denouement.
Life often didn't have a happily ever after, and as a mystery writer, he had written plenty of gruesome endings. But as he took a swig of the bitter whiskey, he cringed at the thought that this could be the end of them.
She'd pushed him away, once again. After everything they'd been through, she'd pushed him away. And even worse, he'd let her... he had walked out of the precinct, in a painful daze, and stood in the street for what had felt like hours, unsure of where to go from there.
He glanced at the red, half-empty bottle of St. Miriam on the bookshelf, but he refused to drink it, because it reminded him of her. That was why he was sitting in the damp basement office of The Old Haunt instead of sulking in his own home, because it'd been her home as well for far too long; not officially, not yet, but enough that every inch of the loft bore her essence and had become a part of them.
He wasn't a young man; he'd been through enough break-ups, and divorces. When things had ended with Meredith, casual sex notwithstanding, he'd had Alexis as a permanent reminder of that relationship. But Kate Beckett had gone beyond that, she had seeped into every part of his existence, until he wasn't sure what was left of his identity without her anymore, and he didn't mean that in the lovestruck-and-heartbroken-teenager way.
Everything that made him him now was also partly hers. Writing, his first passion, that had been the first thing she'd permeated, pretty much from the moment they'd met. Family, the other major part of him, that had been the last thing to bear her mark, but it was just as permanent.
It was rather pathetic to sit in the dimly lit office, drinking his sorrows away, but even his friends had been reduced to their friends, and it felt wrong to drag anyone they knew into this. Especially until they decided what this was—other than the most painful 24 hours in the last decade of his life. He was glad Alexis was away at college so he could avoid her barrage of questions and concern for a bit longer.
He stared at the antique typewriter - a birthday gift from his fiancée/partner/best friend - on his desk for a moment, and the blank paper that stared back at him. Their relationship had reached the equivalent of writer's block; they were at an impasse, the unresolved conflict that would define the ending of their story. He was so focused on the blank piece of paper that he missed the click of her heels until she was standing right behind him.
"Hey," she said, not giving anything away in her features when he turned to face her.
He didn't want to meet her eyes yet, so he turned his glance back to the desk, and the open bottle of whiskey. He was about to put it away, but she reached for it, and took a swig from the bottle. Her hair was in a loose braid, and she smelled like leather, sweat and the city, so he figured she'd taken her bike there. He knew she only did that when she wanted to be alone, to think, to figure things out.
He wondered what she'd figured out this time.
She sighed, still not letting go of the bottle, and sat on the edge of his desk. There were at least two feet between them, but he swore he could feel the heat of her body from where he sat. He reached for the glass of whiskey again, sipping it carefully.
The uncomfortable silence between them stretched for so long, that he started feeling annoyed she'd even come. But then she handed him the whiskey, and he pushed the glass he'd been using aside and settled for drinking straight from the bottle as well. Another thing she now shared - nothing was just his anymore - and as his lips wrapped around the mouth of the bottle and tasted her lipstick, he couldn't decide whether to feel angry, or resigned.
She sighed again, louder this time, and pivoted her body from where she sat on the table until she could reach the antique typewriter.
i am sorry
He stared at the words, and could feel them staring back at him just as he felt her heated gaze on his face. Her leather-clad thigh was just an inch or two away from his arm, and he felt a shiver run down his spine at the realization.
In a flash, he was standing up, lips devouring hers, before he could release the breath he'd been holding. Her legs wrapped around his hips as she returned his passion, her teeth grazing his lips, and tongue brushing desperately against him. He could taste the whiskey they'd shared; he could taste them, and he groaned into her mouth.
When they broke apart, gasping for air, he rested his forehead against hers, instinctively reaching for her braid and pulling it loose even more until he could weave his fingers through her hair.
"I'm sorry," she repeated against his lips as she kicked off her boots.
"What happened?" he asked as he unbuttoned and unzipped the leather pants.
She sighed into his kiss. "I got the promotion."
He released her lips but kept his grip on her hair, pulling back until he could stare at her. He frowned in confusion. He'd known this day would come; hell, he couldn't understand why it hadn't happened years ago. Except this year he'd been pushing her to take the exam, and had to literally restrain himself from pulling any strings to make this real. But if she- crap, his face froze in realization. "Is that... a bad thing?"
She broke from his gaze, focusing on the buttons of his half-undone shirt, where her fingers were resting.
"Beckett..." he began, using her last name for emphasis.
"NYPD Lieutenants aren't allowed to have plucky sidekicks, you know," she explained, chewing nervously on her lower lip.
He wasn't sure how to react. He thought back to all the fights they'd had over the years, and he knew she didn't like feeling pressured or caged in any way. And he'd definitely pressured her to go for the promotion, but he'd never expected it would've led to such a fallout. "You were upset because you're going to have to give up having me following you around, solving crimes?"
"At the risk of inflating your ego further, yes," she replied, leaning her head further into his touch.
"But you're getting promoted," he pointed out, letting his thumb brush against her earlobe.
"I felt... I wasn't ready to take that exam. I wasn't ready to lose this partnership," she tried to explain further.
"But you're getting promoted," he repeated, even though he knew how much she hated it when he kept trying to make a point by basically annoying her, so he tried switching tactics. "You do realize we're engaged, right? To be married?"
"I know that," she replied with a tinge of annoyance, "... and that's why I came here, because I realized I should've said something a long time ago, but it's not easy for me to admit this. I mean... Castle, how would you feel if I pushed you into giving up the Nikki Heat books? Even if it were for a better opportunity, like say the certain British spy project you've been putting off to write books based on your fiancée?"
