Title: Good For You
Disclaimer: Kind of still at college…
Summary: When the Dragon is slain, there's just a life to be lived. And sometimes there's more to learn in peace than in war.
Chapter 4:
"Darlings!" his mother greets them as they close the door to the loft, pants dripping water onto the floor. "You're here. Oh, and you're soaked."
Kate gives her a tired smile as she hands him her umbrella and raincoat. Castle hangs their coats over the hall chair and reaches inside them to grab their electronics, pocketing his phone and leaving hers on the side table.
His mother returns with towels and hands one to Kate as she wipes her wet hair off her face.
"Thank you, Martha," she says quietly.
His mother clucks her tongue and reaches out to squeeze her hand. "Nonsense. Can I make you a cup of tea? You look frozen."
"That would be great," Kate replies, allowing his mother to bring her through and into the kitchen, where she ushers her up onto a stool.
He follows, listening as his mother prattles on as she grabs the kettle and fills it with water. She's wearing that trippy pant suit again, the one with the colors that nearly give him a headache. But Kate is smiling tiredly at her, and he might love his mother just a little more for that—for the warmth she gives his girlfriend.
"Richard, go get this woman a sweatshirt or something, honestly."
He frowns at his mother, but Kate's snickering into her hand, so he turns his gaze to her instead. "You too?"
"You heard her, Castle. Get me something warm."
Her eyes twinkle exhaustedly at him as he saunters over to plant his hands on her shoulders, waiting until she tips her head back to look up at him. His mother turns back to the kettle, in a rare show of privacy, and he takes the opportunity to bend over Kate and find her lips with his.
"I could warm you up in other ways," he mumbles softly against her lips, her nose pressing into his chin.
"First my mother, now yours?" she scoffs as he pulls back. "I'm starting to think you have some sort of oedipian exhibition complex."
He rears back in disgust and she laughs at him. "Is that actually a thing?"
"I really hope not," she says, giving Martha a smile as the woman turns around.
"Richard."
"Going," he says hastily, retreating to his room to find her a sweater and a new pair of pants, since his mother obviously missed the surge of wet denim his girlfriend—he does love that word—developed by kneeling in the muddy grass for over two hours.
He shucks out of his own wet jeans and replaces them along with his socks. He steps into a pair of slippers and wanders back out into the living room, listening as his mother regales Kate with a wild story from the party she attended the previous evening. Kate nods along, hands wrapped around the large mug his mother placed in front of her.
He comes up behind her and drapes the sweatshirt over her shoulders, sliding the folded jeans onto the counter as he sits down next to her. She turns and gives him a smile, pushing her mug toward him.
Surprised, he takes a sip and tastes the hint of her lip balm, the kind she only wears at home. It's funny, the things he's picked up from a month of being with her, even though they rarely spent much time at either of their homes.
She's talking to his mother again, but he's not really listening. His head's too caught up the sight of her wet on the ground in front of her mother's grave—of the reality that no matter what, she'll never have a mother like he does, and the things he wants for her, with her, will all be colored by that loss. He wishes it were different, but knows that the only course to now came from then. It makes him ache, to think that he gets her because she can't have her mother.
Her hand finds his knee, squeezes, and he takes a breath, bringing himself back to the present. There will be joy, despite the loss. There will be happiness and love and laughter again, without the constant threat of tears and trembles and gripping hugs on both sides. It comes with time, with sitting in his kitchen, listening to his mother.
"Do you two have plans for the next two weeks?" Martha asks, making an obvious effort to re-include him in the conversation, giving him quite a look. At least they're taking turns.
He looks at Kate and finds her regarding him with curiosity. Was he supposed to plan something? Crap. "Uh…"
She laughs and steals the mug back from him. "Just relaxing, I think," she tells his mother. "Might be nice to see a little theatre, catch the movies we've missed."
"We never did make it to The Bourne Legacy."
"Is that even still playing?" she wonders as she rubs at her side.
"Somewhere, I'm sure," he shrugs, running his hand over her back. "Do you want something for that?"
"Are you hurt, dear?" Martha asks, leaning her elbows on the counter across from them.
