This story started out as a response to a prompt for a cliché fic based on the first line being "It was a dark and stormy night…" from comment-fic. But it's quickly gotten out of control. I'm currently wrestling with a second chapter, but hoped posting this much would motivate me to get a move on given that I suppose it's already AU.
It was a dark and stormy night, the kind of night that when rain drowned out the glow of the city, sharpening the path of the streetlamps to well-defined cones of light. It blackened the pavement and washed the smells and sounds of the city down the storm drains in swirls of wind and water. The day had been heavy, sticky with heat and the storm was finally rinsing away the lingering sweat from the sleepless city. When dawn came, the streets and buildings would glisten with a sheen that would never last more than a few hours and movies would never capture.
Deep in the city, two people gazed separately up at the sky, unaware of how this storm would change their fates forever.
She was standing on the sidewalk, drenched in rain, unable to make her choice. He was in the building before her up there, above her. If she had to guess, he had probably enclosed himself in darkness to allow his eyes to watch the storm. She could almost see his grin as he stood at his window, lightening flashing, taking in the sight of a city under seige. Part boy, part writer, she did not doubt that he loved this sort of weather - so full of poetry, potential, and danger.
She had already run from him once today. It had been a desperate move, she knew, but it was instinct. To admit that she'd overheard his secret was too dangerous to contemplate. Hours later, when she climbed into the cab - intent on going home to strip down, to sink into her bathtub, and to dull the ache that refused to leave her chest with a bottle of wine (or perhaps something stronger) - she had instead given the driver his address, the words slipping of their own volition from her lips before she could stop them. Perhaps this too was its own kind of instinct.
The hurt and betrayal flared up as the cab sloshed through puddles, windshield wipers squeaking, until she was quaking with anger. Her fingers even drifted down to the gun at her hip as she cursed the day she met him, contemplating the what ifs of how she could have saved herself from this hurt. When she sprung herself out onto the sidewalk, she shoved too much cash into the driver's surprised hand and turned to face his building, the decision to send him away so clear and certain.
But as soon as the rain hit her face, she stalled out. The cab pulled away and the street went silent, save for the white-noise of wind whipping water droplets to the ground. She couldn't remember how long it took the shower to drench her thick brown curls, flattening them against her head, sending rivulets of water dripping past the collar of her leather jacket. The weight of the water built, dampening her skin, finding its way to every inch of her, reminding her that she needed to choose before she was swept out to the Hudson like a drowned rat.
Looking up at his building once more, she silently wished for him to look down. To see her. He'd rush down the stairs, two at a time, and drag her inside. He might even carry her as he had once before - legs dangling, her back to his chest - with the rain to hide her cries of protest. She would lie to save face and he'd accept it because he was so afraid of going backwards. Maybe she could even forget that she'd found out about his murder board and the mystery caller and all of those goddamned lies.
Liar. The word echoed in her head, repeating itself to the rhythm of the rain. When the thunder made her heart skip a beat, the echo doubled up the beat - Fucking Liar.
If a cab had come lumbering down the road at that moment, she might have left. The anger was tingling in her chest once more and she would have taken it as a sign, even if she wasn't really a believer in that sort of thing. But the storm had the taxis raking in fares from tourists caught on busier streets, their night-on-the-town clothes soaked and ruined, leaving her to choose between walking to the subway and daring to go inside.
But that's when he found her on that rain scented night. He came out of the building, still placing his order at for take-out Chinese on the cell phone, and nearly missed her. He was going left and she was to the right, her dark hair curled into dripping locks against her face, and but for a crash of thunder that startled them both, he might not have turned to find her darkened form, shaking and clutching herself near the curb.
"Beckett? Kate, what are you doing here?"
His voice caught her attention immediately and she found herself shocked to be able to find his bright blue eyes in the dark. Later, she'd tell herself that it was lightening or the streetlamp he was under, but for the moment, they felt like a light of their own. Perhaps if she'd gone upstairs, knocked on his door and tried to look at him in the harsh lighting of the hallway outside his loft, she would have clung to the anger. Beaten him back. Yelled and screamed and threatened until he was beyond bravado and ego and was left shaking in a corner. Perhaps, she would have left him there, broken and bloody, at least figuratively, if not literally.
But instead the two found each other on the street that dark and stormy night.
He hung up his phone and came towards her as she suddenly heard the sound of her teeth chattering and felt the prickle of goosebumps all over her skin. Before she could shake her confusion as to when the rain had turned from cool to freezing, she was lead by the hand into his building with their pants' cuffs slapping against the tiles, then ushered into the elevator and into his loft. His arm around her shoulder, tucking her against his chest, warmed her nearly as much as the space itself, making the water that was still dripping down her feel more like melted ice than residual precipitation.
Shucking off her leather jacket, she intended to simply let it drop to the floor, not wanting to drag the storm through his tidy living room, but he caught it, draping it across his arm. When she drew her gun from the holster, he took it as well, stowing it away somewhere, but she wasn't paying attention. Without her jacket, she could feel all the places where the water had seeped through, plastering her blouse and pants cuffs against her skin like patches of ice. When he stepped back into her line of vision, he eyed the wet patches, but offered no comment, simply took her elbow to guide her further into his space.
