Wishes Chapter Four (Rated T)
This picks up immediately after the end of chapter 2. The M-rated chapter 3 can be inserted into the middle of chapter 2, but even if you skipped that one, you can pick this up right where you left off.
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Castle stares dumbly at the newly-cut key that is now catching the sunshine pouring through the open drapes as it dangles down from the Nebula Nine keychain.
His mind flashes back to this morning, when he surfaced from one of the deepest, soundest sleeps he has had in a long while to a single beam of light through his blinds, and a snuggling length of woman against his side. One of the benefits of having a teenager at Christmas time is that he is no longer woken before dawn by a tiny, blue-eyed redhead jumping on his bed to go open Santa's presents. But recently, until this year, until Kate, he has been feeling ambivalent about his ability to sleep in on Christmas morning. This holiday is not meant to be started alone in a cold bed; it's meant to be shared with the people you love. Now, well, now his heart's desire is stretching like a cat, and making this little sated humming noise against his shoulder, and catching the streak of golden morning light with her messy curls.
"Merry Christmas, Castle."
Her voice is rough with sleep, and it's happy, so very happy. Banding his arms around her warm, supple body, he rolls her under him, prompting a laugh and a smile.
"Yes, it is."
And then he kisses her, just because he can, just because she's the best present he's ever gotten, and he wants to memorize this moment, because he never wants to wake up any other way on Christmas morning ever again. Unless it involves a little hazel-eyed brunette bouncing on their bed.
Too much, too fast, he knows. So he focuses on how he's gotten exactly what he wished for.
"Dad?"
His daughter's voice breaks him out of the memory, and he snaps back to what's just happened under the tree.
Kate's giving him her key right in front of his family. On Christmas morning. A little tendril of panic creeps into his gut.
How on earth is he not prepared for this?
Why isn't his key wrapped up in a little red box for her? The thought just hadn't crossed his mind that she might do this, be ready for this, make such a public statement out of this...
But really he needs to say something, because his cheeks are getting sore from the sheer magnitude of his smile.
"Wait right here."
Jumping up with more ease than his joints would normally allow, and crossing the room to his office, he grabs the fob from his top drawer. It's been here since... well since two days after she showed up at his door soaking wet and ready to start whatever this is that's growing by leaps and bounds every day.
"I'm sorry it's not wrapped. I've had it..."
It's tacky, he knows it is, but it's too late to take the key to his loft off the "I-heart-Nikki" wooden keychain. Kate can deal, or she can switch it to something less obnoxious if she wants to. That's not the point. The point is, reciprocation, swift and immediate. Because she scooped him. He has been waiting and waiting for the right time, and now her Christmas present has stolen his thunder, and he swears that is not happening the next time, though he's not pulling out that little box any time soon. Besides, he really couldn't care less about being caught unawares, because Kate just gave him her key.
Holding out her palm for the offering with a bit more assertiveness behind her smile, she inspects the little rectangle, gives him a raised eyebrow, but nevertheless closes her fist around it and tucks it into the pocket of her pajamas.
Having nearly forgotten they had an audience, he scans the faces of his mother and daughter. This is their home, too, after all, and though both have known about the key sitting in his desk drawer for months, they have also had their reservations about her level of commitment. His mother's grin and overblown wink are easy to see from her position behind Kate, and Alexis has one thumb firmly stuck up in the air nestled close to her body out of Kate's line of sight. So that's a plus. The redheads approve.
Well, it seems almost anti-climactic now, but he figures she ought to open her actual present eventually. Nodding in the direction of the box, laying forgotten on the floor, he reminds her.
"Your turn."
The paper is torn off in seconds-it seems the Castle-Rogers method of unwrapping has rubbed off on her. As she lifts the lid, tissue floats up from where it lies folded over the gift, but she carefully sets the lid aside before parting the crisp green leaves with a delicate rustle. His time is split between her hands and her face, takes in the shape of her eyes, as they widen and then quickly narrow, the gentle curve of a smile on her lips. When she takes the frame out, holds it right-side-up, peers over it at him, her expression is a mix of joy and confusion.
"You had someone sketch us?"
Letting out the breath he has been holding when he sees the sincerity of her happiness, he answers with a little more confidence than he has felt all morning.
"No, actually, I didn't."
"But this is us, in the park?"
She turns the 5-by-7-inch simple silver frame part-way toward him, and the image hits him deep in his chest all over again. It's a flowing, colorful scene from early fall, set in a quiet, flowered corner of the park. A woman with long, curling hair is facing mostly away, wrapped in the arms of a slightly taller, dark-haired man. They're not paying any mind to the artist, too caught up in a passionate kiss to notice whatever might be happening around them. The wind has kicked up her hair, blocking the artist's view of their faces, which have been left in vague, rosy strokes.
Alexis pipes up when he doesn't immediately answer Kate's question.
"See, I told him you'd think so, too."
