oxymoron
oxymoron: (noun) a figure of speech in which apparently contradictory terms appear in conjunction
Her name sounds broken from his lips, muffled in her hair. Soft and sympathetic as his arms tighten around her body, press her against him. His fingers comb through her hair, gentle and soothing. He's comforting her, holding her like no one has over the past decade, strong and surrounding her and offering her whatever she needs.
So she cries. Lets out this…everything that's been consuming her for a week and sobs into his shoulder. Fingers claw at his back, legs quiver under her weight. And she cries until she can't cry anymore.
Her eyes burn and sting against the fabric of his shirt when he pushes her away, just enough for his gaze to land on hers. The fire has died down, the moonlight subtle and barely there, but she's pretty sure his eyes are red, too. Swollen, a little puffy like hers must be.
Her heart stutters with it, with the knowledge that he was crying, too. With her. For her.
His hand splays across her arm, drifts down over the crook of her elbow, to her shaky fingers. He wraps his fingers around hers, squeezes gently. His other hand caresses the base of her skull, curls around her nape before dropping to his side. His gaze stays locked on hers as he slowly leads her to the log.
He sits down first, tugs her down next to him. The log feels oddly big under her this time, strangely rough under her palms. She rests her hand on her thigh, instead, digs her nails into her knees. Her other hand stays locked firmly in his, rests on his thigh. She stares at it, draws comfort from his touch.
He squeezes her hand, again, before he speaks. "Do you wanna talk about it? About…what happened?" It's soft, shaky. He sounds almost scared to ask, she notes. Scared to hurt her.
She drags her gaze away from their intertwined hands, locks it on a lone stone sitting on the ground near her toes. The pressure wells in her chest, in her head, behind her eyes. Tears returns, pooling behind her eyelids. The ache in her chest intensifies, a sharp pang of loss and absence that she's always trying to forget about. That never really goes away.
"You don't have to," he whispers, thumb drifting over hers. "I understand, if you don't want to. I don't think I'd want to." It's so quiet, understanding, her heart flutters with something so far from pain, overwhelming in such a different way that suddenly seems even harder to face. "But, if you think it would help," he says, "I'm here to listen."
She swallows thickly around the ball in her throat, around the pain that threatens to escape as a sob that would be stupidly embarrassing.
"It's not much of a story," she mumbles. It's shaky and weak.
He reaches over, settles a hand on her leg. "I'm not looking for entertainment value, Beckett," he tells her. "I just want to help you, and if talking is what you need…"
"You're here to listen," she finishes for him.
"Yeah," he says. "I am."
She sighs, eyes falling closed. The words she wrote long ago flash to the forefront of her mind, simple and clear. An easy explanation for something that seems so complicated and crazy and insane.
She swallows around another ball in her throat. "I… We were supposed to go to dinner together," she whispers, the words barely audible to her own ears, "my mom, my dad and I." Her eyes fall closed. She feels a cold tear fall onto her cheek. "But she never showed."
He squeezes her hand, the others leaving her leg to splay across her shoulder. He rubs a line from one shoulder blade to the other before curling his fingers around her arm. She doesn't fight him when he draws her towards him.
"Two hours later, we went home," she continues. "And there was a detective waiting for us. Detective Raglan." His face lingers in the back of her mind, chiseled features and hazel eyes. She can still here his voice, his words. "They found her body," she chokes. "She had been stabbed."
A strangled sob escapes her, leaves her chest aching, her nose running, tears streaming down her cheeks. She covers her mouth with her hand, cries into it. He's the one that wipes the tears off her face.
He pulls her against him, arm still draped over her shoulders. Her knees bump against his, her head presses against his chest. He wraps his other arm around her, holds her, again. His fingers comb through her ponytail, gently massage her arm. Her tears are soaked up by the fabric of his shirt.
The material is damp against her face when she sucks in a slow, steadying breath, blinks the burn away from her eyes. Her fingers, she finds, are curled tightly around his shirt, clinging to him.
His hand runs down her back, follows the curve of her spine. The other squeezes her shoulder.
"Was it a robbery?" he asks, his voice so low she wonders if he even meant to say it.
She shakes her head, temple pressing hard against his chest. "No. She still had her money," she says, staring down at his leg, at where her knee is pressed against his, "and it wasn't a sexual assault either. They attributed it to gang violence, a random, wayward event, and…"
These types of cases rarely get solved, Mr. Beckett, Miss Beckett.
"And the killer was never caught," he finishes for her.
She nods, again.
His arms tighten around her, hold her tightly until she's on the verge of falling asleep in his arms, cheeks sticky with dried tears, fingers still clinging to his shirt.
He wakes up with her in his arms, her cheek pressed against his shoulder, arm wrapped around his middle, leg draped over his. His arm is numb under her head, the other hand resting above hers on his chest.
