lyublyu
Under the dark shroud of night, they rest in bed. The rumble of passing cars and the shouts of strange men on the street have become white noise in the city that never sleeps.
It hadn't been a particularly difficult day. After an early morning solve, there was not much to entertain them other than paperwork. In the evening Kate had come to the loft for dinner, bringing with her a larger bag than normal. She had planned to stay the night. With no prodding from Castle to do so. Her want made him want her so much more. He had to tamp down the burning desire within him throughout family dinner. It was a rare night for Alexis to stop by for dinner, and yet Castle could not wait for his Pumpkin to leave again. Sure he felt guilty, but it didn't stop him from gently (but forcefully) ushering his daughter and mother from the loft to their own social lives after dessert. Kate watched from the bar, nose in her glass of red wine and eyes crinkled in amusement.
Hours later, their cooling bodies drifted in tight orbit of each other as they found repose.
It's the middle of the night and Castle drifts in that place between sleep and awake. His senses are coming alive, absorbing his environment, feeding his currently sluggish yet active mind. He is unmoving. It's too comfortable. They are in an impossible tangle of long limbs and bed sheets. It's a nest and it's beautiful. Everything is deliciously warm. He has enough cognition to know it will be cold if he rises, if he dares to move. The moment will shatter. The yellowed half-light of outside street lamps leaks through the weave of the curtains and the gaps between.
What woke him?
His gaze is trapped by the ceiling. He stares at the uninteresting surface, allows the night to seep in to him, to fill him with calm and quiet.
He breaks free of the hold, lets his head tilt to the left. And he finds Kate. Curled higher up the bed, but still oh so close. Natural. Like she belongs here. Like this is her place. Here.
Her hair is half swept across her face. He has to touch it. Like moth to flame. He reaches a hand over, as if drawn, outside of their little cocoon of bed sheets. His hand dips into the cold air around them to get to her. He strokes the soft hair resting on her cheek, brushes them away softly like fallen leaves on an autumn day, slowly tucks it behind her ear. He curves his hand around it, almost reluctant to not touch her. She mumbles when he passes his fingertips over the soft skin just below her ear, her spot. What does she say? Was she what woke him? He can feel the low rumble of her vocal cords as his hand passes down the column of her neck. Delicate. Careful to not wake her. He drags his hand back across the small expanse of no-man's land between them. His hand mourns the loss of contact. He watches her. Her lips are moving.
Those words again. (Are they words?) He wants to feel those words again. Not just on his fingertips. He wants to feel the sounds reverberate through his bones, flow in his veins.
He rolls in closer. The sheets crumple under him as he gravitates toward her.
He kisses her shoulder, warm as sleep and soft as the night.
She shifts, snuggles deeper into her pillow. Her hand reaches out, seeking, and finds him in the dark. Kate rests her hand on his cheek, her thumb smudges the corner of his mouth. She still sleeps. But sound falls from her mouth and slips into the sheets, the very threads, and envelopes him.
He can't tell what she says, if she says anything at all. But he can feel it. He can feel that it's for him. Every syllable, every curl of tongue and vibration of vocal cords. For him.
He kisses the pad of her thumb. Sleep has made him silly, sentimental.
She curls into him subconsciously. The ebb of sheets is a quiet slide; they seemingly part for her, follow her as he does.
He scoots in closer, his need to be near her growing. Sleep is beginning to tug on him. His lips connect with the manubrium of her sternum and trail down to rest at her clavicle. Her breath combs through his hair. His arms wrap around her abdomen as she hugs him into her chest. She whispers in his ear again. Her voice rough and heavy from disuse. The words slip through his fingers like water. He can't seem to catch them.
Did she say something about "blue"?
…but that's not her favorite color…
His body sinks into the mattress, into her embrace.
The whispers caress him, her lips against his ear. The dark of the night pulls him under once more.
я тебя люблю
(ya tebya lyublyu)
I love you