He's been out of town for three weeks. Was it London? Paris? Albuquerque? It could be Timbuktu for all he cares.
All he remembers is that his publicist is a harpy.
All he knows is that Kate is waiting for him at the loft. He doesn't know how.
He just knows.
Maybe she was watering the plants while he was gone?
One would think this would have made him brave. Eager. To see this woman who spends so much time invading his mind. Instead he is reticent to enter the threshold. Anxiety churns in his gut. Festers and simmers as he stands stupidly outside his own front door. He balls his hands into tight fists, feels the cold steel of his keys dig into his palm. Nervously wipes the other on his pant leg. Furtively he glances down the hallway, scans left to right as if he's expecting something to happen, as if he's waiting for someone. It's obtuse.
He owns the entire floor.
Still, he can't help but feel like he's been here before. It's a familiar twinge of excitement, his fingers tingle and his palms itch. He slowly pushes the key into the lock. He feels as though he's rounding a corner, chasing after some anonymous suspect. A click as the bolt slides open. The trigger is cocked and loaded. He opens the doors to his home and is confounded by the long, drab hallway. He wonders when he redecorated and why he would chose such an ugly combination of brick and concrete block. He thinks someone should take out the garbage; the piles tossed haphazardly along the borders of this bleak, dingy corridor do nothing for the ambiance. He has a reputation to uphold.
He rounds a sharp corner and she's there. All determination and bravery on her delicate face. He thinks he'd like to kiss away the little vein that bulges between her furrowed brow. He knows he'd like to sample the sharp line of her jaw.
"Castle! Down on the ground! Now!"
Oh, right.
He's had this one before. He knows the drill.
He raises his gun and aims ahead. Straight as an arrow, as precise with his aim as she is in her work. There must be no mistakes. He's set this scene so many times now, it's rote. He knows he is dreaming and yet is powerless to wake. It could go one of two ways. Either it will play out exactly as it occurred and he will wake with a sigh of relief; or it will go devastatingly, wildly wrong. If the latter happens he will spend the waking portion of his day on edge and a little too eager to touch.
He briefly closes his eyes and silently solicits option one.
"Castle.." her voice is a whisper and he's confused.
"I said down on the ground..." he hears a new emotion in her voice, one he hasn't yet cataloged and studied. He hears something moist, like teeth scraping across dewy lips.
'Huh..' he thinks. 'This is new.'
Still, he doesn't open his eyes.
He knows that sound. He'd know it anywhere. He's spent countless hours imagining what it would be like for him to be the one dragging teeth across those luscious lips. Biting at the soft mounds of flesh.
He doesn't open his eyes though because it too, could go one of two ways. This habit of hers is not purely something she uses to elicit a response out of him or an act he occasionally catches her in as she tries to hide a smile. Sometimes this quirk of hers is a purely an instinctual reaction to trembling fear or agonizing grief. He's afraid if he opens his eyes he will be the one with the bullet wound.
Or worse. Her.
"I said now, Castle. On the ground."
He feels weightless for a second. Braces himself as he collapses to the pavement. He feels his tailbone connect with the chipped bricks and pebbly asphalt. He coughs and splutters as the air whooshes out of his lungs.
He's terrified.
He's in love.
He has to know. And so haltingly he opens his eyes, just a slit.
Oh!
Ohhh... This is definitely new.
The chilly floor has remarkably been transformed into velvety sheets and a soft platform. He vaguely remembers catching a glimpse of this bed once. At the time he'd thought it kind of small compared to his abundant 'California King' and added it to the mental list of things he could provide her with if only she allowed.
An elegant dinner, a larger bed, his undying love and affection. The moon if she asked.
She straddles his hips wearing just a bra and low-cut panties. Black lace and pink satin. It's simple and it's smoking hot. He concedes she has a point with this diminutive mattress. There is a certain appeal to the cramped nature in which they now find themselves. He realizes he is naked and hasn't a care in the world. A whole gaggle of graduating students could be awaiting his commencement speech and he wouldn't flub a line. This is no nightmare, this is his most fanciful daydream and he doesn't intend to miss a second.
