 'I can hear the cogs turning in your head'," he repeats slowly.
She doesn't speak. Her mind still running in circles, not about why she came here, but what coming here means. What she realises it is beginning to mean, what she needs so desperately for it to mean.
"You okay?" he drops an arm from her waist and turns her defiant face towards his own, steering her by the chin, forcing her to look at him.
She licks her bottom lip, then tugs it into her mouth with her teeth, working it gently, nervously. She shakes her head. When his eyes soften she speaks. "No. I need to get some sleep, I'm thinking too much." She gives half a smile as she offers this information to him softly.
"I'll make you up a bed," he says softly, sliding her onto the couch beside him.
She touches a hand to his chest, stopping him in his tracks with her intense gaze. "No," she says.
"Kate it is almost 1am and if you think I'm going to let you drive home like this-" his voice is certain but gentle, attempting to ease her into this idea.
"No. I'm not going… I mean," she faulters, what does she mean, what is she trying to say. "I need you," she whispers, averting her eyes, suddenly intent on the pattern of his shirt.
To prove I am the one who can
When he doesn't respond she wishes she had never said anything. She should have fought him, insisted she would go home. Oh how she wishes she hadn't said that. It is the unbridled truth, they both know it. She can feel his intense gaze all over her. She is being needy now. Never before has she been needy. Right now though she needs a constant, she is abusing the fact he will let her.
When he stands from the couch she stays put, just gazing up at him watching. He nudges her knees with his own, urging her to let him stand in front of her. When he reaches down and tugs on her hands, urging her to her feet, she knows he has decided not to refuse her, as much as they both know he should. When she stands, her feet between his and finds herself wrapper again into his embrace she squeezes against him in return. While there is a need for him oozing from her, she has held it back, toned it down – trying to show him she is winning her battle, just needs him just incase.
He throws her a t-shirt and a pair of pyjama bottoms and tells her to change in the en suite while he does. When she returns, taking extra time washing her face and brushing back her hair to give him extra time, she finds pillows aligned down the middle of the bed, a safe zone he says, gives her a smile and then heads past her into his bathroom to brush his teeth.
His understanding of her needs is overwhelming so she crawls into the bed, it doesn't take her long to work out which is his side (he left his phone on the bedside) and she slips under the sheets, facing him and the door, but closing her eyes in the still lit room, begging sleep to take hold. She feels him get into the bed, hears the light turn off, feels the darkness cover them both. It is then she opens her eyes. "Thank you," she murmurs in his direction. His reply of dismissal tells her his whereabouts, close but not too close. She closes her eyes again and listens to his breathing even out, hoping it will put her in a trace that will entice her own to follow. It doesn't take long for sleep to regulate it, the soft noise which comes from him every few seconds (not quite a snore) reassures her.
When his digital clock reads that she has been battling sleep for forty minutes she rolls and in her huff bumps the wall. She isn't sure why exactly she does it, moves the pillow to her other side, hearing it drop onto the carpet below with a muted thump, but as soon as she hears the sound she is relieved. Who knew that the removal of one small physical hurdle would release a tension in her chest she hadn't known existed. The feeling when tight coil of her chest released would be overwhelming, but he will be there, she knows.
She doesn't move toward him per se, but she put her head back against the corner of her pillow and listen to his breathing again. She slips her fingers along the soft sheets, not touching him other than pressing the knuckles of her closed fist against his arm. Then he shifts in his sleep, apparently also gravitating toward her, even in his slumber. As his arm slides out along the sheet, toward her, she freezes, fearing any movement on her part will wake him, ruin this moment as he reaches out to her. it is exactly what she needs, an unconscious show of his unwavering support.
Walk that mile until the end starts
She can't resist sliding her knuckles along the underside of his outstretched arm. She listens to the hitch in his breathing, but he doesn't stir other than to twist the fingers of his hand as they seek out the feeling. She weaves her fingers through his and tugs his hand up next to her head. She kisses his knuckles, softly, still petrified he will wake. Then he curls his fingers again, catching the angle of her jaw and sliding in amongst her hair as it rests against her cheek. She rubs her cheek against his palm gently, relishing the closeness. She tickles his palm with her fingertips, causing him to spread his fingers, freeing her hair and her body for movement. She trails her hand back up his arm, shifting her whole body closer, easing down onto the matress beside him. She doesn't nestle against his chest like she wants to, simply rests with her head against his pillow, his arm curling around her shoulder as it adjusts to the new weight it supports. Each time he inhales and exhales she can feel the fabric of his shirt brush the skin of her arm, it is what finally lulls her to sleep.
I know it ain't easy, giving up your heart
Castle wakes slowly, shutting his eyes again against the thought of waking, squirming to stretch his back and legs to shake off the effect of sleep, he lifts his arms to do the same and finds the extremely heavy. That makes him open his eyes, he is all too familiar with that kind of weight, that feeling of a dead arm from hours being beneath a body. As soon as he turns toward her he recognises the smell of her hair as it shields her face, her cheek pressed to his shoulder, the rhythm of her breathing undulating her shoulders ever so slightly as she sleeps tucked against his side. He panics for a moment, on her behalf – considering her response to waking and finding herself in this position. When he lifts his other arm and head to begin the extraction process he can just see the corner of the pillow sticking up over the mattress. She had moved it, tossed it against, tore down the wall. She had needed him so she had sought him out like a small child, self-soothing in a time of need. It just so happened she used him as a tool.
I know it ain't easy, giving up your heart
He allows himself to enjoy the feel of her body against his for a moment. Then he does the right thing, gently lifts her shoulders and withdraws his arm. She stirs when he lays her back against the mattress but she doesn't wake fully, instead just burying her face against the pillow. He slips out and heads to the bathroom.
When he crawls back into bed, he places his arm over her head, not touching her hair, but opening himself to an embrace if her sleepy form senses his return. He won't make the assumption, she is the one in control, even if she herself isn't aware of her actions. It is only when he rests his head against the pillow (a respectable length from hers), that she stirs with a greater strength, stretching like he did before then mumbling something about 'time'. He turns to read the digital clock at his bedside. "After five," he says softly then turns back to find her face beside his, her breath now at his ear, he body curled against his once again.
She exhales an "okay," her breath against him sending a shiver down his body as she breathes against his ear. Apparently five is too early for her to rise today and he hears her breathing even out.
(Nobody's perfect, trust me I've learnt it)
He really should go back to sleep but he can't stop watching her, studying her, checking on her. He knows she is fine, she is nestled against him, any movement she makes he will feel, any sign of panic or waking he will feel. She keeps taking his breath away every time she takes a breath. All she is doing is breathing in a slow steady rhythm and she has him entranced by her beauty. She has this realistic beauty, like a mosaic. She has been shattered and rebuilt in a new shape, finding a new strength in the glue which holds her together and a new appearance from the new arrangement of the pieces of her life.
I know it ain't easy, giving up your heart
He won't ever hurt her like that. He could never shatter her completely. He would shatter himself before he lets her be broken again. He knows if she shatters anymore she will become a lump of glue, the pieces of herself too tiny to see. He won't let that happen. It isn't an option. He will show her she is safe with him, that she can trust him. she already does, much more than others, but he knows there are still large pieces of herself she keeps hidden from the world.
He can't win her over with some whirlwind date or expensive gifts. It has to be something meaningful. She is not like other women, she is extraordinary and she deserves to know it. Maybe he will write her something, a short story or a poem. His novels have messages to her in them, but this time that's not enough.
She shifts beside him, curling then uncurling her leg.
He looks back at her face, moving a piece of hair that is covering her face too completely, shying her away from him.
(Nobody's perfect, trust me I've learnt it)
She shifts into his hand, seeking out the closeness. He presses his lips to her forehead and she shifts again, closer still. He could get used to the unguarded Kate Beckett, lying beside him in his bed in the early morning. He knows she deserves to be happy. He will stop at notihng to make sure she is as happy as possible. She won't allow him to romance her in the traditional ways, taking her to lavish restaurants and sneaking her away to secluded locations is not her style. He is grateful, he wants nothing more than to do whatever she likes. Of course those things he will insist on at certain times. They will celebrate birthdays, anniversaries and every other significant event. But even if a little lavish, the gifts will always have a meaning. She is too astounding, he is too undeserving of her. But he knows that she is healing, allowing herself to move toward him. Their current position is evidence enough.
I know it ain't easy, giving up your heart
They haven't completely resolved her mother's case, but the attempt on her life, his request for her to give it time, seem to have subdued her. He knows they will revisit it (and it could cost him her), but he stares at that board every night, leading seeing nothing new, he knows he is looking for both of them, for now. He just isn't actively investigating, he is just looking for the avenue they will turn down next, he knows there isn't one. In order for what they have to lead them somewhere they need a name, but they don't have one. That man who called never said who he was or where he was from, the trace on the call had been useless. They had nothing. But she is alive, that matters more.
The rhythm of her breathing is changing, varying against his hand. She is waking, albeit slowly. He stops thoughts of her mother's death, the elephant in the room that she seems to be coping with, and removes his hand from her face. She may have enjoyed the absent, intimate touch while she slept, but he knows that in her waking state it would be too much.
(Nobody's perfect, trust me I've learnt it)
She twitches slightly as she wakes properly, opening her eyes, searching the room, taking in her unfamiliar surroundings.
"Morning," he mumbles. Altering her to the fact he has woken as well, both of them now aware of their position.
"Hi," she says softly not meeting his gaze instead lifting herself up, off his arm and out of his grasp to take in the clock behind him. Just after six he knows, he had read the display not too long ago. Wordlessly, she slips out from under the sheets, sliding across the bed, all the while avoiding his gaze. He says nothing, just watching her, giving her space he knows she needs right now, as she enters the en suite, closing the door behind her.
I know it ain't easy, giving up your heart
He doesn't stay in bed, it feels to empty without her beside him. He makes the bed, removing all evidence she was ever there – but he knows later when he goes back to bed, it will smell of her and it will haunt him. He surveys the room, maybe that will reinforce within her everything is alright, maybe it will just reinforce some need to erase last night from her memory. He isn't sure which it will be, but he knows he would prefer the former. If he can just show her nothing has changed then she will pause, consider the possibility. Then he decides, coffee.
He exits and heads to the kitchen, turning the machine onto brew before he pops some bread into the toaster, enough so that she can have some if she wishes, but he doubts she will so when it pops he piles it on one plate, spreads it with butter He slides it across the to stools at the counter and proceeds to make their coffee. He knows now, that even if she exits his bedroom determined to leave and forget this ever happened, he will at least cause her to pause and consider coffee. She has never refused to take a cup he offered yet. He knows she won't start now.
(Nobody's perfect, trust me I've learnt it)
It doesn't take too long for her to emerge, gingerly stepping around the corner and meeting his gaze. She has changed back into her own clothes. He smiles and gesturing to the coffee, like a peace offering, although he doesn't say it, he knows she understands.
When her shoulders drop and she smiles back at him he knows he has won out. But before then there had been an odd look crossing her face, he couldn't quite place it. It hadn't been the shear panic he had expected to see, it wasn't fear, it was more like reluctant resignation. He isn't sure if he himself was the cause or if it was simply he coffee she was residing herself to. For now he doesn't care, she is here, even stealing a piece of toast he was careful he keep in the middle.
I know it ain't easy, giving up your heart
He doesn't speak, doesn't make her talk at all. He is content with her eating breakfast beside him, drinking her coffee as though it will evaporate at any moment. She was grounding herself. She looked much better than she had last night, her emotions are now in check or resolved. He supposes she is cried out, that feeling of calm that washes over a person once they work out how to cope, what they need to do, where they need to go after a big event. She had a plan that much was clear. She had surprised him when he was stacking the plate and his mug in the dishwasher, coming up behind him, waiting until he stood to wrap her arms around his waist. "Thank you," she whispered, then kissed his cheek as she lowered herself back to the ground, unwrapping herself from him. "I'll call you if a body drops," she says as she backs away, headed to work she looks happy.
So I dare you to let me be your, your one and only
When the body drops a little after eight she tells him she'll pick him up in ten, be downstairs. Of course, he is ready, waiting and too eager. They don't speak at all about the evening she spent with him, curled against his chest wracked by a grief she couldn't voice. When they arrive at the scene, Esposito and Ryan greet Castle before returning to (apparently) a previous conversation with Beckett.
