Disclaimer: The only part of Castle that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.
Throughout Sunday afternoon and evening, and as he fell asleep that night, he was excited. When he raced out of bed on Monday morning, he was wishful. By dinnertime, he was restless. The weather turned stormy on Tuesday, and so did his mood. At the beginning of the day he was gloomy; by sunset—though the sun was obscured by the rain and clouds—he was annoyed. On Wednesday, as he slides into despair, he contemplates having a liquid lunch. Beckett has disappeared. There has been no response to his PM, and no new chapter for "Bad Good Night." Has Demming returned and swept her off her feet? No. He's not the sweeping kind. She isn't staying away because she's busy with a fresh case, either, because there haven't been any. He's checked through every back channel he has: there's a homicide in the Twelfth's jurisdiction for a week. So what is it? Maybe she slipped and has a concussion and has forgotten her fanfic password? Not likely, even to him.
What does seem likely is that he annoyed or spooked her. But how? What in his story about the dachador could have done that? Or his dog-sharing suggestion? He hadn't said that he wanted to share a dog with her, although he does. It's not as though he's stalking her. He's just a friendly, supportive, amusing (he hopes), nameless, faceless person from New York City who's hanging out in fanfic land.
He scratches at his three-day-old beard and ticks off his emotional states of the last few days: excited, wishful, restless, gloomy, annoyed, despairing. Six. It feels like a variation on the seven stages of grief, but he's not at all happy contemplating the seventh stage, which is acceptance. He's not accepting this. No way. Beckett can't be gone, and neither can her alter ego, SoNotNikki79. He's going to get them back. He opens a double fudge Yoo-hoo, the chocolate drink beloved of ten-year-old American boys; he may be an adult, but he craves the sweetness and the comfort, and when he reaches the bottom of the bottle he comes to a decision. Almost. He'll either PM her again, or go into the city and try to see her, much as he'd planned to do in Asbury Park. Except this time he won't be in a Ferrari with Bruce Springsteen, and she won't—please, please, please—be with Demming.
"Hey, Beckett," he'd say nonchalantly, "how's your summer going?"
And she'd answer, "Hey, Castle. Summer's been awful, so I started writing fan fiction. I was totally depressed until a brilliant reader reviewed my story. It gave me such confidence, you know? I understand now why you always want to know what people are saying about your books."
No, that's his stage-two, wishful self returning. What she'd say is, "Hey, Castle. I thought you weren't coming back until September."
Okay. