LOVE BOAT
by Sandiane Carter and chezchuckles
There is something so incredibly satisfying about putting his fist into the man's face, listening to the lovely crack of bone, and watching Josh collapse to the floor.
All of the evening's tension evaporates, the grimy feeling of Violet's claws all over him, the sour taste of alcohol in his mouth, the muted indignation at having to watch Josh II touch Kate with those slimy hands; it's all washed off him, cleansed with this one, blissful punch.
Amazing.
He stares, uncomprehending, at Josh as the man presses a hand to his nose, moves his lips in what must be a series of curses; Castle can't hear, can't hear anything at all. The ecstasy singing in his veins is too loud, overpowering.
It takes Kate's voice to shake him out of his trance.
"Rick," she calls - he wonders at the first name before he remembers, right, cover - and the hint of panic, the relief in her tone brings him back to earth in the space of a second. "Rick, your hand."
He looks at her and she's beautiful, so beautiful, the tumble of dark curls over her shoulder, the deep, intelligent eyes, the long line of her neck; a wave of desolation crashes over him when he thinks back to Josh's words.
He pulls her into his arms, a little brusquely if her soft exclamation is any indication, and cradles her to his chest, holds her close, his precious Kate. He presses his lips to her ear, her jaw, her neck, doesn't stop even when she shivers; he has to clean Josh's offense somehow, lick it off her skin, the stain of that filthy man's mouth.
She's too good, too good - she deserves so much more-
"Castle," she breathes against his skin, before she gently pushes him away; her hands cup his cheeks firmly, make him look at her. "Hey. You with me?"
Yes, yes, always. Always with her.
But he's slowly emerging from the haze of adrenaline and alcohol, and so he simply nods, his conscience clearing.
"We have to do something for your hand," Kate says. Soft voice, soft eyes: everything about her is soft, and for some strange reason it makes him want her even more.
But she's cradling his right hand between both of hers, her fingers light and gentle, and so he looks, sees the swollen knuckles, the blood, with as much interest and detachment as if it was someone else's hand.
"Come with me."
Not that he has a choice, because she's still holding his hand close to her chest, like a little girl with a treasure. His slowly spanning awareness informs him that people are staring, but most of them are going back to their own business, whether it be dancing or drinking.
Kate leads them to the bar, asks the bartender if he has ice. She makes him sit on a stool - he doesn't need it; his balance is just fine - and then leans against him, her cheek brushing his shirt, his shoulder.
"Defended my honor, didn't you?" she murmurs. Her tone is wry, but there's something behind it, a deep weariness that makes his heart clench. He laces his left arm around her waist, presses her to him.
She brushes an unexpected kiss to his cheek; he stills, then gives her a smile. It takes him long enough to remember how to do that.
Her palm comes up to his cheek, thumb caressing his temple. "What did he say, Rick?"
Ug. No. She doesn't want to know. He's a *man*, for god's sake, and he still wants to throw up at the memory. He shakes his head at her, silent but immovable. He's not telling.
She accepts that with a sigh, rests her hand at the junction of neck and shoulder.
"I'm sorry," she says, lower lip curled up between her teeth. "I thought-"
He wants to silence her with his index finger, winces when he moves his right hand. Ah. He's starting to feel it. Just a dull throb for now, not even pain; but he knows it's coming. Kate catches his hand, kisses the back of it with such gentleness that he wants to cry.
Jeez. She's right, isn't she? He's such a girl.
"Here's your ice," the bartender says sympathetically, handing over a bucket of it, and a napkin.
Kate hoists herself onto the next bar stool, starts wrapping ice cubes in the cloth; he finds himself vaguely wondering if Josh and Violet are still here, if the harpy is doing the same for her husband at the other end of the bar. Unlikely. And Castle doesn't feel the slightest need to turn and check.
The bite of the cold is no surprise, but it's not pleasant either, especially with the way his blood eagerly responds, pounding in his fingers, making him grit his teeth against the white edge of pain.
Shit. It hurts.
He should know better than to use his fist on a guy's face; last time, with Hal Lockwood, was bad enough. It was a couple days before he could type again.
"I seem to have developed quite a habit of punching guys for you," he tries to joke, keep the agony of his hand at bay.
Kate smirks, but sadness flashes at the back of her eyes; he mentally thumps his head. He's an idiot.
She doesn't let him take her down, though.
"I wouldn't call twice a habit," she points out after a second, and he's grateful for that, the lift of the eyebrow, the curve of the mouth. "And it's not my fault," she adds, faking innocence, "if you can't solve a conflict using your words, like any civilized man."
He laughs at that, has to, because more often than not in his life, his words have gotten him *into* fights rather than out of them; the dark humor dancing in her eyes tells him that she knows that, too.
She moves the ice on his fingers and he hisses in surprise, his whole body stiffening.
"Sorry," she winces.
"Eh. At least I'll live," he says, trying to comfort himself. Unlike those two dead guys.
Kate goes very still, lifts her eyes to him, large and bright with realization. "Castle."
"What?" he whispers back, glancing in concern at her hands that have curled around the improvised ice pack. He fears a too-sudden move. She notices his look, of course, and rolls her eyes at him. "You big baby," she mutters as she secures the ice again.
"You were saying?" he asks when he meets her eyes again.
"In the bathroom, Violet said - she said they've been doing this for a while, she and Josh. Going on these therapy cruises, hitting on couples who are already fighting."
"Why am I not surprised?" Castle mutters, although the disgust in his stomach is real.
"Hush. Don't you see? If it's true - if she and Josh have been on a few of those cruises, acting like they have, and they're still fine, they're still alive-"
"-then there's no murderer," he understands at last, following her reasoning. "Those deaths were only accidents."
"I think so, yeah," she says slowly, her brow furrowed, deep in thought. "Their behavior is very similar to the Smith's - at least, the impression we got from Karen's testimony - and if there was a murderer, he would have picked up on them. Right?"
"Yeah. Yeah, I think you're right." And he can't quite concentrate with the pain that flares into his fingers, raw heat licking at his skin.
"How's the hand?" Kate asks. She can always tell, can't she?
"Don't you get tired of asking that question?" he shoots back feebly, going for a smile.
He's not sure he makes it past a grimace. She shakes her head at him, but she looks more amused than anything. And tender. Yeah.
Tender looks good on her.
"I don't need a hero, Rick," she tells him quietly. "I'd rather you just stay alive."
Her words echo between them, the ripple of deeper meaning sinking into him, and he takes his left hand off the small of her back, curls it around her neck to bring her close, his lips at her cheekbone.
"Do my best," he promises as he breathes her in.
Kate realizes he's not exactly sober only when he drapes himself against her as they head out of the ballroom. Too heavy, too slow. He doesn't stumble, his words don't slur, but she sees the way his eyelids droop.
Drinking slowly with Josh and Violet can't have made him very happy, and the more he knocked back, the worse his mood got. Apparently.
"Castle?" she murmurs.
"Yeah." A sigh.
"You're drunk."
"No. Not. . .I don't think I drank enough for that. Just tired."
She bites her lip and eases him off of her a little bit, holding him up by an elbow, steering him around a large group heading down the stairs to the ballroom.
"Manage the stairs?"
"Oh, yeah. No problem." He goes up ahead of her, not doing too bad really, and even though she expects him to stumble, he keeps his balance. Maybe he's not drunk at all. Just a letdown of adrenaline and a night of Josh and Violet. Probably not even a good buzz.
She puts a hand to his back to steady him just in case; he goes on up the stairs to the top deck. Their stateroom is two levels down, but to get there, they have to switch staircases. She maybe should've led them down the hall outside the ballroom to the end stairs, not the middle, circular staircase that leads up here.
Castle takes a deep breath in the night air, his hand cradled against his chest with the ice resting atop his knuckles. Kate watches him a moment, then wraps an arm around his waist and guides him forward.
"Come on."
"It's nice up here. I like it."
"Hmm."
"The stars are so bright."
"They are," she murmurs back, smiling at him. Okay, not drunk, maybe a little less inhibited, a little more sentimental.
"Come look," he says, heading to the railing beside a lifeboat. She shivers as a brisk wind whips down the deck, but the sea is calm. Kate follows Castle over. He reaches out for the railing, to hold on, but a rock of the ship and another gust of wind, and he misses, swaying back.
Kate clenches her arm at his waist, but he's already overcompensating, pitching forward to right himself, but instead he goes too far-
"Castle!" she gasps, grabbing his belt as his body nearly tilts right over the railing. "Oh God. Castle-"
He clutches the rail, her arm, they manage to tug him back over, his feet on the ground again. They slump to the deck, leaning against the side, and he laughs. All of that in seconds. The blink of an eye.
"So, there you go."
"What?" she mutters, a head in her hand as she tries to recover her breath. Her other hand is still tight in his belt; she's not sure she can let go yet.
"Proves it. Right? Easy to go overboard if you're drunk and stupid."
"You're not even that drunk," she murmurs, pressing her hand to her cheek.
He laughs again. "Not that drunk, by I am that stupid?"
"No!" She jerks her head towards him but he's grinning at her. A dopey, relieved grin that makes his face light up. She softens. "No, Castle. Not stupid. Maybe just accident-prone? You seem to always be getting in trouble."
He lifts a hand to her cheek, his thumb stroking her skin. Her heart, which was pounding after his near slip over the railing, picks up again.
"Castle."
They're in the floor, her knees pressed against his thigh, his legs sprawled before him, one of her hands still tight in his belt, and he leans in, coming closer, his nose nudging hers.
"Kate."
"Okay," she murmurs, not sure really what she's giving him permission to do-
Oh, get real, Beckett. She knows exactly what she's allowing him to do, giving in to. She knows, and she wants it.
His mouth against hers is hesitant, gentle, too clever (oh no, not drunk, is he?), and she tightens her fingers in his belt, tugs at him.
Of course, he doesn't pull closer; she's the one getting pulled. A knee sliding over his thigh, her other hand on his chest, she presses her lips harder into his, her tongue traveling the contours of his mouth.
His fingers work at her chin, her jaw, tug her back. "Room, Kate."
Oh. Oh, goodness. They're on the top deck of the Gem, out in the open, she's practically straddling him. And he's. . .drunk? Not very. He looks stone sober now.
His fingers twitch around her jaw and she pulls back, breath rattling in her chest, helps him up. Away from the railing. "Let's go."
Back to their room. The small room with its one bed. With its privacy.
With her buzzing body, her need.
He cannot stay away from her.
The tight grip of arousal in his guts, the endless wonder in his heart - they keep jerking him forward, pushing him into her, his hand at her hip, his mouth at her neck, in a constant plea for assurance that this is real. That it's happening.
And Kate, oh, Kate, far from shoving him away or telling him to wait, mirrors every little touch, every brush of fingers and every flick of tongue, undulating her hips against his and panting hot little breaths into his ear.
Needless to say, it takes them a considerable time to get back to the room.
Not that he would dare complain about it.
"Mm, Castle, let me get my key," she pleads against his lips when they're finally standing at the door, but he can't, he can't - not when her mouth is so warm and responsive under his, her tongue doing wicked things to him, her hands wound so tight into his hair that it almost hurts.
He backs her into the wall instead, loving the soft thump when she meets it, the knowledge that her long, lithe body is trapped under his now. No possible escape. He growls in pleasure and launches his next attack, targeting her neck this time, the pale skin that almost shines in the dim light, calls to him.
