there should be stars
Her toes curl against the cool hardwood when she finally pauses her pacing across the living room. With each turn, her skirt brushes against her knees.
She's not nervous. She's not.
It's not like it's their first date. Or their second or third.
But it feels important. He hasn't stopped pestering her about going out since the night of the fundraiser and after she lost to him in their rematched poker game at her desk and he demanded a single date with her in a week, she really didn't have a choice.
Which is why she's in a deep purple dress, hair and make-up done, waiting for him to show up.
But she's not nervous. Maybe a little excited actually. Over the last few months with him constantly at her side, she has almost fallen back in love with him. Almost. Rationally, she knows it's petty to hold the last four years over his head because he did leave for work and not because he had suddenly fallen out of love with her but he still left. Left without really talking to her until the night before he was going to head up to Boston.
The knock on her door jolts her out of her thoughts. She slides her feet into the nude heels on the way to the door, picking up the clutch she had stuffed some money into along with her badge and off-duty piece. Just in case.
He's in the hallway wearing a pale blue button-down tucked into pressed pants. There is a small bouquet of flowers, peonies in shades of deep pink to nearly white. The cellophane crinkles as he shifts the flowers in his arms.
"Hi," she says softly, stepping back to let him in.
Two steps inside the apartment, he swings around, holding the flowers out to her. "Here. I know they're your favorite and while it seems a little ridiculous to do the whole flower deal I thought -"
She cuts him off with a short kiss, up on her toe tips so that her heels click when she lowers herself back to the ground. "It's sweet. Uh, let me just put them in water and we can go."
Beckett takes down a vase from one of the cupboards, fills it with water from the sink after setting the flowers on the counter. When she glances over her shoulder, she finds him examining her bookshelves, fingertips smoothing down the spines of the books. She arranges the peonies in the crystal and sets it on the coffee table in her living room.
"So, we going to spend the evening examining my taste in books or…?" she teases.
He spins back to her, jogging over. "You've got good taste in books though," he says. "Eclectic, but good. Because who reads about Gothic architecture in their free time?"
"I do. Now come on."
They take the elevator down to the lobby. He puts a hand at the small of her back, leading her over to the grey sedan. Not a limo, no uniformed driver. Just them.
He drives with only one hand as the other rests on her knee rubbing little circles through the fabric of her dress. After five minutes, she places her hand over his, fingers curling around his, looking over at him through the loose curls of her hair. He's smiling when he glances at her and she feels her stomach flip low in her abdomen.
Pastis is cozy, one of their old favorites that she hasn't gone to in forever because of the lingering memories. The maitre d' seats them in a corner booth, handing them menus, and promising that the waiter will be over in a few minutes. The young man takes their order for lobster ravioli and glasses of chardonnay.
"This feels weird," she says finally, fingers circling the stem of her glass. When she looks up, he's watching her, brows furrowed. "Like, asking your favorite color or what you like to do in your free time or what your favorite season is seems ridiculous. I already know."
"Do you?"
"Blue, play with that ridiculous toy helicopter, winter," she rattles off before taking a sip of the wine. He's gaping at her so she smiles just a little.
"You still like purple, playing your dad's old guitar, and fall?" he asks, shifting his leg under the round table so that it bumps against hers.
Beckett ducks her head, pulling her lower lip between her teeth before releasing it. "Haven't had much time for that guitar lately. I've had this annoying writer on my heels. Always busting into crime scenes and nearly getting us shot and generally getting into the way."
"Wow," Castle mutters. "He sounds like a handful."
"Oh, he is. I'm sorta surprised I haven't shot him yet."
Through the rest of the dinner, he asks her about the books she has read lately, listening as she raves about the books she had found in the Young Adult section but are absolutely stunning and beautifully written. She questions him about the elderly couple who lives in the house next to his in the Hamptons, wondering how they're doing, whether they still hold that cookout every year at the end of the summer.
Their ravioli go cold. Neither of them notice, too wrapped up in the conversation, the so close to normalcy of it all. As though the years apart have disappeared into dust, blown away with one breathless laugh, her head tipped back as his fingers dance along the inside of her wrist.
