Disclaimer: The only part of Castle that I own is the TV on which I used to watch the show.
You have my heart.
His mind has never moved as fast as it does now. You have my heart. He sees, thinks he sees, her heart in his hand–her actual heart, a beating thing. His mind is playing tricks; this can't be her real heart, but an image that springs from the remembered aftermath of her shooting. You have her heart, he tells himself. I have her heart. He looks down at his palm again, and what he sees this time, pictures there, is a paper heart. A Valentine. A bright-red shape that comes to a point at the bottom, while the top is two symmetrical arcs that meet in the middle. Maybe that's what they are now: two arcs that have, at last, met in the middle.
You have my heart.
He shuts his eyes, and keeps them closed for a long time. He thinks it's a long time. He could have counted to 1,000, couldn't he? He's afraid to open his eyes again in case he's dreamed all of this, and her heart isn't his at all. He knows that she's here, can smell traces of her perfume, can feel the warmth of her body just inches from his, but he's not convinced that she said it. You have my heart. He could have conjured that up. He cautiously opens his eyes. The Valentine is gone. His hand is empty. And so he raises his head slowly, until her face is in view, and sees–sees what? Love. It looks exactly like love. He's sure of it. "I have your heart?" he asks in wonder, still stunned.
"Yes," she says.
"I will. I–I will. I'll take such good care of it, Kate. I promise. And you have mine. You know that, don't you? You have my heart." He reaches out and takes her fingers, kisses them, and presses them against his chest. "It's yours."
"It is?"
"Yes."
"I'll take such good care of it, Castle."
They sit that way for a while. Time has essentially disappeared for both of them. Neither moves. They have so much to say, and no need to say it. Everything he wants or needs is in her eyes, everything for her is in his.
"I can feel it," she says at last, her voice low.
"What?"
"Your heart beat. It's slower than mine, though."
"It is? I'm amazed you can't actually see it. Feels as though it's about to explode through my chest."
"I hope not, Castle. One open-heart surgery in this family is enough."
His mind may be foggy–is foggy, in the best possible way–but he knows what he heard. "This family." He and she are family, in her mind. Maybe her mind is as foggy as his, but she said it. And just as he's filing that in a new mental folder that he's labeling FAMILY, the phone in his rear pocket buzzes. He's so startled that he jumps, which knocks Kate's hand from his chest.
"Sorry, sorry," he says, fumbling for the cell. "It's Alexis." He clicks on her text.
"Dad, where are you? Are you OK? Gram and I have been home for hours. I'm worried."
They've been home for hours? How can that be? He looks at the screen again. Oh. Oh, shit. It's getting on for 1 a.m. He's completely taken aback. Before he can type a reply, another text comes in.
"Please tell me you didn't go to Vegas again."
He answers immediately. "No, I swear! Went out to dinner and lost track of time. Coming right home."
So does she. "It's OK. Going to bed. School tomorrow."
"Coming home anyway. You may be 17 but I still get to tuck you in, metaphorically."
He wrinkles his nose. "I'm an idiot. Forgot to text or leave Alexis a note that I was going out and she was worried." He tactfully omits mentioning her second text. "It's almost one o'clock."
"Can't be." Her eyes drop to her father's watch. "Oh, my God. I didn't realize that we, you know."
"That we'd been talking for so long? Neither did I." He grimaces. "I'm going home. Want to see my kid before she goes to sleep. And speaking of sleep, you need it, too. You have to leave for work in six hours or something." Reluctantly, he gets to his feet. "I'll come by the precinct with your coffee, okay?"
"No, don't."
"Don't come? You don't want me to come?" He hopes that he doesn't sound as disappointed as he feels.
"Of course do, Castle, but I won't be there. I'm on vacation."
"Vacation?" That's 10,000 times more surprising than the face that it's well after midnight. "You never go on vacation. Besides, you're here. Shouldn't you be in, I dunno, someplace warm? With a beach? Where you can wear an almost illegally tiny bikini?"
"I wear a one-piece, now." She looks sideways before adding, awkwardly, "Scars."
Ouch. Except he wouldn't care that her scars were showing, ever. "So you're having a staycation? The Captain forcing you to take some time off?"
She colors slightly. "Actually, I forced her to let me. We'll talk about it tomorrow. Go home to your daughter." She gives him a little nudge towards the door, and when they're almost there she grabs the back of his shirt and spins him around. She takes his face in her hands and says, "But first, I get to do this." She kisses him long and hard, until she's out of breath, and so is he.
Half an hour later he's gotten a two-minute highlights-of-the-weekend recitation from Alexis, gone back downstairs, stripped to his underwear, and brushed his teeth. "Could we go on a second date?" he types to Kate as he sits up in bed.
"Yes," comes her rapid reply.
"How about nine o'clock?"
"I like to eat dinner a little earlier. Maybe seven thirty?"