"Come on who was it?" Ryan chimes, falling into step beside her.
"Do we know who our vic is?" She ignores him, forging on. They answer her questions and then try again. "What's wrong guys? Jealous I had a bed-buddy and you didn't?" she challenges them. Castle's jaw drops slightly at her candour, perhaps the most shocking thing is she is telling the truth, giving the impression of something more. He just flicks his gaze from one detective to the next as she dismisses the boys, sending them off to canvas further. They gesture for Castle to follow them off her radar, obviously determined to find out more information from a close source.
Castle clears his throat at their question, shocked by the blunt nature. They had just asked him outright, in no uncertain terms if he had 'bed her' last night. He stares at her, silently begging for her to call him over, chastise the others for not working. But she doesn't so he has to fumble an awkward response. "No I, uh.. Wasn't me," he stammers, hoping his response is adequate for them, appropriately shocked and uncomfortable. Really his shock and discomfort is becoming genuine as he takes in her demeanour, she looks relaxed and happier than he has seen her in months. Whatever she worked out last night and this morning it is doing her the world of good. She looks amazing.
She catches him starring and stares at him, then points to something on the ground and beckons him over. His mind is spinning.
I promise I'm worthy, to hold in your arms
When she had called on her way into work, the receptionist said he could squeeze her in just after lunch, not a full session but she told the woman that was fine, she didn't need long. She told the captain she had an appointment, last minute. The woman had reguarded her, analysing her for sincerity (she wasn't stupid she knew Beckett had been sneaking off once every few weeks to see her therapist) when she found whatever she had been looking for she had simply nodded and shooed the detective from her office, returning to her paperwork. She told the boys she was headed for lunch, agreed to bring them a coffee upon her return. She had caught Castle just as he opened his mouth, surely to offer her company, to invite himself along. But she had bit her lip and shaken her head, he would know where she was going. She never even discussed that she was in therapy with him, but she knew he had detected it when she had had her PTSD episodes. She didn't mind, it was just another thing that showed her he understood.
So come on and give me the chance
From the time she had sat down in the chair across from him she had not stopped speaking, barely pausing to breath and only then would he slip in questions. Half the time she would ignore them. He wasn't giving her his opinion on matters, he was asking those frustrating rhetorical questions that make it seem he is asking his own question when really all he is doing is forming a question from her words. He is attempting to deduce her wants and needs from the words she is confiding in him. Then when the session is over and she is all talked out, the things that had been rolling her mind now certain after being spoken aloud, he asks her what has changed.
She stops, her hand on the doorknob. She isn't sure how to voice the fact that nothing has changed. She is still damaged in some way, she always will be, but that she has realised she needs to live in spite of this. "I'm happy," she offers, giving a slight shrug and furrowing her brow a little.
His only response is to consider her, then nod his approval, giving her a soft smile, encouraging her (she thinks).
She thanks him for his time, tells him she has to get back to work. Really she has to make a phone call first.
To prove I am the one who can
In her phone message she tells the girl everything is fine, that she just wants to meet and talk to her. She suggests, tells Alexis to call her when she gets this – obvious she is still at school, or maybe in class. She is smiling as she climbs back into the car, heading back towards the precinct, stopping only to grab coffee. She feels like a lunatic with the way she feels, but now she has made the call she has made some progress. Her therapist had told her progress was good, not that she needed his approval (although she wanted it, was glad when she got it) but he had told her that her plan was good. That it would solidify things between Kate and Alexis as much as it did for anything else, show the girl she was serious.
Walk that mile until the end starts
When her phone vibrates in her pocket she doesn't need to look at the display, its Alexis. She excuses herself to the break room, Castle hands her a post-it he has been doodling on since she returned. 'In the fridge, you need to eat,' it reads surrounded on one side by swirls and on the other a half-complete checkerboard. As soon as she is out of earshot she answers the phone. Alexis says she can meet in half an hour for coffee, names a café close to her school.
