oxymoron
oxymoron: (noun) a figure of speech in which apparently contradictory terms appear in conjunction
It's only thirty minutes later and her head pounds with it, with echoes of incessant teenage whining about phone reception and wi-fi and everything else that's wrong with this beautiful part of the woods. It's loud and annoying and never seems to fade, still spouted from the mouths of her students, repeated endlessly as it pounds against the inside of her skull.
The sun is too high now, too hot, in a natural way that is all to strange to her city skin. While the budding leaves on the trees offer a semblance of shade, the lack of buzzing energy and the wall the forest poses against any semblance of a breeze makes the air feel still. The proximity of the lake makes it feel thick with humidity that even the island of Manhattan doesn't seem to have.
It's hot and thick and she can feel the sweat as it forms on her forehead, dampens her hairline and when Castle suggests they make a fire to start lunch, part of her screams no. Her fingers curl into the fabric of her pants, itching to pull the burning black up and over her knees.
But another kid groans about how they need to check their snapchat and she turns towards the firepit, shrugs her shoulders at Castle even though her gaze isn't meeting his.
Suddenly, the heat of the fire seems more appealing than the whining that reverberates in her head, makes the ache intensify where it roots in her temple.
"Yeah? You're hungry?" he asks, and her eyes snap up to his.
He's wearing shorts now, and his hands are buried deep in his pockets. The light blue shirt he was wearing this morning is still tight around his shoulders. It's a step down from his usual suit, the trousers that are always tailored perfectly and the shirts that bring out either his eyes or skintone.
Oh, the sun must be getting to her. The heat. It was early and now it's hot and that's why her mind keeps inexplicably going there, where it's never allowed to go.
Her eyes snap closed, and open again and he's still looking down at her, eyes wide with innocent curiosity. "Yeah," she shrugs. "I guess I could eat."
Smiling, he claps his hands together, rocking back on his heels. "Okay, then, I'll get the fire started, you get the food? We'll get these kids to stop thinking about their phones," he says. A little too happy. A little too convinced.
And, yeah, she really doesn't think getting their minds off their phones will happen this weekend, no matter how much food they offer. It's against teenage nature.
But she finds herself pushing herself up and off the log, nodding her head as she brushes past him and towards the bus that lingers on the outskirts of the lot.
Her fingers curl around the cold metal handle of one of the bus' compartments and she tugs the door open, plunging her hand into the too hot, too humid space beneath the cab. The air is even thicker in there than it is outside, trapped and still as she reaches the first cooler's handle and drags it to the edge.
Hot dogs sit on top of it, piles of buns and sausages surrounded by bags worth of ice. She dips her fingers into the cold water first, drags them across her forehead where the layer of sweat has thickened. It drips down, into the dip at the bridge of her nose. Sweet in its icy cold.
She reaches for the top few packs of sausage, wedges them under her arms and into the crooks of her elbows, and then reaches down again for the bags of buns. The cold coats her arms, from fingertips to funny bone, ice cubes caught between her fingers. She pops one into her mouth before knocking the cooler's lid closed.
She turns around, rolls on her heel like she does everyday and oh, he's standing right there, pieces of wood balanced in both his arms and that shirt does absolutely nothing to hide the bulging muscles of his biceps. The all too attractive ones that she really didn't expect and how does he hide that under his suits?
"Everything okay, Beckett?"
Right.
"Uh, yeah," she mumbles, though it must be too quiet for him to hear. "Hot dogs okay?"
He smiles, nods his head, and turns back towards the firepit, dropping the wood at his feet.
She's sitting back down on the log she's silently claimed as hers again when he starts the fire. The paper seems like too much fun as he rips it to shreds and crumples it in his palm, laughing as he does. And the wood just has her mind going back to those arms that she really shouldn't be thinking about so much. And his face lights up with childlike glee—which she's begun to expect from him—as the flicker from the lighter burns the paper, the flame catching onto the wood.
Within minutes, the fire is blazing, flickering in the bright daytime light and crackling as it shoots embers into the air, the tiny orange specks fading from view only seconds later.
"Okay, so we just grill the weiners," he says, reaching for one of the packs that sits in the sand at her feet.
She slaps his hand away, watching the mock disgust that spreads across his face as he plucks it away.
"Nuh uh," she hums, waggling her finger at him, "I'm cooking."
"You cook?"
Her fingers have found the pack of sausages, her nails digging into the plastic when she looks up, sees his brows knit together in what can only be described as actual curiosity and not some mockery she would expect from him.
"Yeah, I cook," she shrugs. "And unlike you, I have the maturity to not play with fire of make spiders out of the weiners."
His jaw falls open, eyes wide all over again. "So the cup of soup every day thing, that's voluntary? Why would anyone expose themselves to horrid pre-cooked noodles just for the sake of it?"
"Really? You're still teasing me for my soup cups?" She cocks her head to the side, crosses her arms over her chest.
"You have to admit it, Beckett. They're disgusting."
"They're practical. Like hot dogs."
He rolls his eyes at that, overly dramatic as always. "Whatever. You can cook."
So she does. He takes her spot on the log and watches as she rolls the sausages over the grill, watching the black char marks appear on them as they blister until cooked. And then she hands them off to him, lets him set each one into a bun as he sends a student to get the condiments.
The last weiner is cut into quarters at both ends and she rolls her eyes. "Spider?"
"Octopus," he answers. "And it's mine, so you can't tease me for it."
"I can tease you for it all I want," she quips, though she settles the spider onto the grill and lets it begin cooking. "Now, what am I supposed to eat?"
He shoves a hot god in front of her. It's still warm, she notes. It must be the last one she cooked.
"I saved you one," he says, and when she trades spider weiner for hot dog, his smile is a little too bright.
Her shorts are way too short.
Really, he's positive that doesn't follow the school's dress code.
She's still wearing her shirt from this morning when she comes out of their tent after lunch, but the pants, which were definitely too heavy for this weather, are gone, replaced by a pair of shorts that probably don't quite qualify as booty shorts, but still… They cover her ass, but just barely and fuck her legs seem to go on forever and who thought it was a good idea for them to share a tent tonight?
Oh, right. Him.
It was—is—a really good idea, even though she's definitely going to kill him with those way too short shorts.
And yet she seems to see nothing wrong with it, walking up to him like nothing is off and like this isn't the first time he's seen any of her long, toned legs. She's casual about it, too, in an odd un-Beckett-like way. Like she's suddenly not all, we're co-workers, sorta friends, anymore.
Which he's totally okay with, if that's the case. Totally, definitely okay with.
"When is that guide guy coming?" she asks, her hand flicking towards the hiking trail they were promised to be led down by a park employee.
He shrugs, swallows past the ball in his throat—don't look at her legs, Castle. "Soon, I guess."
She shrugs back at him, an elevation of her shoulder that has the fabric of her shirt drifting down and over it, dropping to rest at the top of her arm and don't look.
He really can't look. Because seeing Beckett's legs and her shoulder in a matter of ten measly minutes is too much, her smile beautiful and happy and he can still see the image of her sleeping face, can still feel the way her breath drifted over his shoulder and this camping trip is going to kill him.
She walks away, though. Plops herself back down onto her log to wait.
The guide gets there twelve minutes later. Twelve minutes and forty-seven seconds according to his watch—it was the only thing keeping him from staring at her. The man has a booming loud voice and walks through the campground like it's his home, waving his arms around as he greets them and gets the students' unreachable full attention.
He goes through the safety measures—have good shoes on, make sure you've put on bug spray—and then walks over to where Beckett is sitting on the log, motioning with a not at all subtle jerk of his wrist for him to join.
"I'll lead the group. I know these trails like the back of my hand. You guys can take up the rear, okay? Make sure we don't lose any of the kids," he says. "Oh, and by the way, my name's Kurt. I should've said that earlier."
He tells his name to the students, in his loud, booming voice and starts leading them up the trail.
It's clean, neat. The brush is all cut right where the tree roots fade into the dirt of the path. Only a few roots stick up through the dirt, a handful of big stones adding steps to their hike. There's blueberry bushes under the trees, surrounded by moss and blooming their tiny white flowers. Other bushes he doesn't recognize meld with them.
Kurt is spouting information about them like it's common knowledge, telling them about the trees and what kind they are and the bushes and where they're native from and the students all seem to be listening. And Beckett… Well, he can see her face, the way her eyes dart to the trees and up the the leaves and she's hanging onto every single word.
The city girl, the English teacher, extremely fascinated by plants. It's interesting. It's new and astounding and he really didn't expect it.
It's beautiful.
Besides, he's heard these speeches before, heard the lessons about the trees and the bushes, and though he appreciates nature and enjoys the escape from New York, she's better. She's so much better.
So he hikes, and watches her, stepping over roots and stones in time with the bobs of her head. Her eyes widen at new information, lips quirk with satisfaction when Kurt says something she already knew.
It's something he doesn't usually see from her, this gleam in her eyes that rarely comes over their conversations at lunch, that's never sparked by teaching. The fire of something fresh. New information, a new challenge.
It's fiery. Gorgeous.
It stays, burning the entire time, until they stop at the top of a hill and Kurt's voice lowers as he tells them this is the best view of the lake, off the cliff. He's been to it before, remembers the extraordinary scene, how huge everything looks and how small he felt in comparison.
He remembers how blue the water was, a perfect reflection of the cloudless sky, and how green everything else looked. It's so different from the city, so magnificent.
He turns to see her reaction to the view as the students ooh and ah, wants to see if she has the same reactions, if her eyes sparkle with wonder or burn with fascination.
But instead, they're blank, staring off into space like her mind has taken over, her body useless in a fight against her brain and whatever haunts her within.
Oh, he really hates that haunted look. Like the smoke that lingers after a flame goes out, thick in the air, hiding wonder and beauty with heavy clouds of grey.
The spark is gone. The fire in her eyes, extinguished.
"Beckett?"
His pinky finger catches hers, fingers reaching out to wrap around her hand. He squeezes, a careful, slight motion that seems to snap her out of it.
She hums, low in her throat as she blinks out at the lake, at the spread of trees and the clear sky. The smoke clears from her eyes, replaced with a darkness as black as coal.
"Are you okay?" he whispers, his nose bumping against her skull as he turns towards her.
Her chin tilts upwards, and her pupils light up with the reflection of the sun until she blinks again, turns back towards him. Her face is all too close. Her forehead presses against his mouth, startling her into tilting her chin up towards him.
And, fuck, he just wanted to make her feel better. Having her lips this close to his is not helping.
Her eyes, too wide with something that looks too much like fear, flash from his cheek to his mouth. A less angry, more emotional and quite possibly more frightening mirror of the time in the stairwell. Without the brick wall. With his hand still firmly locked in hers.
He reaches up, curls his hand around her arm, lets it slide down over her bare skin.
She blinks again, her gaze falling from his mouth and down to their fingers, entwined and trapped in the space between their thighs.
"I…have to go," she whispers, eye flicking back up. "Over there."
And she looks so broken, so scared and lost that he doesn't even try to hold her back when she tugs her hand from his grasp and walks away. She whispers something to Kurt, waits for his nod and disappears back down the trail.
He's left staring at the spot she vacated, his mind racing with reasons for her being so upset in the face of such a gorgeous view.
Sleep doesn't come. It haunts her. Fatigue tugs at her mind and wipes away her ability to think. Tears render her face a sticky mess. She curls up in a ball, knees pressed against her chest, arms wrapped around her abdomen and lets her eyes fall closed, waits for sleep to pull her under.
But it never does.
