When Castle walks out of the bathroom, steam in his wake, he finds his wife kneeling down, rummaging through her stuff. She already pulled out a couple shirts and – what is that she's holding? Underwear? Those are white cotton, not exactly the most alluring he's seen, so he feels a little silly for the reaction it triggers from his body. But eh, it's Kate he's talking about. The woman just oozes sex appeal twenty-four seven.
"Uh, Kate?" He asks, his voice coming out huskier than he planned on.
She takes a second or two to answer, intent on grabbing something that seems to be at the bottom of her backpack. She lets out a triumphant exclamation when she finally gets the garment out. It's a simple black bra. She's trying to kill him, most definitely.
She finally acknowledges him, flashing him a brief smile, and explains.
"Jocelyne just came up to tell me she's doing laundry, and she's got some extra room. So if we want to wash some of our clothes, now's the perfect time. I can't believe how nice she is," Kate adds to herself, gathering the t-shirts and underwear.
Castle hears the words Jocelyne and laundry and clothes in some distant part of his brain, but that's not where his interest presently lies. Beckett – he still calls her that sometimes, can't help it really – has tied her wet hair into a messy bun, and she's standing with her back to him. The smooth line of her neck, the fair skin that he knows to be so soft: they're just calling for his attention.
He moves stealthily, splaying his hands on her hips, finding that space between her shirt and her jeans with his fingers. Kate tenses up in surprise, then relaxes against him.
This is the moment when the realization of how lucky he is hits him with the most strength. The fact that she'll allow him close, that she will let herself be vulnerable in his arms; it's cause of infinite wonder, of endless delight.
"Rick," she whispers, and he hears her smile in her voice, hears the mesh of surprise and pleasure that his move has elicited in her.
She's amazing. And she's his.
He presses an open-mouthed kiss to the junction between neck and shoulder, feels Kate's breath hitching in response. God, he wants to spend his life doing this, finding every way to make her breath catch in her throat. Gorgeous, gorgeous throat, he thinks, letting his lips wander between that and her ear before he follows the same path again, this time with the tip of his tongue.
Kate moans, throws her head back against his shoulder. He forgets sometimes how well she fits against him without the heels on.
"Castle," she murmurs as he flips her over, wanting to kiss her in a way that their previous position wouldn't allow. But her hands land on his chest, and she pushes him back, something his brain cannot account for. Her green eyes meet his, dark and bottomless, and she licks at her lips before saying, "Laundry."
He looks at her in disbelief, wondering if she's playing with him. Who cares about the damn laundry? But then he sees her trying to put herself together – which is the opposite of what he wants – and suddenly the laundry becomes a very serious thing.
Looking around, he grabs his backpack, quickly sorts out his dirty clothes from the clean ones, walks back to the bed, picking up the nice little pile formed by Kate's stuff. When he glances at his wife, he's relieved to find she hasn't moved. She's still leaning against the bed end; and from the way her mouth twists, she's holding back a smile.
"I'll go give these to… Jocelyne," he says, trying to get the pronunciation right. At least Kate doesn't laugh at him. "I'll be quick. You just – stay here. Don't move," he pleads. "I'll be right back."
Then he tumbles out of the door, desperate to find their kind hostess. Kate's mouth, soft and melting under his, is the only thing he can think of.
He comes back as quick as he can, but Kate's back in the bathroom, drying her hair, and Rick feels himself sag in disappointment.
"You said you wouldn't move," he can't help but complain childishly, leaning against the doorframe.
"Actually, Castle," she answers, her bright green eyes meeting his in the mirror, "I didn't say anything. You assumed."
He pouts at her, and she smiles softly. Damn, she's hard to resist. He tries to make his point another way.
"You do realize it's our honeymoon, right? We're sort of supposed to…" He hesitates for a second, and it's all she needs.
"Go at it like rabbits?" She suggests, her graceful posture and poised expression negating her words with a skill he wishes he could match.
He's just going to have to let her win this time. He knows, from the very way she stands, that she won't let him get close again.
Kate must feel how disappointed he is, because she says, "Come on, Rick. I want to watch the sunset from those hills. And I want to eat something first. So get ready."
Okay, so he likes her bossy self. The bossy self that won't let him wallow in misery. He grins, sinks to the floor, his back to the bathroom wall. His wife raises an eyebrow at him.
"I'm ready," he explains, shrugging. "I'll just wait for you."
"And watch me dry my hair?" She asks, her lips curling into a shadow of a smile.
He shrugs again. Deal with it.
Clearly she doesn't mind so much; she simply turns back to the mirror, letting out a small, "Creep."
"Tease," he shoots back immediately.
The shadow becomes a smile in its own right. She keeps silent, however, conceding him the point – at least, that's how he chooses to interpret it. The blow dryer's sounds quickly take over, and Rick settles more comfortably against the wall, his eyes following her every move.