Kate hesitates for a moment before sagging, her back coming to rest against his hand. "I took a slam to a brick wall yesterday and my ribs weren't pleased."
His mother tuts and whirls around, throwing open the cabinet with the tea and medicine. She searches for a minute while Castle moves his thumb in circles against the soft material of Kate's shirt. Her fingers sweep over her side more pointedly, finding the place he know marks the thin surgery scar.
"Pulling?"
"Yeah," she mumbles, frustrated. "Maybe something's swollen. It doesn't normally do that."
"See," he sighs, sliding his hand under hers to get better pressure on the scar. She lets out a low breath and shoots him a pained smile as he finds the right place with his thumb. "When you say things like swollen, it just makes me want to take you to the hospital."
She groans and rubs at her temple. "What, you don't want to play doctor?" she asks, her voice a few notes lower, though the effect is kind of quelled by the wince as he digs a little too deep.
"Only if you're wearing a naughty nurse outfit, and right now, I'm thinking it might not be the most pleasant experience."
"Richard, stop fantasizing; Kate's hurt," his mother chides, returning to hand Kate a glass of water and an Aleve. "This should help."
Kate grins and downs the pills, silently laughing at him as he glares at his mother. "I was actually saying I want to get her checked out."
Kate shakes her head vigorously and his mother considers them. "Perhaps give it another night? No reason to spend time in the hospital if it's not critical."
"Thank you," Kate says quietly as he sighs.
His mother's right, and on top of that, the pallor of Kate's skin at the thought of the hospital already had him running the other way. He'll have to ask her about that sometime soon. They've never really discussed those months in detail—covered them in a few vicious fights, but never talked calmly. He's never gotten to ask about what it was like to lie in the hospital bed, ostensibly alone for much of that time, in pain, scared, and unable to move.
If the mere mention makes her pale, it can't be good. The only comfort he can take in it is that if she needs to go to the hospital again tomorrow, a week from now, or years from now, he can sit by her side, hold her hand, and tell her everything will be okay. And he'll be able to see for himself that she's alive and well.
"Okay," he concedes. "Are you staying for dinner, mother?"
"Depends on what we're having," she says, giving him a cheeky smile. Kate laughs beside him and he can't help but smile himself. "I was thinking about dropping in on Alexis otherwise."
"And you've okayed that with her?" he asks immediately. They made a pact, when Alexis decided to go to Columbia, that there would be no unsolicited visits. She was at college, even if they were still in the same city.
"She said she'd text me if she got her work done. You're welcome to join us, but she understands that the two of you might want to rest a day or two more before dining out."
He looks over at Kate just in time to see her straighten herself up, putting on a mask of energy she certainly doesn't have. He really wants to see his kid, but he wants to look healthy and safe before he does. His knuckles hurt like hell and he's sure the bags under his girlfriend's eyes are equally mirrored under his own.
"Maybe tomorrow night she'd like to come over for dinner?" he suggests, and Kate deflates with a smile, nodding vigorously.
"That would be nice."
Martha hums her consent and takes out her phone, tapping away, a new skill she's picked up since Alexis left for college. She's a little too fond of abbreviations, and Alexis has bemoaned her incorrect use of 'BRB' and 'ROFL' more than once. But she's making an effort, and he knows his daughter appreciates it.
"Chinese?" Kate suggests, bringing his focus back from his mother.
"Sounds good. Do you want traditional stuff, or are you thinking fancy?"
She laughs and leans into him, her head finding purchase on his shoulder. "If it's got soy sauce, I'm happy."
"So easy to please," he says as he rests his cheek on the crown of her head.
"Not for long. Enjoy it."
"Oh, I plan to," he teases, scraping his nails lightly along her right side, delighting in her muted shiver. They're just going to sleep tonight. She needs a really full night of uninterrupted sleep. By the way his shoulders are starting to cramp up, so does he.
She shivers again and he realizes she's cold, sitting at the counter in her wet jeans. He pushes the clean pair toward her and she nods against his shoulder, breathing for a moment before she straightens up and grabs the pants. She hops down from the stool and moves toward his office just as his mother looks up from her new iPhone.