Every time she lets herself get lost in unconsciousness, the images come. A younger version of her holding onto the trunk of a tiny tree, running in circles around it and laughing with her mom. Her parents, dancing barefoot in the grass behind the house, under a sea of stars as she watched from her bedroom window. Her mom setting a crown of daisies on her head as her dad grilled their dinner.
Memories that refuse to let her go, that hold her at their mercy, force her to relive the pain of knowing those memories are on a list of happy ones that can never be added to. Cruel. It makes her chest ache as she sucks in a breath, her stomach churn at flashes of crime scene photos and bloodstains, her fingers curl against her sides until it pierces through the numbness.
And yet she leaves her eyes closed, squeezed shut as she tries to force the images away. Lets tears escape when they don't fade.
She tears them open when the alarm she set on her phone goes off, the familiar chirp filling the tent, the device vibrating where it's pressed between her thighs and the base of her sternum. Her muscles protest as she forces herself out of her little ball. The phone is warm when her numbing fingers clumsily wrap around it, when her thumb stumbles over the screen.
She crawls out of the tent slowly, carefully does the zipper back up behind her. They're not back yet, the lot still and quiet and she almost feels like she's disturbing something when she steps onto it, her footstep a loud thud in the almost silent space that's filled only with the soft whistle of wind between leaves.
She could join them, but she doesn't. Doesn't want to, really. The silence is soothing, rare in her day to day life. She takes what time can offer, settling onto the log. So instead of joining them up on the cliff that overlooks the water, she wraps her hand around a stick and doodles aimlessly in the sand.
The silence ends when they get back. She drops the stick and pushes herself up from the log at the first echoes of Kurt's enthusiast tone. A quick glance at her phone tells her it's a quarter past three, as teenage chatter reaches her ears, cuts through the serenity of the outdoors with its chaos.
Castle brings up the back of the line again, his arms crossed over his chest and eyes darting around like he's looking for something. For her.
He's looking for her.
While the students situate themselves on the lot, setting into groups or deciding to enjoy what they can do with their phones, Kurt leaves and Castle comes straight to her. Concern shines in his eyes, weighs his features down as his fingers wrap around hers again, tight. Almost clingy.
"Come on," he says, not angry, but insistent.
She follows.
He leads her to the nearby bathrooms, tugs her behind the building where nobody will see them. His hand releases her, fingers reaching up to trail over her arm like they did before she left him and the group up on the cliff. Soft, almost careful, like he's trying not to break her.
"Are you okay?" he whispers.
She nods, slow as she stares at where his fingers linger against her skin.
"Are you sure?"
She looks up at him this time, finds his face practically twisted with fear for her. "I'm sure, Castle," she promises. "It's just…memories. Nothing to worry about. You shouldn't… Don't worry."
But he snags her hand before she can turn away, tugs her forward. It cuts the space between them by an inch, and her eyes dart up to meet his again, to see the sincerity in his words that are already so evident in his tone.
"I'm your friend, Beckett. I'm going to worry."
The words pierce something inside her, eliminate the part of her insisting they're no more than co-workers because he worries, he cares and it's too much. Too much with the memories and the grief and the weight on her chest that only seems to grow heavier under the intensity of his gaze.
"Okay," she manages. And this time, when she turns to leave, he doesn't hold her back.
She plops herself back down on the log when she gets back to the lot, buries her face in her hands and misses the giggles around her.
He cares. Too much.
Her head falls back. She blinks up at the sun, drags her nails up her leg.
The giggles aren't subtle. Not in the least.
Neither are the stares that follow him and Beckett as they return to camp one after the other. The comments are whispers, but he catches them anyway.
"Are they dating?" asks one girl, Kelly.
Her friend, Melissa, laughs at that. "If not, they should be. Have you seen the way he looks at her? He's like a lovesick puppy," she answers, and then smiles up at him innocently as he walks.
Beckett doesn't seem to notice. She's sitting on her log, staring at the empty firepit, letting her eyes dance around from the kids to the sun back to the lack of flames. But she doesn't get mad, doesn't glare at the gossiping students or at him, so he figures she doesn't hear.
