Castle leaned back into the couch, stretching his legs out under Beckett's coffee table.
The only remaining evidence of dinner was the stack of empty Chinese takeout containers on the countertop over in the kitchen area of her apartment, which Castle had insisted on clearing away himself.
On the coffee table, there were two glasses of wine, and Beckett's feet were resting there too. She sat a meter or so to his left, half-watching The French Connection, which had just started ten minutes earlier.
Castle's blazer was draped over the back of a chair at her kitchen table, and his shirt sleeves were once again rolled up to his elbows. His arms were folded across his chest, his stomach was pleasantly full, and he was feeling more relaxed than he had in quite a while. He quietly sighed in contentment.
She glanced around at him, but his eyes remained fixed on the TV. There was the barest smile playing across his lips.
"You OK there, Castle?" she asked, and now he looked around at her and nodded.
"Just chillin'," he said, and she grinned.
"How many times have you seen this?" she asked, nodding towards the TV.
He frowned, considering the question. She watched for a moment, then he shrugged.
"Maybe thirty?"
She tilted her head in acknowledgement. "It's a great movie."
"Mmm," he replied, shifting again to get more comfortable.
Beckett returned her gaze to the TV, but her attention was still on him. She was very aware of his presence. Every time his shirt rustled when he moved. Every time the scent of his cologne drifted over to her. Every time she heard him exhale.
There was an undercurrent of tension, but not discomfort. Just the unacknowledged thing that always sat between them. It was there even now, squeezed into the barely person-sized gap between their shoulders. Invisible, yet almost tangible.
But it had changed lately.
Because this doesn't feel awkward, she thought. A year ago, it would have – but not now. Not anymore.
They had moved easily around each other as they got plates, wine glasses, and everything else they needed for their meal. They were perfectly in sync about which channel to stop on as she flicked through everything that was on. Their occasional murmurs of conversation were warm and effortless. Their silences were completely comfortable. She wasn't sure she'd ever been with a man where she could enjoy the silences, without guilt or concern – without even having to think about it.
The barest movement registered in her peripheral vision, and she carefully glanced over at him. He was looking at her, and she already knew what he was thinking.
This is… nice.
He gave her a small smile, then quickly returned his gaze to the TV. Not pushing.
She kept looking at him for another few moments, waiting to see if the old barriers would rise up again.
Tension, but not discomfort. Silence, but a comfortable one.
He was familiar, and safe, and trustworthy, and all of those things. He was everything that she allowed him to be, and even now he was waiting for her to decide whether she'd let him be more.
His chest rose and fell, and she could see the flickering light of the TV screen reflected in his eyes. He half-grinned at something that was happening in the movie, and the corners of his eyes crinkled in amusement.
She knew him so well, and she also knew he hadn't yet tired of waiting for her. He would, someday, but for now he was content to just be here, telling her how he felt only silently, with a glance, or a gesture, or a cup of coffee every morning.
Without the words that came so naturally to him, but which were so elusive for her.
It's not enough anymore, she thought, and again her pulse quickened.
Images ran through her mind, one blurring into another.
Him holding her coat for her, but as they left a restaurant instead of the precinct. The corners of his eyes crinkling as he smiled, but with his hand gently caressing her cheek.
The scent of his cologne, but on her skin as well as his. Him bringing her coffee, but here in her apartment, in the brightening light of a new day.
The warm feeling chased through her again. Butterflies and fireworks. Ice and fire. Electricity in her veins. But still no discomfort.
Just the opposite, in fact.
The only awkward thing was the gap between their shoulders.
On the screen, Popeye Doyle was hurtling along Stillwell Avenue in his commandeered car, chasing the elevated train and the sniper it carried.
Castle's eyes sparkled as he watched avidly. It was obviously one of his favourite scenes.
Beckett was surreptitiously looking at him again, a small grin curling the corner of her mouth.
"Oh you're not getting away," he muttered to himself, smirking and completely unaware that he'd spoken aloud.
Her grin became a soft smile that reached all the way to her eyes. If he'd seen it, his breath would have faltered.
God, you're so… you, she thought, not quite sure what she meant by it.
She watched as his face lit up, and she knew that, in that moment, he was actually there, in the movie, with Gene Hackman in the car. His sharp and vivid imagination pulled the fictional world from the screen and wrapped it around him, turning a story into a brief visit to one possible world.
She knew that, for just this minute or so, he had forgotten where he was, or how tiring the week had been, or even that she was there beside him – there was only the story.
And she wasn't particularly surprised to find that she very much wanted him to notice her again.
She set her wine glass back down on the coffee table, and waited patiently until Doyle had caught and shot the assassin on the stairway, noting Castle's subtle fist-clench of victory, as if he hadn't seen it happen dozens of times before.
Then, without undue fanfare, she shifted to the right, curling her legs up beside her on the couch.
