Hey, guys! I'm sorry for not making this into an independent story like I promised, but I felt too good about it being in 47FF47S. Plus, I couldn't think of anything to add to it. I liked where I left it.
Disclaimer: I do not own Castle. All hail Andrew W. Marlowe and ABC!
Chapter 2
47 Fixes for 47 Seconds
Alexis decides it's time to fix Caskett and decides to shove them into a domestic role to do so.
"Uh. Hi."
He blinks at the speaker, bewildered. Because she's in his kitchen, her bare feet betraying how much taller he really is when she's not wearing heels.
She smiles sheepishly, then breaks eye contact to focus on the cutting board before her, chopping lettuce swiftly and rhythmically. His brain doesn't even really register the crunch and the sound of metal on wood. He's frozen.
Alexis emerges from the stairwell, flushing profusely when her dad turns his attention to her.
"Um. Dad. Kate's cooking for us tonight," she says lamely, eyes darting toward the brunette – who is currently biting her lip – and back to him, worrying her lip in the same fashion.
Kate. When did his daughter's relationship with the detective become so intimate?
He feels betrayed, ambushed. Is this how she's going to let him down easily? Display this tender domesticity and then crush these fulfilled fantasies with some softly-spoken – but cutting all the same – words?
Here he is again, strung along, helpless.
And Alexis – did she rope the detective into this? Decide to put his moping to a stop?
Fine. He needs to hear it, needs that closure anyway.
She watches uncertainly as he lumbers over to an island stool, pulling it out with a screech and dropping himself into it.
Alexis shoots her an anxious look, and she attempts a reassuring smile. It must be convincing, because Alexis scurries back up the stairs. Or perhaps she's simply perturbed by the palpable tension swirling thickly through the downstairs portion of the loft.
Even through her exhaustion, she smiles at the thought of the petite redhead and their exchange this afternoon.
When she realizes that the person donning scrubs and entering the morgue is not Lanie, she abruptly jumps down from the examination table and hastily swipes at her eyes.
"Detective Beckett," Alexis addresses her warily, setting down her clipboard without removing her eyes from the elder woman.
"Uh. You just missed her. I just sent Lanie home for the night," she says, attempting a watery smile.
The young Castle sighs in defeat, as if acquiescing to something within herself, then darts forward to take the brunette's hands in her own.
The other woman starts, but flushes pleasantly at the show of affection.
"You do care," Alexis murmurs, and Kate tenses, unsure of what she means. "Come on. Do you know the saying, 'The best way to a man's heart is through his stomach?'"
Retrieving a wine glass from the designated cupboard, she fills it and approaches him quietly. If he feels her presence at his shoulder, he doesn't show it. She sets it down before him. She slips away again.
Can't help the impulsive trail of her fingers on his back, a needy diagonal drawn across his shoulders as she retreats.
The timer chirrups happily, and she winces at the sharp noise, stabs at the oven until it stops. She peers in at the lasagna, bubbling away, but can't bring herself to be hungry. She closes the door, adjusts the timer again.
She allows herself to lean wearily against the counter, feels it dig into her hip and ah – she thought she was doing better with putting weight on. For the last few days, she's felt frail.
She pushes the week's emotions away, stomach turning. Brushing the few wisps of hair that have escaped her bun out of her face, she busies herself with the salad once more.
When she looks up, he's looking directly at her. He fixes her with a peculiar look and—and despite his actions this week, it's not distant. Empty.
She can't quite pinpoint what it is, but she's relieved all the same.
She doesn't break his intense gaze. Instead, she wants to offer a reassuring smile or a kind word.
She doesn't run, in the literal sense of the word. But saying nothing, denying him and herself even such a simple exchange, feels a lot like running.
That's not fair.
She's just teasing him now, he's sure of it.
Her fingers traipse lightly across his shoulder blades and he nearly hisses – in pain, pleasure? – at the contact. Why are you doing this to me?
And then she's leaning over, presumably to check on whatever is in the oven. Whatever the reason, his eyes drift down the irresistible line of her back and then…
Yeah. He swallows thickly, tries to draw his gaze away, but she's wearing his favorite pair of slacks that she owns, the ones that hug her ass and accentuate every. Damn. Curve.
He looks back up at her head guiltily, waiting for her to turn and realize he was getting an eyeful, reprimand him. But nothing happens.
He doesn't—he can't… She's making it so hard to flick the switch when she stands barefoot in his kitchen, exchanges looks with his daughter, brushes against him like it's nothing when it's everything.
She turns, and he doesn't remove his gaze from her face. He knows every contour, every edge and plane on her face. He's already decided what it must be like to kiss her cheek, how soft it is and how much it would give under his lips. He figures that her collarbone tastes exactly how she smells – a cocktail of cherries, vanilla, and coffee – and that he could get her to make a sound if he paid special attention to where it meets the base of her neck. And her lips…
Well, he already knows what kissing her is like, and has enough fodder to last him a lifetime of fantasies.
Without thinking, he voices his thoughts from earlier. "Why are you doing this to me?" he groans, then freezes again when he realizes what he's done.
"Why are you doing this to me?" he blurts out suddenly.
Kate suddenly stops churning the salad within the bowl, but her body has other ideas and continues the motion in her stomach.
"What?" she whispers, can't find her voice.