He brings some of the students swimming, and she stays behind with those that don't want to come. When he gets back, there's a fire blazing and she's kneeling next to it, poking a stick through a slit in the grill. She motions to the bus with one hand, and he goes over to retrieve dinner from the compartment.
She's sitting back on the log when he gets back, leaning over and scratching at her calves.
"You can cook dinner," she says, motioning with a tilt of her head towards the flames. "I made lunch."
He smiles. "Yeah," he replies, dropping to the ground, the boxes of frozen burger patties falling at his feet. "I'll prove to you that Alexis isn't the only Castle who can cook."
She rolls her eyes, a chuckle escaping her throat. "There is no way you can make frozen burgers taste better than Alexis' pasta. I guarantee it," she says.
"Is that a challenge?" he grins.
She just shrugs.
He cooks the burgers, flipping them on the grill too many times to keep them from burning, hands them off to her and watches as she hands them off to the students. They get covered in ketchup and mustard, but nobody complains. Not even her, as she brings her burger with too much mustard to her mouth and takes a bite.
"So?" he asks afterwards, as he settles onto the log next to her.
She shrugs, a small smile tugging at her lips. "It wasn't bad. Those burgers could have been much, much worse," she admits, a soft laugh rolling from her tongue.
It's not the fire from the hike, but it's not the absence that had her running away, either. A happy medium that makes him smile, bump his shoulder against hers.
The sun slides beneath the trees, coating the lot in a soft orange glow. The students give up their cliques to gather around the fire, couples holding each other a little too close, friends daring each other to do stupid things. He's sitting next to Beckett, watches the ease with which she leans towards the flame, feels her fingers ghost over his arm when she stands up.
"I'm gonna go change," she says, so soft it seems almost intimate.
He watches her walk away, towards the tent they'll be sharing and wow, this is intimate. Oddly so. Because it feels so normal, watching her walk towards their tent, the orange of the setting sun shining in her amber hair.
Oh, he is like a lovesick puppy.
She settles next to him when she comes back, laughs when he breaks out the marshmallows, accepts his offer to roast one for her. The way she licks the sticky sugar off her fingers after she eats it is almost sinful, the roll of her tongue around her finger, the pop of her lips when she releases it.
And she definitely knows it.
He notices the scratching later into the evening, as the sky goes dark and the kids around them dip into their tents. It's subtle at first, rare, like she has an annoying bug bite. But it gets worse, nails dragging across her legs almost constantly, digging through the fabric of her pants.
The last students duck into their tents at ten, the curfew the school assigned for these trips. Phones light up the insides of the tents, bright through the thin, green nylon.
Beckett leans down, scratches her leg again, eyes still locked on the flames.
"Thank you," she whispers. "For, uh, worrying earlier."
"No problem," he whispers back. "Like I said. You're my…friend. I care about you. I worry about you."
She turns her head at that, pushing herself up into a sitting position. "Yeah," she answers. "We're…friends."
He smiles, feels it crinkle at the corner of his eyes. Because she doesn't look scared this time. Doesn't looks like she's going to run for dear life, or disappear on him for a week. She doesn't deny that they're friends. She confirms it. And smiles back at him as she does.
His gaze darts down to her smile, the curl of her lips and the sliver of perfectly white teeth that peaks between them. Friends. Friends don't kiss.
But he really wants to kiss her.
And when her eyes fall to his lips, he's pretty sure she wants to kiss him, too.
His hand comes up to cradle her jaw, thumb brushing the sharp ridge of her cheekbone. Her eyes are speckled with the bright orange of embers, her skin glowing in the firelight.
Then she reaches down and scratches at her leg again, wincing as she does so.
"God," she whimpers. "Why the hell are my legs so itchy?"
He laughs at that, and she shoots him a glare, still leaning over her thighs.
"It's not funny," she says.
"It kind of is," he shrugs. "Come on, we'll check them out."