"How are you, really?" she asks, setting the phone down as she comes to stand directly across from him.
He sighs and meets her eyes, feeling rather young. "We're okay. She's," he pauses and tries to find the right words. "Reeling. But we're good, and I think—I want to think I'm helping."
Martha smiles and walks around the counter to sit next to him. She slides her hand into his and squeezes as he turns to look at her. "Why were you wet?"
"She went to visit her mother and I, uh, went to get her," he explains.
"And how are you, Richard?"
"Me?"
His mother nods and gives him that look—the one she used to use when he was a kid—the spill your secrets look.
"I'm," he shakes his head, forces himself to find the honesty he so values in Kate now. "I'm shaken."
His mother nods and brings his injured hand up to her lips, in a gesture of affection that he hasn't felt from her in many years. Too many, really—he stopped looking for comfort too young, found his independence too soon. Maybe if he'd been needier, she would have been more attentive.
But she's there now, and there's a strength she exudes that seeps into his veins just as he hears Kate padding back into the room. His mother gently pats his palm and stands up, making grand overtures about going upstairs to freshen up, and for them to call her when dinner arrives.
He turns to look at Kate, fishing his phone out of his pocket, and finds her settled on the couch, head turned toward him. She watches as he makes his way to her, calling in their order for dumplings, and spare ribs, fried rice, wanton soup, and scallion pancakes.
When he's finished, he plops down next to her, smiling as she tosses her feet into his lap. She has a habit of stealing his socks, he's noticing, and it takes him a few squeezes to find her feet beneath the fabric. She smiles as he works the knots out of her feet, her head falling to rest against her elbow long the back of the couch.
"Is this hurting your hand?" she asks after a few minutes.
He shrugs. It is, but he's rather enjoying her little sighs of pleasure. She frowns and pulls her feet away, swinging herself around so that they're side by side. She reaches out and flicks his thigh.
"Don't martyr yourself just so I can relax."
He turns to defend himself but finds her already waiting with an unimpressed glare. "Fine," he huffs.
"I appreciate it," she adds, running her fingers over his thigh, stroking little patterns that relax his entire body. "But don't be stupid about it."
"It wasn't stupid," he protests as he runs his arm along the back of the couch to settle on her shoulders. "Maybe you're just too alluring, moaning like that."
"I wasn't moaning," she shoots back, even as her hand tightens briefly on his thigh. "But seriously, I get that—you're," she pauses and takes a breath, biting at her lower lip. "Don't make this all about me."
He opens his mouth but finds himself with nothing to say. It is about her. It's always been. He doesn't mind. He wants it to be about her, because he loves her. And he's not blind to his own needs, wouldn't jump into traffic just to get her ice cream, or run himself ragged trying to entertain her, simply because she was bored. But he likes comforting her, likes taking care of her—wants so badly to heal the hurt that radiates off her in waves. She can pamper him later, when his next book comes out and he needs a distraction, when Alexis' absence really hits home.
"I know I'm a mess," she says quietly, squeezing his leg when he tries to protest. "And I know that," she sighs and lets her head fall to lean back against his arm. "I know that it's not easy for you—none of this is. So, just, don't hide that, okay?"
He nods slowly, reaching over to wrap his injured hand around hers on his leg. "I'm not, and I won't."
"You get to be shaken," she continues, her voice an exhausted whisper.
Oh, she heard him and his mother. Fair's fair; he's overheard enough of her conversations in his time. He doesn't want to make her worry—doesn't want to add anything else to the melee already in her mind. But he can't ask her to share herself if he won't share back. They've tried that already, and it ended with screaming and tears and a broken vase in his office
"Okay," he says quietly, watching as her hand leaves his so she can turn and tuck herself into his side, swinging her legs over his so her knees are across his lap and her fingers play with the hairs on the nape of his neck.
They stay there for a long while, her hands fiddling with his buttons as his card through her hair.
"You know what I haven't done in a long time?" she says, breaking the contented silence.
"Bungee jump?"
"Bungee jump? What kind of guess is that?"
