When midnight comes and finds me alone
Like the tides you turn and the clouds you roll
And I'm stuck in a dream that will not let me go
I can close my eyes and see the shape of you
Can you see mine?
Can you see mine?
-"Trace of You" Peter Bradley Adams
Kate likes the scratch of his jacket against her skin, his arm linked through hers like a chain, a delightful reminder that she is going out with Richard Castle.
Tonight.
A date.
She takes a deep breath, turns her head to watch the city and hide the smile that threatens to take over her face.
A hostile takeover.
She's not sure she cares.
Castle hasn't called for a cab, nor has he stopped for a car service and Kate's interest is piqued. She wants to know what he has planned for her, wants to know what this date of theirs consists of.
It isn't that she hates surprises, it's just that she….hates surprises. She hates the not knowing part, the uncertainty, the nervousness that comes like a fleet of ships, sharp and intense.
Surely Castle must know this. He knows so much about her. Sometimes that unnerves her, catches her off guard like a punch.
But sometimes, sometimes it makes her feel seen, like she's more than just a cop or a woman but someone who matters.
The thought always send a flush of red to her chest, a bright pigment that makes her eternal.
They walk in silence, snug like a sweater, and Kate is acutely aware of how his muscles shift underneath his blazer, the thin fabric exotic and familiar at the same time.
He keeps her close, but doesn't connect their hands, just presses her arm to his, a squeeze of contentment, of possibility.
"Where are we going Castle?" She breaks their silence, turns to him with an arched eyebrow, hoping that it will make her formidable but knowing that her eyes are leaking joy, overflowing with it.
A mess she wants to never clean up.
"You'll see." He grins, the amber light from the streetlamps carving his face like a jack-o-lantern.
"Castle." She admonishes, not willing to give him her amusement yet.
"Do you trust me?" He asks softly, beautiful like cotton, spun into comfort.
She blinks; her heart speeds up like a car on the highway. "Yes."
He only smiles, nudges her shoulder with his, the gesture playful unlike the weight of his words, the intent of his eyes, glowing bright like fireflies in this New York night.
The street that they are on is deserted, and she can feel the hum of excitement in him. There is nothing here, she notes, wondering just what she's gotten herself into, the grind of the sidewalk under her shoes only heightens her awareness. Castle likes fancy, shiny things, good restaurants and expensive wine.
This street caters to none of that.
She begins to feel suspicious.
They turn into an alley and Kate halts, stops abruptly, making Castle jerk back. The night here is dark like a bruise and she wishes for her gun, nervousness leaches into her like a parasite.
"We're almost there," his voice ricochets off the brick like shrapnel.
Still she doesn't move and Castle lets her arm go, moves deeper into the darkness. She hears a groan of metal, heavy and solid and then:
"Kate. Come on, through here."
She hesitates for a second but moves forward, guided by the outline of him framed like a portrait near the door.
He gestures for her to go first and he follows, his hand on the skin of her back makes her ruthlessly suppress a shiver.
"Where are we?" She asks once the door is closed. Castle is behind her, she can feel his breath against her exposed neck like a whisper. He moves to the right, away from her and suddenly the darkness evaporates like water on a hot day.
She is standing in the wings of a theater, the smell of greasepaint and wood, heavy curtains and ancient ropes assault her senses. She turns to him, confusion etched onto her face like lines in the sand.
He only smiles and takes her hand, his palm warm against hers, the hollow place between them like safety.
She lets him lead her onto the stage, his steps sure and giddy, excited about something she doesn't understand.
The wood grunts beneath their feet, the grain old and tired like the theater itself, shabby and run down Kate notices, sees the moth eaten curtains and frayed ropes. She looks to the center, drawn by the flush of incandescence downstage and sees, for the first time a blanket and picnic basket set up, waiting like a patient puppy.
She looks at him and his smile is bright, brimming with excitement. "Castle what is this?"
"This is dinner," he says tugging her towards center stage, pulling her down on the cushions set up.
"Dinner?" She questions, adjusting herself on the blanket, moving into a position that doesn't hike up her dress.
She doesn't want to give him any ideas, now does she?
"Yes. When I was a little kid, my mother was doing plays here, and after matinees, if I was good, we would have a picnic on the stage. It was my favorite thing, this weekend picnic, so I tried so hard to be good through the whole show so we could do this." He smiles at her, his little boy smile, and she can see him, scrappy and a little disheveled, trying desperately to contain himself, wanting the reward so badly it hurt.
She realizes that after all they've been through; they never talk about things like this, never a past that contains good memories like a scrapbook. She's stunned, honored that he would share this memory with her, so intimate, echoes of his childhood like a music box, the sound tinkering and light.
He pulls out sandwiches, bread that looks crusty and good and handmade. He gives her one, a small smile at the corner of his mouth like a kiss.
"It's peanut butter," he says watching her unwrap it. "We didn't have a lot of money in those days so Mother would make us peanut butter sandwiches, apples and chips, of course. The perfect meal for a seven year old."
She laughs, airy and free and she sees his breath catch at the sound, like it might be his favorite song. She blushes and ducks her head.
He pulls out chips and apples, to illustrate his point and she laughs again, the sound magnified by the theater's acoustics. She vaguely wonders how long it's been since she's felt so happy, so unlike herself with this dark weight against her heart, suffocating all the progress she tries so achingly hard to make.
Tonight, thought.
Tonight she only feels happy, an agile and effervescent thing deep within her, curling around her heart and dislodging the pain that nestles against it like a bramble, slowly picking out the prongs that try to burrow further into the soft tissue.
She looks at Castle, his face painted with love, with joy, with contentment just from being here, with her, sharing this part of himself like an offering. He is beautiful; she can see that now, here in the low lights of this dilapidated theater. She leans over and brushes her fingers against his, catches his attention like a bug in a jar.
Her smile breaks across her face, like dawn on the horizon and she lets him see it, all of it, all of her, like he always has and she's only now just figuring it out.
"This is perfect." She says, not knowing any other way to describe this to him, this feeling inside her, this knowledge that she carries around with her like a charm.
Call it like it is, Kate.
This love.
"You haven't seen what we have for desert yet." He teases, taking a big bite of his sandwich, mouth sticky with peanut butter and mirth.
She arches her eyebrow, "Oh?"
"Yeah just wait."
"I'm breathless with anticipation." She drops her voice and he visibly swallows.
She could get used to this.
Author's note: What does Castle have planned for desert? Knowing him, something completely unexpected.
Also, thank you to all those who reviewed, who favorited this, who put it on story alert.
Disclaimer: I do not own Castle because if I did, we wouldn't be waiting this long for Kill Shot.