She's still wearing the yoga pants and hoodie she was wearing by the fire last night. Her hair is still pulled back, looser now and slightly mussed with sleep. A few stray strands tickle his chin and neck. Her feet are bare, a little cold. The sleeping bags are beneath them, though. Just a small blanket he brought covering them—well, mostly her.
He runs his hand along the curve of her shoulder, down her arm and back up again. It has her nuzzling against him, pressing herself tighter against him, still lost in sleep.
Good. She should be sleeping.
They were out late last night, sitting on the log. He'd held her the entire time. She'd been pressed up against him like she is now until long after the fire died and the sky filled with stars. Just…silent. Comforting. Soothing. Waiting for some semblance of calm and stability to wash over her. Waiting for sleep.
It wasn't until she yawned against him that he suggested they go to bed. Even the lingering smoke was gone by then. He pulled her to her feet, let her lean against him as he led her to the tent. And when she curled up on a ball above her sleeping bag, he couldn't resist reaching out to her, letting her curl up around him, instead.
He hadn't let himself close his eyes until he was sure she was asleep.
And now here they are, and she's still asleep. More peaceful, now, and holding onto him less tightly. But she's still sleeping, and still wrapped around him and completely vulnerable. Open, like she was last night. Shy and hurt and scared and innocent. And asleep.
He has no idea what time it is or when he has to get up, but he really doesn't want to move.
She stirs, just a bit. Her foot rides up his leg. Her head nuzzles against his chest. Out of instinct, he tightens his arms around her, settles his chin against the top of her head.
They're just friends. Co-workers and friends, new friends at that. Sure, since they've been on the camping trip she's opened up to him, they've been closer. There's one more almost kiss on their list of, well, only two. And then there's the closeness, the touching, the cuddling that he won't complain about.
But they are just friends.
It doesn't feel like they're just friends, though. Now with her draped across him like this. Not when his heart stutters every time she moves because he wants to be more.
He trails his fingers down her side, ghosts his fingertips over the thick fabric of her sweater. Her hand is warm under his, soothing against his chest in an odd way. It's comfortable, having her like this, even though his fingers on one hand are tingling, going numb and he can't really move because of her restricting weight.
It feels…right.
He swallows around the realization, around the fact that he's been married twice and even then it wasn't like this. With this woman, so strong on the outside, always mending herself within. With her.
With Kate.
She's still asleep, still unaware of everything he does.
So he takes a risk, toes the line between friendship and more that's traced bold between them, and dusks a kiss to the top of her head, so gently he's not sure she'd feel it even if she were awake.
His head falls back against the pillow, his eyes falls closed. Unwilling to move, unwilling to risk waking her up, he lays there, holds her in his arms until she stirs into consciousness.
It catches him off guard when she doesn't pull away like he burned her. When she doesn't pull away at all. So much so that he thinks, for a moment, that she fell back asleep, or didn't wake up in the first place. But her hand flips under his, fingers squeezing his hand.
"Thank you," she mumbles, voice soft and thick with sleep. "For last night, I mean. I think it helped, to tell someone." She looks up at him, but doesn't raise her head from his chest. "You were really supportive about it. Listened well. Didn't get caught up in the story. I know that must have been hard."
He wants to kiss her.
She's staring up at him with wide, innocent eyes and the slightest smile thanking him for being there for her as though he could've been anywhere else and he wants to kiss her. Her head, or her cheeks. Her lips that are curled upwards so beautifully, so perfectly.
"Uh, it wasn't," he answers. "You needed someone to listen, not someone to spin you a mystery novel."
She nods, lets her head fall back against him. "I am sorry for dumping all that on you, though," she says. "I…try not to bother people with it. You shouldn't have to deal with my baggage."
"I want to," he says and–
Oh, that came out wrong. Or two personal. Or something. Because she tenses in his arms, just slightly, and the words echo in his mind like it's a promise that he cares about her more than he should. As much as he does. And she's not supposed to know about that yet—possibly ever.
"I'm your friend," he covers. "I care about you. I don't want you to be…hurt or upset."
She settles in his arms, sinks back against him. "Well, you're a good…friend, Castle," she whispers.
It feels like she's saying more, saying something more important.
"You're a good friend, too, Beckett."
He feels her smile, sees it when she slowly pushes herself off his chest. She presses a soft, barely there kiss to his cheek before pushing herself onto her knees, still smiling. Probably at how surprised he looks.
"You get dressed, I'll make coffee," she says. And then she's gone, crawling out of the tent and leaving him there.
His heart stutters at the intimacy of the moment, the ghost of her lips lingering on his cheek.
For some inexplicable reason, she opts for the window seat on the ride back to the city.
It had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that being wedged between him and the wall is somewhat, just a very, tiny, little bit appealing. Absolutely nothing.