When she arrives she finds the girl already waiting for her, apologising she sits down opposite her, gestures for a waitress. They chat animatedly while they wait for their food, until Alexis asks if everything is alright. She confesses she heard her come in, gone to go down to say hi, then stopped at the top of the stairs – not wanting to intrude. Beckett dismisses the apology, assures her that its fine now. Then confesses she realised something last night. At Alexis' curious glance she continues, choosing to focus on the food in front of her while she tells her everything. When Alexis starts laughing she is relieved.
"Of course tell him, he is crazy about you," Alexis gushes. But then she changes direction, tells Kate how far he would push for her, that he would risk his life for hers. Alexis isn't bitter, but she is being honest, exactly like Kate wanted, so she is honest with the girl, tells her everything.
(Neither mentions the 'I love you,' they both suspect the other heard nor do they speak of the resentment that followed, both know it was there, both know it is now forgiven).
When Alexis invites her to dinner that night, she hesitates before quickly relenting. She needs to show the girl she is happy she wants to talk, happy she wants her to spend time with her father, and in her company also nonetheless.
Come on and give me a chance
Kate does as Alexis requests and texts when she is on her way, her presence a surprise. She is not all that surprised when Alexis' body is thrumming with excitement when she silently let her in the front door, giving her a quick hug before pointing to the kitchen and disappearing back upstairs.
When she strolls into his kitchen, asking what's for dinner, soft smirk on her face, ready for his shock at her presence. She expects him to cuss, jump or yelp. But she doesn't expect him to drop his wooden spoon, let it rest in the saucepan, and stalk towards her, wrap his arms slowly around her and breathe in deeply as he buries his nose in her hair. She chuckles as he squeezes. "You intercepted the plan?"
"Of course, but I do appreciate the effort," he murmurs into her hair.
"How?" she says, withdrawing so she can examine his face.
"You sneaking off again today made me suspicious, then when I came home and she was buzzing with excitement it was quite apparent," he shrugs it off.
She just smiles as she settles against a countertop, content to watch him navigate his kitchen after he refuses her offer of assistance.
To prove I am the one who can
"So to what do I owe the pleasure of your company Detective?" he quips as he goes back to preparing dinner.
She cringes, had hoped this wouldn't come up until a little later in the evening.
"We need to talk," she says, propping her head up with her elbows to the counter. She sees him swallow then nod, not meeting her gaze, instead focusing his attention on crushing the garlic under the blade of his knife. Content with his wordless agreement, she continues. "I went and spoke to Alexis this afternoon. I needed to tell her my side of the story," she says softly. She doesn't say which story but she assumes he knows. "I just needed her to know she is important in this too. She gets as much opinion as you and I, if not more."
That makes him turn his head to look at her. "You told Alexis your side of the story," he says slowly, setting down whatever he was doing (she isn't paying attention, watching his face not his hands), he turns to face her, takes a step forward, closing the distance between them. He mimicks her stance against the countertop, angling his body completely toward her, completely attentive now.
"I did," she says softly. "It was important to me." She shrugs slightly. It's importance to him had also been a factor, except she had known the girl would not refuse her father if he asked her advice on the matter. So she had done it for them both.
"What'd she say?" he whispers, suddenly aware of the silence in the apartment.
She closes her eyes and shakes her head. "I'm not going to dob her in, but in the end it was fine," she says.
He slides his arms flat across the countertop, slowly, giving her advanced warning (as usual) before he slips his hands past her elbows and onto her waist tugging her to him again. She stands, allowing him to wrap her in his arms and pull her to his chest.
Walk that mile until the end starts
He kisses her cheek after a moment then whispers against it, his lips brushing her skin as he speaks, a serenade of grazing kisses. "Thank you. No one has ever considered my daughter before themselves, not even her mother," he confesses.
She slides her mouth to his cheek, to do the same. After she kisses him softly she leaves her lips to brush his stubble as she murmurs. "For you and I to work she needs to be on board."
At her words, her breath, her soft grazes he pulls her closer, completely encircling his arms around her, basically lifting her off the ground. She lets him, but only because he is supporting her completely and she has just confessed to him what she had neglected to tell him all along, that she was ready. Ready to take that last tiny step and cross the line, realising that they have been teetering on the edge of for so long staying on the ledge much longer would begin to hurt them both.
fin.