Kate lets out a sound that, however faint, cannot be called anything but *needy*; something dark inside him rejoices to hear it, immediately resolves on making it happen again. His hands are at her waist, fingers digging into the fabric, seeking skin; for the first time tonight, he finds himself unhappy with the dress she's wearing.
If only it was a shirt - he could pull it up, caress her ribs, let his hand travel-
Eh, he does it anyway, the travelling thing, his thumbs encountering appealing curves on the way up. Kate gasps and arches, her leg shooting up to cradle his hip, high heel digging into the back of his thigh; this time he moans along with her, and it's just as satisfying.
Oh, God help him - Kate -
Voices at the end of the corridor tear through the haze in his mind, laughter, shouting; she must hear them too, because she stills and drops her leg, rests both her palms on his chest, as if to push him away.
Except she doesn't; she hides her face in his neck, the riot of her breath tickling his skin, fast, uneven.
The voices fade away and he's left hesitating, too aware of the trembling weight of Kate Beckett in his arms, too aware that without the interruption of these people he might have taken her right there, in a deserted passageway. It's not okay, it's not, and he doesn't know what she-
She chooses that moment to lift her face from the refuge of his neck, torturously slowly, and he waits with bated breath until he gets a look at her eyes.
Her eyes - her eyes are so dark, bottomless, wider than he's ever seen them-
"Inside, Castle," she orders, and her husky voice rattles everything in his chest. Before he knows it his hand is fishing into his back pocket, getting the key card out, opening the door with it. Anything you want, Kate, I'll give you anything, just ask. Just ask.
He lets her go first and she turns to him, takes his hand, her face alive with expectation and desire, dark hair, dark eyes, dark smile. And something else he's been dying to see in her eyes when she looks at him.
Confidence.
His heart thumps with gratitude and amazement as her fingers curl around his, and she draws him towards her.
Inside.
Even after that, all that, her heart still beats; she can taste her pulse pounding in her mouth as she gulps to catch her breath.
She opens her eyes, her lashes brushing his shoulder, feels his fingers gentling at her side, his body heavy over hers in their bed. Her cheek presses at the round joint where his arm meets his collarbone; she can see the dark line of his throat, the echoing pulse at his neck. She kisses with teeth and nudges him with her nose.
He groans and lifts up on his elbows, hair falling messily on his forehead. She makes a move to brush it back, but her eyes catch movement just over them. He touches his forehead to her chin, breathing hard and hot against her neck. But she's caught their reflection-
in the mirror above the bed.
Her eyes trace the long, strong line of him, the image of his body interrupted only by her arm around his neck; she curls her fingers at his nape, nails in his scalp, feels him, sees him shudder.
She blinks, stunned by the look in her own eyes. Happy, yes, sated and drowsy and dark-eyed, yes. But . . . in love.
In love with him.
She raises her knee up along the side of his thigh, shifts a little to cradle him, contain him, presses her mouth to his temple. Grins.
"Castle," she murmurs, knowing he hears the rough edge in her voice.
"Oh, yeah," he groans back; his teeth nip at her neck.
She bites her bottom lip, still grinning. "Castle, you sunbathe in the nude?"
"What?" He jerks his head back to look at her, sees her laughing amusement, then tracks her gaze, follows her line of sight to the mirrors above the bed.
"Oh God," he mutters and buries his face in her neck.
She laughs and watches herself be happy, be sated, be in love. With him. Oh God.
"It's my natural color," he growls, wraps an arm around her neck and flips them over. She shivers when her back hits the air, half sprawled over him, but he's already pulling the sheet up over their bodies with his foot. He hesitates, brushes his hand over her - the swell of her hip, her lower back, around her curves, making her shiver again. She knows he's looking in the mirror as he does it.
"Castle," she laughs, kisses the rough stubble of his jaw. "I'm freezing."
He hums and pulls the sheet up; she turns her head and sees the profile of his grin, lets her gaze drift to meet his eyes in the mirror overhead.