"Well, it was either that or pole dance, but I thought the latter mig—ow!" She grins as she pulls her hand away from his ear and he frowns at her. "Jeez woman, violence is not the answer."
Her eyes flash and he shrinks back from her, granted it's tough with her on his lap. "Calling me 'woman' is not the way to avoid my wrath."
He laughs, startled, though she is kind of scary. After a moment, her stony glare cracks and she leans her forehead against his cheek, chuckling, her breath warm across his collarbone.
"What were you going to say?" he murmurs, turning his head to press his lips to her forehead. Scary, powerful, sexy woman, and she has the softest skin.
"That I haven't been sailing in forever."
"Sailing," he repeats, trying to wrap his head around it. He's never thought about Kate on the open water, hair blowing back in the wind as she bends over to tighten ropes. It's not a bad image at all. "You want to go sailing?"
"It's still pretty warm out," she says, lifting her shoulder against his. "Just a thought."
"We can go sailing, sure," he agrees. He's happy to take her out to do anything, and sailing sounds like a hell of a lot more fun than gardening, though, he'd do that too. He knows it's something she might like, what with the plants that struggle for life on her windowsills.
"Don't tell me you already have a boat," she mumbles into his shirt.
He laughs and shakes his head, bumping her forehead with his chin. "No, but I know a guy who does."
"Of course you do."
"Can you sail, or do I need to find us someone?" he asks, since he's certainly not sea-worthy. He'll enjoy a beer and the feel of her against his side in the wind, but it would be pitiful if after all of this, they die at his hand, out at sea, because he can't steer the damn ship.
"An actual captain might not be a bad idea," she admits, smiling. "No yachts."
"Wasn't even considering it," he says honestly. For many things, he'll go over the top, but yachts are more for the weddings and anniversaries he's not thinking about, or even remotely considering. Not at all.
"Good," she says just as the doorbell rings. "Food."
He chuckles at the eagerness in her tone and gently dislodges her, standing on tired legs to traipse over to the door while she gets off the couch. He calls up to his mother as he opens the door, handing the delivery kid a large tip—larger than he should, anyway. He's feeling generous tonight. Hell, he might be feeling overly generous for the rest of the life.
"Kate," he says, the thought popping into his head as he joins her at the table, where she's already set out plates and silverware. She moves fast, in his kitchen—knows where everything is.
"Hmm?" she offers as she grabs glasses and the pitcher from the refrigerator, demonstrating a nimbleness he hasn't seen before.
"We should think about the benefit dinner soon."
"The," she trails off as her eyes grow wide, and he wonders, suddenly, if he should have waited a few days, rather than letting the thought go straight to speech.
"We can talk about it later," he says hastily, pulling cartons out of the bag.
She stays still for a moment, hands resting on the pitcher she's managed to get onto the table. "No," she says softly. "No, that sounds—that sounds like a good use of time, actually."
"Really?" he wonders aloud, surprised.
She smiles, that smile that lights up her face, crinkles her eyes, softens her into this glorious vision he can't help but gravitate toward. She meets him halfway, arching up onto the balls of her feet to find his mouth, her hands cradling his face, gentle and tender.
"Thank you, Rick," she says as she pulls away, finding his eyes with hers, so full of love and gratitude that he can't help but lean in again to steal another kiss.
His mother coughs behind them and he sighs into her mouth before stepping away as she blushes. "You sure you want in on this?"
She positively beams at him and he loses his breath. Her eyes sparkle and he knows she's pleased, with him, his reaction, his mother. "Definitely," she whispers, before she slips away from him to join his mother at the table.
He follows slowly, watching them as they chat and serve food, leaving him to sit at the head of the table on either side of them. They're missing Alexis, but she'll be there tomorrow. Kate looks up as he sits down, overwhelmed. Because, even though he knows that she's there to stay, that they're safe, that it's real, the image of the two of them sitting at the table, family, socks him in the gut. Socks him hard and fast and pushes his heart into his throat.
"You okay?" she asks as she dumps as few spare ribs out of the carton and onto his plate, eyes searching his face.
"Yeah," he replies, taking a deep breath. "Yeah, I am."