Kate's questioning eyes need an explanation as she lightly traces the lines beneath the glass.
"I was meeting Alexis in the park for lunch a few weeks ago, and I was early, so I was walking along 5th by the Met. This woman on the sidewalk had sketches of everything from Obama to Angelina Jolie, but right up front she had a few scenes from the park."
Alexis continues his story, more invested in the gift than he has realized.
"He brought it to show me, thinking you might be upset because someone had seen you guys together, but I said I thought it was really beautiful, and he should give it to you as a gift."
"That's my green jacket, and your striped scarf. You can't see our faces, but that's definitely us."
There's no anger, no annoyance in her voice or her features. In fact, there's a dreamy softness about her as her eyes drift over the image. Her tone is hushed when she speaks, and he can't be sure that she's meant to say the words aloud.
"It has sort of a magical quality about it, don't you think-the light through the trees?"
"I know, right? I asked her if she remembered drawing it, and she just said she sits near the Ramble some mornings, and people usually don't know she's there, and she tries not to use faces, just shapes and colors and impressions."
"I remember that day."
"Me too."
He definitely remembers that day. It had been the morning of the Swan murder, and they hadn't seen each other at all the day before. Even though it wasn't on their way to the precinct, he had begged her to meet him in the park, because he was being greedy and wanted a few minutes with her before they had to start their day. Despite accusing him of "melodramatic pining," she somehow agreed to meet him anyway. They never show affection in public, and it hadn't been long after that they had a stark wake-up call about why they shouldn't do so anywhere near the precinct, but tucked into the Ramble at such a chilly, misty, early-morning hour, with nary a soul about, they had silently agreed to walk hand in hand.
And as always, he had taken it a step further, picked a secluded spot on a switchback in the path to turn and let her forward momentum carry her into his chest where he had held her, kept her, not let her go. Something about the glow of the orange sunrise through the trees, and the abrupt nearness, the feel of each other, warm and solid and there, had made her perch up on tiptoe, seek his lips, find their seam with her persuasive tongue. Never able to say no, he had drawn her in as tightly as his arms could manage, kissed her soundly, deeply, thoroughly, making up for more than a day without feeling her, tasting her, breathing her in.
Even now, the ridiculousness of that eager, impatient wanting, that instinct to keep her near and have her, feel her skin slick and soft against his, despite the fact that he'd spent the better part of four years at arm's length, is not lost on him.
Looking back, he is not surprised that they were lost in that kiss long enough to inspire. The picture is evidence that together they can play muse to complete strangers. It's the gravity of what they share that pulls people in, making them covet that intangible, positive energy radiating from their connection enough to reproduce it in whatever way they can.
Martha waves a Christmas-tree-clad sleeve at Kate to catch her attention.
"Let me see it again, darling. I only got a tiny peek right before he wrapped it."
Kate holds it up in Martha's direction, and he sees her eyes fall to the shiny silver rectangle affixed to the wooden back of the frame. This is what he's been afraid of-damn, she couldn't have found this later when it was just the two of them?
After he had picked out the frame, the gift shop saleswoman had brought up engraving. Knowing there was no way he would get away with putting something on the front and still have any chance of her ever displaying the picture, he had declined. Not that he really thought he had much chance of finding it in her living room, but still, hope springs eternal. But then that dedicated retail entrepreneur had pointed out that they could put the plate on the back, under the brace, where it wouldn't be seen unless someone knew it was there.
Something about engraving this picture spoke to him, maybe the timelessness of the act of carving one's thoughts into permanence, putting them on display where they can't be erased or denied.
Agreeing to the very pleased woman's plan, it hadn't taken him long to draft the words, words Kate seemed to be reading right at this moment.
"Kate, Inspiring now and always. I love you. -RC"
The curving script spells out foolish, sentimental drivel. He knows it is. But he hasn't been thinking straight since they've been together; it must be all the happy endorphins from so much fantastic sex. Oh who is he kidding, he's smitten, and he wants the whole world to know he finally got the girl, and he just loves her so much that it leaks out of him, sometimes in the form of engraved silver plates on the backs of picture frames.
But instead of the glare or the eyeroll that he has been steeling himself for, he finds something he never expected-tears.
His mind kicks into panicked boyfriend mode as the subtle pools of moisture gather at her lower lids. After the tears the night before, he's kept things carefully happy and light, but of course this present is going to make her cry sitting under the Christmas tree. Damn.
But before his brain can spiral any further down the rabbit hole of self-loathing, she blinks twice, and the tears are gone in that miraculous way girls can sometimes make them disappear and replaced by a shy little smile.
She likes it.
His whole body relaxes, lungs let in air. And when she finds his eyes, he gives her a tiny nod, a raise of his brows, and her face opens up in a wide, toothy grin. His mother stands suddenly, collecting her gifts and not-so-subtly clearing her throat.
"Alexis, why don't we go check on breakfast?"