"Why are you teasing me?"
"I'm not—I don't understand," she stammers. She looks at the array of vegetables in front of her and tries to remember if he's ever mentioned an unfortunate experience with cherry tomatoes.
He scrubs his hand over his face in frustration. "Don't think I don't know what you're doing," he snaps. "When I fell for you, I knew somewhere deep inside that you couldn't ever feel the same, but I had never thought you could be mean about it!"
Silence falls upon them, except for the sound of his labored breathing, as she attempts to process what he's said. Her face grows hot at the mention of his feelings for her, but then she goes completely cold when she replays his outburst in its entirety.
"Couldn't feel the same?" she repeats dumbly.
He scowls into his wine glass and downs it in a few gulps. "I understand, Beckett," he sneers, and she cringes because it's Beckett again. "I'm just a friend, a partner, not one-and-done material. But you didn't have to lie to my face for almost a year. And now, what? Can't stand to see me stop hanging on your every word, so you decide to keep up the charade?"
She can't keep up with his monologue, picking at the words before she can even think to construct a response. She sees him go to continue, so she hastily jumps in.
"Castle, I can't—can you just—? I'm not sure I understand. Can I have a moment to think before I give you an answer you deserve?"
His mouth opens, but he seems to think better of it and snaps it shut. He nods at her soberly.
She closes her eyes for a moment, considering his words carefully—
"So…so you think that I don't"—his eyes darken, daring her, so she thinks fuck it and throws cautious word choice to the wind—"love you?" she asks incredulously.
He meets her gaze miserably, but she thinks she sees something like hope flare in his eyes for a split second. "Well, you don't," he says flatly.
"And you think you can decide that for me?" she snarls, and everything wrong that has happened this week, she realizes now, was simply simmering under the surface, and it all comes boiling over. "Who are you to say what I do and don't feel? Did you even think to talk to me before walking out on me? Because I would've told you that I do!"
There's a pause.
"What?" he asks quietly.
"What?"
"You do. You do what, Kate?"
She softens. This isn't how she imagined it would be when she first told him. She doesn't want to say it angrily. Gently, she says, "I love you, Richard Castle."
Five words.
Five words are all it takes to turn his world upside down.
She's looking at him tenderly, soft green eyes swimming with affection.
It's all he's ever wanted and yet it feels so wrong.
"Then why did you lie to me about not remembering your shooting?"
She's visibly stunned, as if he just slapped her across the face. "How did you..?"
"When you were interrogating that suspect during the bombing case. Bobby."
She nods, then squeezes her eyes shut in horror. "I did lie," she finally chokes out, "but not because… God, Castle, not because I don't feel the same way."
He watches her throat bob as she swallows.
"I lied because – I don't even know why. I panicked. I was scared, I was broken, I was a mess. Someone was out to hurt me, and maybe even the people I care about. You deserved better than that."
"I've never deserved you," he says fiercely, slamming his fist onto the counter and nearly making the empty wine glass beside him topple over.
He stands, and she begins to round the island towards him, eyes never leaving his.
"I said always," he says gruffly. "And I meant it. Don't you dare try to shoulder something like that on your own. I'm supposed to help you."
She ends up standing in front of him.
Carefully sliding the wine glass aside, she steps closer and snakes her arm around him.
He shudders in delight and grips her waist, feeling his entire being thrum with hers.
She has to tilt her head back slightly to meet his eyes. "I know that now. And I could tell you the same."
He draws back a centimeter to gawk at her.
She smiles weakly at him. "I went to put my gun in your office, like I always do—"
Shit. He can see it now, the Johanna Beckett virtual murder board on display for her to see—
"No more," she whispers, breath caressing his cheek. "Not alone. Together. I can't lose you."
A flashback brings him back to the terror of green grass and bloodied white gloves, then the journey down the immaculate hallway of a hospital… He straightens, determined.
"No more," he agrees, then lurches forward and slants his mouth over hers.
Fisting his hair, she drinks from his mouth desperately, deepening the kiss and drawing groans from their throats.
As their mouths move rhythmically, desperation ebbs away and is replaced by pure, unadulterated longing. Lips slow, kisses are wet and smacking rather than open-mouthed and hard. There is time in between for gentle declarations of love, soft apologies.
"Guys, is dinner—oh."
Their mouths jump apart, but they're still joined by their arms, when Alexis appears on the stairs.
As if on cue, the timer dings shrilly.
"Yeah, it's ready," Kate says shakily, but managing to smile brightly. "Are you hungry?" she asks the teenager, disentangling herself from Castle and throwing him an apologetic look. It's not necessary, though, because he crowds behind her, even while she's taking the baking dish out of the oven.
"Well, yes," Alexis says, "but I was actually only asking because you guys got quiet. I wanted to make sure one of you hadn't killed the other. But, um, that obviously wasn't the case."
Kate has to laugh at Castle's mortified look, thumbing the lipstick off of the corner of his mouth. "Don't worry, Alexis. We're good. We're really good."
The redhead smiles cheekily. "Great. So can I begin negotiations for a younger sibling?"
Castle's jaw drops and he shoots his daughter a panicked look, along with a "cut-it-out" motion in front of his throat.
Kate is still busying herself with the lasagna, answers without looking up. "I wouldn't worry about negotiating. It's a done deal."