December 3 - I Never Took My True Heart; I Never Wrote it Down
Beckett has Esposito text him to say they're all coming over. Gates had them catching up on paperwork on a Saturday and then the on-call team got a double homicide, which meant that Beckett and the boys gave some back-up, and now it's late and they just want to have a few beers and badmouth a Captain who ruins the weekend and murderers who never rest. She let the boys talk her into it; she's not sure what she'll do, this late in the evening when she's tired.
Tired and more honest than she maybe should be.
Castle meets them at his bar; he's wearing that beautiful wool coat that makes him look taller than he is, his shoulders broad. His hands twitch when he sees her, but he greets Espo with a fist bump and pats Kevin on the back with a comment. His hair is in his eyes and he's got that wide and crinkly smile as he looks at her. He gestures for them to go on in.
Her hand on his forearm stops him. The boys shuffle past into the Old Haunt and she waits out on the bottom step with him. He looks at her with questions in his eyes. The darkness is out there somewhere, but it's cozy in the cone of the security lamps hanging over the bar's sign, the golden lamplight filtering through the windows.
She has too many questions and not enough answers. She can't even ask her questions because of. . .everything. Does Castle even know what he's doing to her? All these little gifts and the new song every day and can he even know?
"Hey, Kate, it's just the holidays, okay?" He flips his arm under her touch and takes her hand; she forgot she still had her fingers on his forearm, forgot not to touch him. She untangles their hands and puts both of hers in her coat pockets.
She nods. "Just the holidays."
"And just. . .let it mean whatever you want it to mean."
Oh, that's too close. She looks away, through the glass and wood and into the bar's warm interior. Kate shivers and hunches her shoulders so that her scarf covers her jaw. It's the first snap of cold; snow has fallen at her dad's place. He sent her a photo to her work email this morning.
"I liked the song," she says finally, turning back to look at him. "They have an album or-?"
He laughs. "Arcade Fire? Yeah, they've got a few." Castle leans against the exterior of the bar, his hands going into his pockets now as well. He looks good in relief like this, the warm light on one side of his face, the darkness of the night creating those deep shadows. Her fingers curl in her pocket.
"You think I'd like them?"
He regards her for a long moment, and if she squints and doesn't look at him too closely, then she can pretend he's just mentally surveying her question, and not mentally surveying her. Kate.
"I think you'd love them. If you gave them a chance."
She lifts startled eyes to his. So he *does* know what he's doing; he has to. It's a plan. Three days ago when she opened that first window and accepted it, all of this, she thought maybe he didn't know what he was asking of her.
He knows. She's got to make a response to that. "I can. . .listen to them. Try them out."
Kate holds his gaze for a moment, and she knows he understands. He gets it. Castle drops his eyes first, straightens up, his face clouded by things she doesn't understand.
"Any suggestions?" she says quickly, as if she feels the need to prove herself, prove she can do this.
Can she do this?
Maybe not. But he's put them on this path, he's pushed it, and she sat down in the road stubbornly and refused to move. And then he came along and prodded her, and now look. She's taken the first step of this journey. She won't turn around now. She can't go back.
"'Crown of Love,'" he says immediately, and his eyes find hers. Challenge accepted, but who threw down the gauntlet first, she has no idea.
"Okay." She feels the need to pull out her phone and make a note, but they're not really talking about music, are they?
Are they?
Just in case, she slides her phone out of her pocket and adds a note, her heart pounding because she's not sure anymore what signals she's sending out or what he means, what does he mean?, and she wants only for things to be clear between them. Not muddied.
"What else?" she says, but calls up her web browser and looks up Arcade Fire, scrolling through their albums and song titles. She's not sure she can keep watching his face as he uses her heart for target practice, throwing darts for a bull's-eye.
"My Body Is a Cage," he says, and the gentleness in his voice makes her eyes fly to his. He's closer than he was just a minute ago, and her fingers fumble on her phone; he reaches out and catches it before it can drop.
Crap. She's. . .clumsy in front of Castle. That's not good.
She takes her phone back, her eyes tracking the song titles on her search result desperately, as if she needs an answer, something to keep the conversation moving (she can't let it be silent, and fraught with possibility, and tempting lips) and so she blurts out the first title that catches her eye.
"How about 'Ready to Start'?"
He makes a noise in this throat, and she can feel the hard arrhythmia of her heart in her chest, berating her. Ready to start?
She's not ready.
"Hopefully," he says, and has to clear his throat. His hand has come up to her elbow; she can feel the press of his thumb even through her coat. "Hopefully by the time you've listened to a few songs, maybe a whole album, 'Ready to Start' will be perfect. For you."
Kate closes her eyes.
What has she done?