And yet, she notices, about half an hour after the bus jerks into motion, that she's not leaning away from him, not pressing herself up against the wall and staring out the window. She's not avoiding him in exchange for the book she downloaded to her phone in anticipation of this trip.
She's…staring at his leg. Well, his knee. And his hands as he plays some game she doesn't recognize on his phone and her mind is not in the gutter. Not at all.
Well, maybe a little. But he has really nice hands, so she really can't be blamed for wondering how they would feel circling her waist, splayed across her sides, covering her–
"You know, had I know you were just gonna stare at me the whole time, I would have taken the window seat," he says, making her eyes flick up from where his thumb is still drifting across the screen to his face, to find him looking back at her.
"I wasn't…staring." Well…that's a lie. "I, uh, don't know that game," she motions to his phone, now sitting idle on his thigh, the game paused.
He chuckles. "Oh, yeah, that's not hard to believe," he says. She glares. "But you, Katherine Beckett, were not wondering about the game; you were staring at the man."
"The man being you," she mutters.
"Well, obviously." He smiles, clicks his phone off. "No need to be embarrassed, Beckett. In fact, I'm rather flattered by your staring," he grins, his hand landing on her leg.
Oh, she not going to squirm. She is not–
"You would be," she counters. "Since you stare at me."
He shrugs. "I won't deny it." His hand drifts up, just barely, but it has her fighting against the shiver at the base of her spine. "But when I do it, you find it creepy. When you do it, I find it really, really hot."
Something flutters in her chest, pools in her stomach. She ignores it. "You might want to think about what you find hot, Castle, because I wasn't staring at you."
He hums, nudges her shoulder with his. "You were," he sing-songs. "And even though you can deny that you were doing it today," he squeezes her leg, finger drifting up even farther, "yesterday morning is something else completely."
It draws a gasp from her chest, the words, the hand a little to high on her thigh. "How did you know?"
"I didn't," he laughs, "but I do now."
"Oh." Rookie move.
He squeezes her thigh, again, keeps her fighting not to squirm in her seat. His shoulder is pressed against hers, and she realizes with startling certainty that she likes it. And that she doesn't want the contact to stop. That she could lean away from him, press herself against the wall next to her instead of against him.
She doesn't.
"Tell me, Beckett, did I at least look handsome when I was sleeping? Did it make you want to cuddle, or more?" he asks, a whisper in the sliver of space between them.
She swallows thickly. This is taking a turn she didn't see coming, a turn from we're friends and co-workers and nothing more. This feels like they're inching towards something more.
He will not get to her.
"You looked pretty much exactly like you do now," she says dryly, shrugging one shoulder. "Although, your mouth was shut, so maybe you were slightly more attractive."
"More?" It's happy, hopeful. "You think I'm attractive?"
That earns him another eyeroll. "You have women asking you to sign their chests at every single one of your book signings. How is this a shocker to you?"
He shrugs, goes oddly serious. His fingers tighten around his thigh, again. "You're…you. Katherine Beckett." He says it like it's an explanation, like it sums up everything.
All it does is make her brows furrow. "I know my name. What does who I am have to do with how attractive you are?"
His eyes meet hers, gaze serious. "You aren't like them. You're…real and wounded and serious and I'm not. I didn't think you could ever, well, you know, find me attractive," he shrugs.
She stares at him, mind racing with new information with this side of him she hasn't seen in any of the three years that she's known him. This…Castle who is insecure and cares about her opinion seemingly more than he does about those of hundreds of his fans.
That thing in her chest is back. That fluttering that she's growing to…not dislike. Her hand settles over his on her leg, her fingers slipping into the gaps between his.
"Well, Castle, without this meaning anything about…us," she says, "you are an attractive man."
He smiles, bright and happy like a child who made their parents proud. Like she probably did that day he signed her book, called her beautiful.
Well, she hasn't thought of that day in a while. She shouldn't be thinking about it now.
"Now, go back to playing your game, Castle. We still have hours on this bus," she mutters, patting the top of his land, leaning away from him just a bit.
He grins. "You just want an excuse to stare at me again."
"So what if I do?" she shrugs. "I thought you found it hot."
"Oh, I definitely do," he says, digs his phone out of his pocket.
She smiles, leans back in her seat. Outside her window, trees blur into an endless line of green. Her toes dig into the soles of her shoes. Her fingers ghost over the spot his vacated.
She tries not to stare at him, but she does.
The bus lurches to a stop in the school parking lot sometime after lunch, the students grumbling about being hungry, his legs on the verge of going numb. Beckett, however, seems perfectly fine, as she stands up in her seat, gives the students their orders before whispering for him to start the line off the bus.
She slings her duffel bag over her shoulder as he pulls on the straps of his backpack. He carries one of the two, mostly empty coolers. She carries the other one, back arched slightly, chin tilted upwards until she drops it onto the gym floor, a smile on her face.