She takes his hand, lets him lead her from the log to the tent, mumbling something about how the fire shouldn't be left unattended. He just keeps tugging her towards the tent, maintaining his hold on her hand as he pulls the zipper open and lets her crawl in first. He kneels down next to her, the sleeping bags cushioning under his knees.
"Lay down," he tells her.
She sighs, tugging at the corner of her pillow before leaning back against it, settling on her elbows. He can feel her eyes on the back of his head as he rolls her pant leg up.
Her skin is blotchy, red with rashes. Unmistakable.
"How in the world did you get poison ivy?"
She launches herself into a sitting position, pulling her leg out of his grasp. "What?"
"Poison ivy, Beckett. Where did you get it?" he asks, drawing her ankle back towards him.
She looks up at him, eyes wide again. "I don't know," she answers. "I wasn't paying attention when I came back down earlier. Maybe then?"
He nods. "Probably," he agrees. His hand brushes the bone jutting out at her ankle. "Does it hurt?"
"Itches," she answers. "Burns, a little. Though that might be from the scratching."
"Okay," he says, watching as she checks the other leg, only to find the exact same rashy pattern. "I'm get the ointment. You stay here."
"Castle." It's a warning.
He doesn't listen.
The first aid kit is in the bus. He goes out to get it, walking past the fire and the log where they almost kissed and he;s never hated poison ivy more than he does right now.
Really. He didn't even hate it this much when he got it.
He reaches into the compartment, pulls out the bright red first aid kit and heads back to the tent, crawls back in to find her sitting up again, scratching at her shin.
"Beckett," he warns, laughter bubbling in his chest when she glares at him almost pitifully.
"It's itchy," she whimpers. "You don't even know."
He settles onto his knees, fingers curling around his ankles to tug her legs out of her grasp. Her feet settle against his thighs. "Actually," he says, "I do."
"You do?"
He smiles, nods his head, hums. "I do. Got it back on my first camping trip with Alexis when she was five," he explains. "She laughed so hard, and then took care of me. It was so cute."
"You're a good dad," she smiles.
"And I have the poison ivy ointment," he grins back, reaching into the first aid kit to grab the bottle. "You ready?"
She glances down at her legs. "I can do it myself, you know," she whispers.
"Without scratching?"
"I–" She sinks back onto her elbows, head falling against the pillow. "No, probably not."
He smiles, popping the cap off the bottle and letting some of the cream fall into his hand. "That's what I thought."
His fingers wrap around her ankle and he tugs her right leg further onto his lap. His palm presses against her shin, where the bright red blotches are at their worst, and he drags the cream down over the rash. Her leg jerks in his grasp, a feeble attempt to relieve the itching.
"You gotta stay still, Beckett," he chastises, looking up.
She's looking back down at him, eyes wide, as his hands drop her right leg and wrap around the left. His thumb brushes over the jut of bone at her ankle, and her eyes flutter.
She doesn't say a word, eyes still locked on his as he rubs his hand up her leg, covers the rash in cream, and then drags his palms back down again.
"That should be good," he whispers.
She nods, slow as her eyes fall from his to her leg, and then flick back up again. "Thank you."
"I– You're welcome," he smiles. He doesn't want to, but he lets her foot fall from his grasp, her leg landing on the sleeping bag between them. "I'm going to go watch the fire until it goes out. You stay here," he says. "Sleep."
Her nod is just as slow this time, and he feels her eyes on him until he closes the tent's flap behind him, squeezing his eyes shut to force the image of perfect, innocent brown eyes out of his mind.
He's such a love sick puppy.
When he crawls back into the tent about half an hour later, she's curled up on her side, wrapped in her sleeping bag, brown hair spread across her pillow. He settles into his spot next to her, over his own sleeping bag, hands landing on his stomach.
His fingers curl into his palm, fighting the desire to run his fingers through her hair, and he watches the steady rise and fall of her back until sleep drags him under, too.
He's her love sick puppy.
He's falling for Kate Beckett and the mystery behind her smile.