They get the rest of their ravioli to go, the bag swinging from one hand as the other tangles with her fingers, capturing the back of her hand against his thigh on the walk back to the car. She fiddles with the radio on the drive back to her apartment, finding the soft rock station and humming along with her eyes closed and fingers wrapped around the carton of ravioli. Her body is tucked against his even though she has to dig for her keys to get into the building.
Once she has the door to her apartment open, she leans back against the doorframe. "Thanks, Castle. Tonight was really nice."
"You gonna shoot me if I kiss you right now?"
She shakes her head slowly, eyes flicking down to his lips. "No," she sighs a moment before his mouth moves over hers.
He pulls back, forehead resting on hers, breathing her name against her chin. "Just say goodnight and close the door."
"I can't," she says, already chasing him, pushing up to brush her lips over his again. "Come inside. Take me to bed."
He doesn't give her a chance to take it back. He takes the container of food from her hand, puts it on the side table before banding his arms around her back, lifting her up and out of her shoes, closing the front door with his elbow.
"Bedroom still in the same place," he asks, mouth at her ear even as he starts around the couch toward the hall.
She nods, trailing wet, quick kisses along his jaw. He drops her on the threshold of the room, spinning and pressing her against the frame. His chest is warm at her back as he nudges her hair off her neck with his nose, fingers working at the zipper on her dress. Her forehead falls to the door, hands reaching back and connecting with his hip as he pushes the dress down, letting it pool around her feet.
Castle walks her backwards until her calves hit the edge of the mattress and she falls onto the bed, unmade from this morning when she got up for work. He toes off his shoes, pulls his belt from the pants. Then her fingers are on him, working at the buttons of his shirt as he fights his pants off.
When he kneels over her, hands tracing over the curve of her shoulder, her eyes flutter closed. He reaches down her body and she arches up against him on a gasp, navy lace of her bra scraping over his chest. As she tries to aim for his mouth and misses, lips landing closer to his nose, he slides a finger up into her. Her mouth falls open against his skin, hot puffs of air washing over him.
And then he's hooking his fingers around her underwear, struggling to get them down her long legs as she kicks them across the room while unhooking her bra. His hand pushes at one of her knees, lifting it up just enough that when he positions himself at her entrance, she's already unable to hold back the quiet whimper that breaks free when he pushes into her slowly.
"Open your eyes," he whispers, pulling out and returning just as leisurely.
It takes a moment for her to raise her lids, meeting his gaze as he twists his hips, dragging the broken sob from her throat. She reaches up, feathering her fingers through his hair, down to the nape of his neck as she pulls him down for a kiss that melds their tongues and leaves her breathless.
He's going slow, drawing it out until she's keening, hands tight in his hair as she tries to hold off as long as possible. But then he snakes the hand not still smoothing over her cheek down between them, circling her clit just twice before she bows up, burying her face into his shoulder as she comes apart beneath him.
When she finds all of the pieces of herself that he shattered and puts them back together, he's gone. She can hear the whir of the microwave, though, providing the drone tone to the clink of glasses against the counter. She slips from the bed, finding the oversized t-shirt she usually wears to bed and tugs it over her head, grabbing a clean pair of panties from her drawer before padding out into the living room.
Castle has his boxers back on, dividing up the leftover lobster ravioli onto plates, water poured into two mismatched tumblers.
"Go back to bed," he says without looking up as he takes forks from the silverware drawer.
But she goes over, picks up the glasses. "I'll help."
They settle against the headboard, balancing plates on their knees with their shoulders kissing. As her eyes start to drift shut, body listing toward his, Castle takes their plates and moves from her side. She snags his wrist as he goes past her.
"Stay?"
The corner of his lips lifts up. "Just putting these in the sink."
When he comes back, she's already curled on her side under a single sheet. She feels him get in behind her, an arm creeping over her waist as his head nestles into her shoulder.
He must think she's asleep because the last thing she hears him say before she drops into the gentle lull of slumber is a far too quiet "I love you."