"Do you have anything you need to pick up in your classroom?" she asks. "'Cause I'm just going to head up there before I leave. Or do you have to go find Alexis?"
He smiles. "Nope. Her trip doesn't come in until about three, apparently. Gives me a few hours to waste before the responsible one is back," he answers.
"Oh, so you're going to waste them with me?" she says. Her eyes shine with amusement, voice lilted.
"With you," he answers, "it could never be a waste of time."
He braces for the laugh, the eyeroll, the warning in the form of only his name, but it never comes. Instead, she's smiling at him, as open as she was in his arms this morning, as she was when she was teasing him in the bus.
"Well, then, you coming?"
She saunters away, hips swaying. He runs after her, reaches the door before she can, pulls it open for her. She leads him into the hallway, her teasing smile turning sweet, just as beautiful, a little more shy. Her fingers drift over his as she opens the door to the stairwell. The north one, where they…
"Last time we were here together, you were livid," he says, the words out in the open between them before he can really think them through.
She turns to him, shrugs. "You'd volunteered me for a trip I didn't want to go on. I had the right to be mad," she says.
"I know. I'm not saying I didn't deserve it."
She looks at him, tilts her head to the side. A smile comes across her face, and she takes a step down, so they're both standing on the landing, in between the two flights of stairs. Exactly where…
"You remember what else happened last time we were here?" she asks.
She's flirting, he realizes. That teasing glint in her eyes, the ever so slight upturn of her lips. Because of course she remembers what happened here last time. So does he.
He hasn't been able to stop thinking about it.
He takes a step forward, just an inch closer to her. "I remember exactly what else happened last time we were here," he says, reaching out to curl his fingers around her arm. She doesn't pull away. "You realized how much you want me."
She rolls her eyes. "That's one way to put it."
"You almost kissed me, and then ran off and avoided me," he says.
"I didn't almost kiss you," she counters. "I…thought about kissing you."
He squeezes her arm. "You wanted to kiss me."
She sucks in a breath. "I–" She shakes her head, takes a step back. "We shouldn't," she says. "You're my friend. I don't want to…rush into anything."
"Rush into it?" he asks. She nods slowly, lip tugged between her teeth. "Okay then, Beckett. Well, it's spring break now, which means we won't get to see each other every day."
"Oh no, how will I make it without you?" she teases.
It's incredible, really, how quickly they can go from holding onto each other, on the verge of making out against the stairwell wall, to this friendly teasing they've grown into over the past few weeks. Like a game of chicken, toeing the line, stepping on it, and then back again.
"I don't know," he says. "Which is why I want your phone number. You know, to tide you over for the next week."
Her brows raise, lips curling into a smile. "To tide me over?"
"Exactly," he nods. "As your friend, I'm just looking out for your well-being."
Her smile fades, just a bit. Falling into something more serious…more sentimental. It reminds him too much of the look on her face right before she started telling him about her mom, when her eyes were locked on the ground and he was staring at her, wishing he could take away her pain.
He steps towards her, reaches for her arm. His palm settles on her shoulder, squeezes gently. Her eyes fog with confusion, gaze locked on his.
"Seriously, Beckett, you had a rough week," he whispers. "With everything that happened… I don't know if you have someone to talk to. Your dad, Lanie, maybe? And if you do, if you're willing to talk to them about it, then you can forget that I'm even asking, but…we're friends, maybe a little more than friends and I just want to make sure you're okay."
She's staring up at him, now, eyes still foggy. "You really…care that much?" she mumbles.
"Of course I do," he says. "So, if you will give me your phone number, I'm going to keep you occupied all week, on any day that you don't have other plans. I'm going to make sure you smile every single day until we come back to work. I can even help you correct assignments."
She chuckles. "You don't need to offer to do my work to get my number, Castle." She reaches over, splays her hand over his arm, too. "This is…sweet. You're a good friend."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah," she nods. "So, come up to my classroom and I'll give you my number. You can…text me, sometime."
His smile widens as he follows her up the second flight of stairs, into her classroom. She scribbles the number down on a post-it, sticks it to the back of his hand. He lingers by her door as she gathers up the papers she needs to correct. She doesn't ask why he doesn't do the same.
"Are you leaving now?" she asks.
He shrugs. "I was gonna wait for Alexis, but I can walk you to your car, carry one of your bags."
"You don't have to," she says.
He reaches past her, though, slips the strap of her duffel bag off her shoulder. "I know. I want to," he tells her.
She smiles, doesn't protest as they walk back down the stairs, side by side this time. He stays by her side through the parking not, ignores the look she shoots him when he confesses that he knows which one's her car. He drops her duffel bag into the back seat, watches as she sets her messenger bag on the passenger seat.
"See you tomorrow," he says.
She waves. "See you tomorrow."
The car whirs to life, and he lingers in the parking lot until he can't see her anymore.