"I meant breakfast."
"You're on."
"Here. My place."
"Okay. Night."
"Night."
He beams like a 14-year-old who just invited the coolest girl in school to a dance, and she said yes. He's about to plug his phone into the charger when it pings again. She's sent him a heart. No, two hearts. "Me, too," he types, then slides under the covers, allowing himself to imagine what it will be like when she's under the covers with him.
By 8:30 the next morning Alexis has left for school and his mother, thank goodness, to a very early hair appointment. "The red needs a bit of rejuvenation, darling," she says to him, as she sails out the door on a cloud of Dior's J'adore perfume.
When Kate knocks on the door, bacon is already in the skillet, brioches are warming in the oven, and eggs in their coddlers are submerged in simmering water.
It's an easy breakfast, no tension, an ideal, low-key second date. They chat about nothing in particular. "Mmmmmm," she says, draining her glass. "This juice is incredible."
"Passion fruit."
"Very subtle, Castle." She winks. She'd deny it if he called her on it, so he won't. He'll just savor it in silence.
"I chose it because it's very high in vitamin C."
"Right." She pushes a folded piece of paper across the table.
"What's this?" he asks, picking it up.
"Answers."
"To what?"
"Questions I thought you might ask me."
"About what?"
"Little things, big things. We've been partners for more than three years, but you have a million questions. I know you do. So I made a list of answers."
He laughs. "So, kind of like personalized Jeopardy?" He quickly scans the list. "What's raspberries? First thing on here."
"Favorite fruit."
" 'In My Life'?"
"Favorite Beatles song. Favorite song, period. Always makes me think of my mom. She loved it. I played it every day for months after she died."
"English horn?"
"Favorite instrument."
"Huh. Odd choice."
"Not odd, Castle. Gorgeous."
"I'll take your word for it. Let's see." He looks farther down. "Who's Neal?"
"First guy I slept with. And before you ask, no, I will not tell you his last name. I regretted it immediately."
"The sex?"
"No. Neal."
"Okay, moving right along. Kangaroo. Don't tell me. Favorite animal."
"No, my favorite animal is the dog. Dogs. All kinds. But a kangaroo is the animal I'd most like to see up close. And in the wild."
"Another interesting choice."
She shrugs. "Always had a huge soft spot for them. And I've never been to Australia."
It he called his travel agent now, they could be on a plane to Sydney by dinnertime. He should probably wait. Good idea for a birthday present, though. "OK, Crime and Punishment. Bet I know the question." He looks over the top of the paper. "The one I wanted to ask you last night, right? First book you read as an adult that knocked your socks off."
"Yes. I wasn't quite an adult, but I found it on my own when I was fifteen. I was full of adolescent angst, so it spoke to that."
"Geez, cheery. Okay, here's another. Left hip? What's that?"
"C'mon, Castle. You can figure that one out."
"Left hip?"
"Think about it."
"I'd love to think about your left hip. Right one, too." He hums. "But I got nothin'."
"Tattoo. It's where my tattoo is."
He gasps. He feels giddy. "You're killing me, here, Kate. You must know that."
"Well, I hope not. I'd like you to stay alive so that you can see it. Find it for yourself."
With those three short sentences, the low-key second date turns into something else. She's flirting, but she's not flirting; she's joking, but she's not. He briefly switches his focus from her face to her hands, then back again. Does she know that she's shredding half a brioche, that little bits of it are all over the table top? That the tone of her voice when she said "find it for yourself" was not the same as it had been right before? He's still nervous about making a misstep, but he'd bet a lot that she is, too. The brioche crumbs are a good clue.
"Is that the passion fruit juice talking, Kate?"
"No. No, I'm pretty clear-headed. With this coffee. Your coffee is strong."
"So, this tattoo, is it a cup of coffee? Which I sometimes think is the most important thing in your life."
"You do?"
"Oh, I've seen you lust after really good coffee. I think your pupils might even dilate."
"That sounds more like a junkie." She smiles when she says it.
"No, definitely erot–uh, romantic. Coffee, your true love."
Her expression is suddenly serious, and she reaches out to take the piece of paper that he'd set down next to his spoon. "Could I borrow a pen, please?"
A pen? "Of course." He stands and walks over to the counter by the fridge, fetches a pen from the drawer, and brings it to her. She writes something, very deliberately, and passes the paper back to him.
"Me?"
"Yes, you, Castle. You're the answer to the question, 'Who's Kate Beckett's one true love?'"
"Not coffee?"
"Not coffee." She stops, but now she's shredding her napkin. "You're the answer to another question, too."
"I am?"
"Yes."
"What's the question?"
" 'Whose initials did Kate Beckett tattoo on her hip last year?' Would you like to see them? I mean it, the tattoo?"
A/N Thank you for your support and enthusiasm; it makes all the difference.