He blushes and she laughs at him, lifts up on an elbow to watch him, bottom lip in her teeth. "You blushing, Castle?"
"I found your tattoo," he grins back.
"Mm, you did. Thoroughly."
His grin is wolfish; his smile so wide it narrows his eyes. "I thoroughly liked your tattoo."
"I could tell." She slides her hand over his ribs, presses her thumb to his sternum. "Give me a minute and you can like it thoroughly all over again. And I can watch."
He huffs and turns so that they're both lying on their sides. Kate reaches out and snakes her finger along the line of his bangs, down the side of his face. He captures her wandering fingers and leaves them there, shading his eyes with their joined hands.
"That's freaky," he whispers. "They're watching us."
"Only if you watch them."
"Were you watching them?" His voice is dark, rich with something untapped. She wants to find that again, later, but maybe she'll just play with it for now.
"I missed the show-" she laughs.
"Oh no you didn't," he grins, the light, the laughter back in his voice, the animal gone again. "You *were* the show."
She grins at that, can't help grinning at the way he soaks her in, delighted and entertained and entirely too talkative for a man who just - she bites her lip - had a damn fine show.
"Next time then," she murmurs, laughs again, and leans in to press her lips to his adam's apple. She's smiling too much, laughing too much, but it's like it wants out, wants free of her, escapes when she's too lethargic and humming and wonderful to care.
Castle growls deep in his throat; she can feel it vibrate down her jaw. His fingers curl around hers, nudge her chin to bring her mouth up to his. She expects more heat, but instead he goes slowly, drawing her in, working his way deeper.
Kate shifts closer, untangles their hands so she can press her fingertips to the skin over his heart, her palm warmed just by proximity.
His fingers slides through her hair, his palm to her ear, and he tugs her back, breaking the seal of their mouths.
Her eyes fill, shiny but smiling. She can't help it, but she won't let it spoil anything, won't let it past the guardian of her body. She watches him until she can get her breath back, until she can be both split open under his gaze and stronger for it.
"Kate."
Grateful there's no question to her name, she tilts her head forward against his, breathes, kisses the skin she finds, the fingers that reach down to touch her chin, her throat.
He doesn't say anything more, just breathes with her, runs his hand down her back to pull her body closer.
"I'm here," she murmurs, kisses the underside of his jaw, finds his ear. "I'm where I want to be."
"I know," he says back, his voice low and certain, a gift. "But jeez, took you long enough."
She laughs hard, feels his fingers tight on her hip to keep hold of her; she has to pull back to suck in a breath, brush the tears from her cheeks. "Oh. Castle. What an ego." She sighs and leans back on the pillow, realizes it's his arm instead, and smiles again, doesn't move. "But you've needed it, haven't you? To survive me."
"Damn straight. I deserve a medal or something."
She wraps her arms around his neck, her cheek to his, for a moment forgoing the sexual to just - hold him close. A kiss at his cheek has his arms coming around her as well, hugging back.
"A medal of valor," she says, leans her head back to look at him, draws her arms down.
She slides her fingers through the hair at his temples, scrapes her fingers at his scalp, her thumbs at the corners of his crinkled eyes. Happy eyes. Eyes at peace.
"The Purple Heart," he says.
"Have you been wounded while engaging the enemy?" Her thumbs smooth out the crows' feet.
"No. Maybe blue balls, but not a purple heart."
She rolls her eyes, pats his cheek as if in sympathy. "No Purple Heart. We'll work on the other."
He grins even wider, nearly a leer but his look is too happy for that. He turns into her, wriggling closer. "Medal of Honor then."
Kate smiles slowly, stroking her thumbs away from those smiling eyes, his lips at her wrist. "Above and beyond the call of duty. Hmm, I think you're right." She leans in, presses her open mouth to his, licks his bottom lip, trails a line along his jaw and back to his ear. "Castle?"
"Huh?"
Mm, good - little bewildered, little breathless.
"Your Medal of Honor. Where should I pin it?"