Her right shoulder came to rest against his left upper arm, and she studiously avoided looking around at him. She wasn't completely certain, but she was fairly sure that his breathing paused for several seconds before resuming, slightly raggedly. He didn't say a word, and she could feel the tension in his frame for a minute or two, until he finally relaxed.
She didn't speak either, content to just watch the movie and enjoy the warmth that radiated from him where their bodies touched each other.
Ten minutes passed in silence. Twice she thought she saw movement out of the corner of her eye, as if he was very carefully glancing around at her. Her eyes stayed fixed on the screen. In the movie, Doyle was tearing apart Devereaux's Lincoln in the police garage, but she could tell that Castle was now only partially paying attention.
She waited another five minutes before shifting slightly against him, then letting her head gently come to rest against his shoulder.
This time, she heard his intake of breath, and felt his pulse pounding through his chest. She allowed herself a small smile.
Another few minutes passed, then she lifted her head and sat forward to reach for her wine glass, taking a sip of the pale liquid before setting the glass down again. She looked around at him, gesturing to the other glass on the coffee table with her free hand.
"Want yours over?" she asked, and he nodded slowly, looking at her with eyes that were brimming with questions.
She picked up his glass and handed it to him, then settled back against his side, once again resting her head on his shoulder.
She heard and felt him sigh, and she knew it was partly relief as well as satisfaction.
"You OK there, Castle?" she asked for the second time that evening, more quietly now, rolling her head against his shoulder to look up at him.
Blue eyes looked back at her, only a few inches away. He didn't respond at first, but the intensity of the emotion she saw there – the need, and the longing – made her instinctively turn slightly further in towards him. It was an incredibly intimate position, and her pulse quickened again, but there was still no fear or anxiety there. She watched as his pupils dilated.
After a few moments, he spoke, and his voice was low and slightly hoarse.
"I'm OK," he replied. Somehow, the brief statement also conveyed the question she knew was going around and around in his mind.
What's happening here?
She knew he wanted to voice the question, but he didn't – but he also didn't break eye contact. She saw him swallow before he spoke.
"How about you?"
Beckett looked up at him for a long moment. Possible answers flitted through her mind, but none of them fit. She knew that he was tentatively interrogating her, in a way – trying to get his bearings.
He was holding himself perfectly still, eyes wide and watchful, as if he was afraid to upset some kind of delicate balance. Like she was a butterfly perched on his finger, poised to flee at the slightest disturbance.
When did I get to be more comfortable with this than you are?
Compassion and understanding rose up within her, along with a twinge of guilt, but she resolutely kept the feelings from showing on her face. Instead, she just smiled at him, then turned to face the TV again.
"I'm good," she said lightly.
It was unfair. She'd been the one with the wall; with the baggage and the background. The one who resisted, and held back.
He was the opposite. He'd accepted her completely, long before she even recognised it, and set about showing her – subtly, and constantly – that if she ever did want something more, he was there. Standing right in front of her, every day. Waiting.
And now we're… here, she thought, but he won't even let himself hope. He won't take the risk.
It was her fault, she knew. She'd trained him to be circumspect, and to always give her a way out. To cover up meaningful moments with safe jokes, and deflections, and sarcasm. To look, but not to touch. To feel, but never to speak.
She felt his chest rise and fall again, causing his shoulder to shift slightly against her temple, and in that moment she knew that this had been her destination all along.
Not some dramatic moment, with life snatched back from the jaws of mortality. Not with fear boiling over into passion. Not with tears, accusations, fury, and final surrender.
Just here. Her own apartment, and her own couch. A journey of years, starting and now ending at her own doorstep.
It was so simple. So ridiculously, laughably simple.
The right things usually are, her mind whispered, and she drew in a breath.
"Except…" she said softly, immediately sensing that he had turned towards her again, to look down at the top of her head. He waited several seconds before he spoke, his voice no louder than her own.
"Except?" he asked, the puzzlement and caution evident in his tone.
She pressed the side of her head into him for a moment.
"Your shoulder is kind of… bony," she replied.
Silence, for almost ten full seconds.
"Uh…" he began, fumbling for words. "… sorry."
She suppressed the unexpected laugh that bubbled up inside her, instead taking a calming breath. Then she looked up at him again, raising a single eyebrow.
He blinked at her, unsure what to say, or do.
You really must be flustered, Rick, she thought, just as a fine crease appeared on his brow. She lifted her head away from his shoulder and sat up slightly, seeing the light in his eyes immediately start to fade.
Then she reached across to take his left hand in hers, lifted his arm over her head, and pulled it around her shoulders.
Throwing him one last look, she curled herself in towards him, laying her head on his chest. Her arm stretched naturally across his waist, coming to rest on his right hip.
His pulse was like a bass drum in her ears.
"Better," she said.