Tugging sharply on the collar of the girl's candy cane pajamas, she clears the room for them in an unexpected moment of motherly insight.
Kate sets the frame on the coffee table, brushes an unruly lock of hair behind her ear, refolds the paper and tidies the box. Running out of things to do with her hands and eyes and concentration, her body just stills, fingers loosely gripping her knees, and she stares at the sketch.
"You like it?"
She nods.
"Even the-"
Her eyes darting to meet his stop him mid-phrase.
"Especially the back."
The smile just flows over him, and he starts to unfold his legs, reach over to kiss her "you're welcome," but he puts his hand down on top of his gift from her, making the brass objects strike and clink together. Pausing to pick up his new key, he scoots close to her, cradles it in his palm.
"I love mine, too. But not as much as the one I unwrapped last night."
That's an evil grin if he's ever seen one.
"Ah, but this one gives you easy access to the other one whenever you want..."
Oh, he loves the way her mind works.
"Have I mentioned I'm glad you decided to stay?"
"You might have, once or twice."
His interrupted lean continues, shoulder making first contact, hand coming up into her hair, fingers stroking her scalp, eyes flitting over the blushing apple of her cheek, the half-moon of her chin, the soot of her lashes as her eyes drop to his lips. Barely brushing the pout of her lower lip with his kiss, he feels her shiver just before her mouth opens to him, chasing for more contact. He delays her, shifting his eyes to glance around the room.
"Don't suppose there are any sketch artists lurking around to capture us making out in our Christmas PJs?"
"Don't think so, but both those women both have iPhones with above average cameras."
"They wouldn't dare. I have too much blackmail material on them from Christmases past."
And with a single note of a low chuckle, she finds his lips with her peppermint-scented smile, invades his mouth with her coffee-flavored tongue, carefully tangles it with his. By the time they surface, she is breathless and filling his lap, and that's probably for the best, since his family is in the kitchen, and flannel isn't going to hide his enjoyment of the past few minutes.
"Breakfast is served, family come hither and partake of the feast so nobly prepared this glorious Christmas morn!"
Clutching the lapels of his sleep shirt, her brow furrows.
"Wait? Did your mother make breakfast?"
"Nope. But she plated it, and in her mind that counts as full participation as it pertains to bragging rights."
Soft smile returning, she pats his chest.
"Oh good, I was worried I was going to have to come up with an excuse to leave wearing these ridiculous pajamas."
Planting a messy kiss, she uses his shoulders to push up off the floor, pops her back stretching and starts to turn to the kitchen for food.
Letting out a quiet laugh, the memory, the stark, heart-freezing fear of last night hits him again. He'd had to beg her to stay, to stare down her past and find some way to envision their future. And he'd almost failed. But now, well now she's worried she might have to leave before breakfast. Deciding it's time to retrieve something he had given up on, he takes a detour to the back of the tree.
Searching only for a moment, his eyes light on the silver ornament, hung by its purple satin ribbon in a nondescript spot out of sight. For all the worry he had spent on what she would think of her gift, he had wasted twice as much on this, enough to decide to keep it to himself, hide it in the shadow of bigger, flashier ornaments where no one would notice. He had thought he could show it to her next year, that by then maybe she could appreciate the sentiment.
But after all the words and actions and understanding that have been given and received since she came to his door last night, he thinks it's time to bring this into the light.
Her hands startle him, wrapping around his waist from behind, pulling in close to warm his back with the soft press of her body against his.
"Whatcha got there?"
It's her curious voice, the one she uses for asking about Nikki Heat chapter previews and about clues cuddled with him on Sunday mornings over the Times crossword.
"I got it at the same place as your frame. Thought maybe I should put it out where shows."
Tilting the oval disc so its surface faces her, he reads the lines quietly in his head. After a moment, she extends one finger to trace them with its tip.
"K. B. + R. C.
Christmas 2012"
Her hand closes over it as she unwraps herself from around him and steps gingerly through opened packages to the very front of the tree.
Reaching for a branch at eye level, she closes her eyes, pausing just before letting the ribbon settle on the fluffy finger of evergreen. The tiniest smile crosses her lips, and then she opens her eyes, eyes that snap at his with the bright, shiny emerald of their tree and melt over him with the soft, liquid pull of her wish.
Finding his hands with hers, tugging him forward until their flannel-clad hips meet, Kate lays bare only promise, hope, and light when she answers the question he hasn't had to ask.
"I'll tell you this time next year."
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To my wonderful readers: Happy Holidays, Merry Christmas, and I truly hope that now that we have survived the Mayan apocalypse together, that we can all have a prosperous, safe, and happy 2013. Thank you for the outpouring of reviews. Holy Christmas cookies, you guys are so nice to me! All your words are by far the best present I'll have under my tree this year.
I've debated stopping this story here, but I do have a thought for a New Year's chapter. Let me know your feelings.
Joy, thank you for the vacation beta, above and beyond as always. First round of Margaritas is on me, my dear.
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