Beautiful.
And even that word doesn't come anywhere near describing her.
Because Kate spends, no doubt, much less time on her hair than any other woman he's ever been with (another reason to love her, if he needs any more), it's not long before they're out of their room and walking down the stairs. They run into a four-person family who must be another bedroom's occupants – the parents are a couple between thirty-five and forty years old, then there's a boy who's probably twelve or so, and a girl, slightly younger. They all have pale blonde hair (they could almost be the Malfoy family, Rick thinks with a well-hidden smirk) and seeing how they respond to Kate's hello in impeccable English, he guesses that they must be from a Nordic country, Denmark or Sweden, maybe. He remembers reading something about Nordic people's special gift for languages.
Jocelyne is back at the desk when they reach the entrance, and Kate, smiling, asks the older woman for some advice as to the best path to get to the Lac de la Bancalié. She must really like their hostess; Castle is accustomed to a more independent version of his wife, one who finds things out by herself, asking for help only when she can think of no other way. It reminds him of how much he still has to learn about her. He should never make the mistake of thinking that he's got her all figured out.
Yes, he knows Precinct-Beckett well – well enough to follow her thinking process, at least, and predict rather accurately what her next move will be – but Casual Kate is still something of a stranger, no matter how much time he's spent with her over the last year. Casual Kate he can convince to spend the day in bed with him; Casual Kate likes the museum and the park and sometimes even holds his hand in the street. He cannot take Casual Kate to the movies without her making friends with people in the line, or the cashier, or the couple sitting next to them in the theatre.
Needless to say, he's developed quite a fondness for Casual Kate.
The sound of his wife laughing brings him back from his thoughts; she's still speaking French with Jocelyne, too fast for him to understand everything. He feels a bit silly, remembering how he was planning to impress Kate with his somewhat decent knowledge of the language. Didn't take him long to revise that idea. How is it that her French is that good, anyway? Russian he has an explanation for – the semester in Kiev – but French? She eluded his question when he asked before, so he'll have to pry it out of her. He's looking forward to it.
Ah, fraises. Strawberries. That, he understands. He listens more attentively, gathers that Jocelyne's husband (Jacques, if he's not mistaken) cultivates a small patch of land outside the village, and that's where most of their fruit and vegetables come from. The woman is suggesting that they take strawberries (or cherries, or something else he doesn't grasp) with them, since the lake is an hour's walk away. Castle intervenes, because he can tell that Kate is trying to find a polite way to say no, and he is starting to feel hungry already.
"Des fraises, c'est très bien," he says with a warm smile, hoping to get it right. "Merci beaucoup."
Their hostess beams at him, and disappears into the next room – the kitchen, probably – to fetch the fruit. Kate's eyes are on him, half surprised (maybe he can impress her a little, after all), half scolding.
"Castle," she murmurs. "The woman's nice enough as it is. We can get our own food."
"But she was offering," he reasons. "And did you see how happy she looked? She wants us to have those strawberries, Kate. Why disappoint her? I'm kind of hungry, anyway."
"A walking stomach, that's what you are," she replies, rolling her eyes, but he hasn't missed the way her lips curved upward for a split second right there.
Jocelyne makes her reappearance with enough fruit to feed a small army, and she warmly encourages them to take as much as they want. It's part of the room's price, she assures when she takes notice of Kate's reluctance.
Though Castle isn't sure about the fruit, he does know that chambres d'hôtes include meals in their prices, and he asks the red-haired woman at what time dinner is served.
"Vers huit heures," she answers with a smile.
He translates mentally – eight – and glances at his watch. It's a little after five-thirty. They can make it, but if Kate wants to watch the sunset…
The next minutes have him fighting to hold his grin in check. His wife tells Jocelyne not to wait for them, because they probably won't be back before nine, but the kind-hearted woman replies that she'll leave their supper in the dinner room for them, and they can warm it up in the microwave when they get back. Kate tries to convince her that there's really no need to bother, but their hostess is as inflexible as she is friendly, and in the end the detective can only yield and accept it gracefully. It's a rare enough spectacle that Rick finds himself thoroughly entertained.
So they leave with strawberries and cherries safely tucked in their backpacks, and the promise of a warm meal whenever they get back. Castle can't remember why he ever had objections to hiking in the south of France (especially if it involves watching as Kate's stubbornness meets its match). Of course she catches him smiling, and sends a murderous glance his way.
"Not funny, Richard," she says pointedly. Even she cannot hold back her amusement, though, and he watches with delight as a smile lights up the green eyes he's come to love so much.
His wife.
Hell, he must have been a really good guy in his previous lives, to have gotten such a reward in this one.