She is watching him with intensity, desire is marking her face like notes on his manuscripts. Raw and uncensored. She scrapes her nails along his chest, along the lines of his collarbone. Smooths the angry marks with the pads of her fingertips. She leans down and peppers butterfly light kisses down his chest. He inhales. She smells like sandalwood and jasmine. The cherries had never made a reappearance. He doesn't mind so much. The slight hint of spice combining with her own unique smell is intoxicating. She is his drug, makes him feel things he shouldn't, compels him to follow. He'll never get enough.
He runs his fingers through her hair, hooks her head with his hands and brings her to him for a smoldering kiss. Teeth and tongues clash in a battle of wills. He lets her win. It's not really losing when the woman you adore is feasting on your lips and grinding seductively in your lap. His cock bounces between her thighs and she moans at the connection. If this is the price he has to pay, he will gladly atone.
He feels warm all over, wrapped in a blanket of Kate and desire. His ears are ringing and his heart is on...
"Shit!"
The fire alarm's ringing and his apartment is on fire!
Rick stumbles out of bed and trips on a pair of carelessly abandoned shoes. His vision blurs as the blood rushes, confused, around his torso, races to his head. The change in direction is almost too much for his body to take. He rests a steadying hand on an armchair, takes a deep breath and wills himself not to faint. Big brain must beat little brain in this early morning squabble. The last thing he needs is for his lifeless, naked body to be found by the FDNY.
The press would have a field day with it, he knows. If he managed to survive, Kate would make certain to ensure he didn't the second time around. These days if he made the press, so did she. And so he made special care to avoid the jackals, was remarkably adept considering the playboy ways he was known for. He'd spent the better half of a decade earning the extra attention and would spend the rest of his life trying to avoid it. He knew she appreciated the effort. She wouldn't kill him, maybe just hurt him a little.
As his senses return to him he spies his jeans and t-shirt laying discarded on the armchair. He stuffs himself into the outfit and shoves his feet in the blasted shoes. He doesn't remember his jeans being so snug yesterday. He runs into the living room, calls for Alexis, his mother. He hears screams and a hissing emanating from the kitchen and panic bubbles up in his chest.
God, let them be okay!
As he clears the living room, rounds the large posts obstructing his view, a scene that in any other circumstance would be comical affronts him. His mother is wildly, spraying the fire extinguisher in the general direction of the stove. She's all arms and red hair and shiny baubles. His daughter is standing stock still, her mouth in a wide 'O'. The lumpy, moss colored facial mask only adding to the absurdity of the moment.
God, I'll kill them!
He runs in, grabs the appliance from his mother. Swiftly snuffs the last of the flames. As he drops the extinguisher to the ground he is assaulted by a barrage of "Oh my God, Dad!" and "Darling!". His heart gradually resumes a more steady beat and he hugs them tight. They say they wanted to make him a going away breakfast before he left for the tour this afternoon. He curses his mother's culinary skills and wishes there had been a body.
He arrives at the precinct two hours late, wearily places a steaming container of coffee on Kate's desk and collapses into his chair.
"What happened to you?" she inquires. There is concern in her voice and maybe a little bit of sadness. As though she'd been looking forward to spending time with him before he left. A year ago there may have been a hint of frustration or annoyance. She knows him better now. Knows he only shows up for her, knows the research has become unimportant. Unnecessary. An expanse of pain, longing, lost time and regret has brought them here. A new sphere of hope, expectation and acceptance is beginning to emerge.
"Kitchen caught fire," he says as if it's an everyday occurrence. "Don't worry," he asserts, noting the distress flashing swiftly across her features, "Mother and Alexis are fine and staying at The Carlyle."
He quirks an eyebrow and lobs her a grin. She responds in kind.
"You happen to know a good contractor? It seems I have some renovations to undertake while I'm away. "
"Come on Castle, I'll drive you to the airport." She smiles warmly at him and hands over her cup. "Looks like you could use this more than me."
He nods, let's his fingers brush hers as she hands it over. He sees the shy smile and is charmed as she twirls her fingers around a loose curl.
"You need anyone to water your plants while you are away?"
The coffee sprays from his mouth in a fine aerosol and he just barely manages to conceal his face with a cupped hand before it can ruin her outfit.
"Um...yeah," he croaks. "That'd be nice."