He tilted his head in thought, and remembered the exasperated tone in Paula's voice when he'd passed on that project for a second time, and had explained he wasn't done telling Heat's story yet. "Okay, I get your point," he conceded, then grimaced at the words that had spilled between them in the precinct the night before. "But I wish we could take that fight back."
She pulled on his shirt until she could reach his lips with hers again. "I'm sorry," she repeated, her breath mingling with his as she spoke. "You know I'm not good at this... stuff."
She wasn't wearing a bra under her tank top, he noticed as he pushed her jacket off her shoulders and threw it at the raggedy couch against the wall. He felt her hands finish undoing the fly on his jeans. "Your communication skills could use some improvement, but we're going to be okay," he promised as he tugged her leather pants and underwear off, and kneeled on the ground to pull them completely free.
"Your meddling skills could use some fine tuning too," she pointed out, with a raised eyebrow.
He didn't break eye contact as he placed an open mouthed kiss on the inside of her thigh, just under her tattoo. She gasped, like she always did, and he smirked as he used his fingers to part her, finding her slick and ready. He pressed his thumb against the bundle of nerves at the top of her folds, and rubbed it in small circles, as his lips kissed her other thigh. Her hips were at the edge of the antique desk as she moved her legs over his shoulders, leaning back to give him full access to her.
"Ohh," she moaned as he replaced his thumb with his tongue, wrapping his lips tightly around her clit and creating just the right amount of suction. Sex with her was like re-reading a favorite book; it felt so well-known, but at the same time he always found something new, something he hadn't noticed before.
He slid two fingers inside her, relishing the way she tightened around him instinctively. He curled his fingers inside her, locating the right spot, and the balls of her feet pressed sharply against his back in response.
As she gasped for breath and tried to keep her torso flat on the desk, he became fascinated by this dip that formed around her hips with every gasp. He moved his free hand to her left hip, and traced patterns on the skin there, feeling the muscles tightening under his finger pads. Then she was tightening all over, and the words of love spilling out of her mouth in ecstasy erased so many of the words from the previous night.
After she came down from her high, both worked together to pull off her cotton tank top. His hands returned to her hips then, and moved upwards, touching every inch of her until he was cupping her breasts, and she finished unbuttoning his shirt and pushing his jeans down along with his boxers.
"It'd look really bad if someone decided to come down here, you know," he pointed out as he inched closer to her until he was pressing against her entrance. "Or really, really good."
"Good thing I locked the door on my way down," she replied, and flashed him a sultry smile.
"Ah, thinking ahead. This is why you're getting promoted, you know? Although I should be offended that you assumed..."
She rolled her eyes but her smile remained, "I figured we'd either be doing this..." she trailed off as she placed her hands on his hips and pulled him to her, letting him slip inside her with familiarity. Her breath caught in her throat, and she swallowed audibly before she could finish her sentence, "... or we'd be fighting still. Either way, we could do without an audience."
"I'm glad we went with what was behind door number one then," he groaned as her thighs squeezed him. "Make-up sex always beats everything else. Except maybe precinct sex," he added hopefully.
She laughed. "No, we're not having precinct sex to celebrate my promotion."
He pouted unashamedly, even as his hips continued to move against hers.
"But if you behave," she continued, pulling him closer until their foreheads were touching, "I will describe to you, indetail, what I've imagined us doing on my desk and on the break room couch... and I will even let you include it as a scene in the next Nikki Heat book."
His jaw dropped open at the suggestion. She took the opportunity to pull his lower lip into her mouth, and ran her tongue across it until he groaned. His hips accelerated the pace, slamming into her and he was grateful that the desk was old and heavy.
"You are a fantastic negotiator," he told her when they broke apart for breath, and their hips slowed again. "I'm going to miss seeing you in action every day."
"I will miss the free coffee every morning," she replied, eyes meeting his full of emotion. She reached up to touch his cheek; he leaned into the touch, and she brushed her thumb across his lips.
"I can still bring you coffee," he offered.
She smiled in return. "I'll miss more than just the free coffee," she admitted.
"I'm not going anywhere, Kate," he promised, and he used what was left of his strength to pull her up, and then he sat back down at his chair, glad that it was an antique as well and it remained in place under their combined weight. He was still inside her as she straddled him, but he could stare up at her this way, and she placed soft kisses on his cheekbones in approval.
She rose up until he was just barely inside her, and added "I'll miss your jokes, even the bad ones," and then she slid down his length, and he gasped at how tight she felt around him. Then she was up again, "I'll miss the way you understand how tough some cases can be for me, even after all these years," and she slid downwards again.
She repeated the same movements as she began listing off everything she'd miss about their work partnership until she was shuddering in her release above him, and he followed swiftly after.
"I will miss it all," she concluded as she pressed her forehead into his shoulder.
"Me too," he added, finally understanding the panic that had caused her to push him away the previous night. The feeling of nostalgia was overwhelming and their work partnership wasn't even over yet, probably wouldn't be for a few weeks or months. And he had no doubt he would still be a part of the 12th, one way or another, but life was changing and evolving around them; the third act had begun, and they had no choice but to go forward.
"Castle," she spoke softly, pulling him out of the fog of sadness that had settled over him. "Thank you," she said when her eyes met him, "for all of it. And for understanding."
This time, he let his eyes say the six-letter word that she'd heard him say so many times, and out loud, he voiced the three words he was finally allowed to say whenever he pleased.
She said them back to him, out loud and with her eyes, and the basement of his bar became a part of them.