She expected him to speak as he took her to his couch, sat her down, ripping the afghan off the back to wrap around her shoulders in place of his arm. Instead, he turned away, pulling out his phone once more, his voice muffled as he left her to move about his kitchen. Glasses clinked and she heard his phone drop down on the countertop before he came back. His weight sunk down next to her on the couch and she turned to find him offering her a beer. "Mother," he muttered apologetically as she took the bottle, already opened and far too cold for the mood she was in.
But she drank it anyway, gulping down half the bottle before setting it on the table in front of her, feeling her empty stomach gurgling in protest. He was leaned back into the arm of the couch, half turned towards her to watch and wait. Even without words, she knew he was asking, but she ignored it, pulling the afghan more tightly around her shoulders.
Outside, the storm was still raging and the roar of it was nearly deafening without any other sound to interrupt it. But the lights and warmth held the lightening and wind at bay, comforting her as she finally allowed herself to look at him fully. He still wasn't talking and his brow was pinched into a worried frown. Her gaze tried to skitter away, but her breath hitched when he suddenly moved, re-adjusting his position against the arm of the couch.
She knew she should just force it out. Tell him how easily she had drawn the truth out of Ryan and just how close she'd been to showing up here with her gun drawn. Tell him just how monumentally stupid he was and how the truth had hit her square in the chest, making the scar there burn and tighten with anguish at the thought that it could have been his. But that frown on his face and his silence were a reminder that he wasn't the only liar in the room. Today, he was silent, but once before, that frown had come with words. Words she didn't dare replay tonight with him wound up so tight that he wasn't even trying to hide just how much he cared.
If she attacked him with the truth, she had no doubt that this other secret would tumble from his lips in his desperation. He sat there watching her, strangely still, completely unaware that the only part of that admission that remained a secret was that she already knew. That she was the one lying and pretending and omitting. She was the only one who knew that this effectively was a stalemate and that they both held the weapons that would become their mutual self-destruction.
Because I'm a fucking liar. Detective Kate Beckett is a goddamn liar.She turned her face towards him, but let her eyes focus on the wall behind him, the door to his office slightly ajar. In her periphery of her vision, she tracked the seriousness of his gaze.
When she finally managed to look back, she found his lips parted. His blue eyes were trained on her eyes and then trickled down to her lips before returning. He was restraining himself, waiting for her to start the conversation that they needed to have, but she wasn't about to give.
"I took the liberty of ordering us some dinner. With Mother and Alexis out of town, I haven't bothered to restock the fridge and this isn't the sort of night to go venturing out," Castle offered steadily, taking her gaze as permission to speak. She knew it was a question, but ignored it, sinking back against the couch, letting her eyes scan past him to the empty chair and up the stairs to the darkened bedrooms above.
Instead, she fell back on what they already knew, ignoring him. "I figured you more for the storm chaser type, Castle."
His eyes crinkled and she allowed herself a smile of her own as he answered, "Normally, I am. I even paid to ride along with real-life storm chasers one summer when I was doing research for Derrick Storm. But it's not nearly so much fun when you don't have running commentary."
"I'm sure you could come up with your own."
"I could, but what's the fun in that?" He countered easily, letting her draw him into the conversation as she leaned forward, picking up her beer once more.
She rolled her eyes, then took a sip, lips curling at the sour taste. Part of her wished for wine while the other part wished for whiskey, or at least something with a higher proof. His eyes followed her movements, tickling at her nerves.. Gulping down the rest of the beer, she turned back to find him rising once more. She had to turn to watch him enter the kitchen, taking out a pair of shot glasses before snagging a bottle of tequila. Fucking liar and a goddamn mind reader.
Ignoring the narration, she let the blanket fall back onto the couch as she rose, joining him at the counter, her eyes focused on the newly opened bottle. "So you were holding out on me," she teased, nodding towards the bottle, her hand already reaching out to take it from him.
"Still am. This stuff should not be consumed on an empty stomach. Trust me. This is for after dinner," he said, snagging the bottle back from her reach before resuming his preparations. She watched him open cupboards and drawers, setting out plates and silverware for each of them, wondering if he knew. He still hadn't managed to ask her what she'd been doing out there, alone. There was no challenge to her decision to steer the conversation in every direction but the obvious one, which didn't fit into any of the scenarios she'd imagined. But if he knew...
The bell rang, announcing the arrival of their food, leaving her alone with his kitchen and his place settings. She considered smashing them into bits but refrained, hearing him talking to the delivery boy quietly. He would probably tip the boy well and return with something delicious for her that she didn't even ask him to order. She really shouldn't break his china.
The swings between rage and affection were churning up the beer in her gut by the time he returned to the kitchen, proffering far too many paper containers full of food. "You expecting
company?"
"Just you," he replied without looking at her, shaking his head slightly as he popped open cartons, laying out napkins and fortune cookies and a styrofoam container filled with wontons and eggs rolls. The kitchen was quickly filled with the smells of fried dough and cooked meat and sesame oil, drawing a groan of appreciation she wasn't able to stop. She was hungry and he was feeding her and she really should be less of a bitch.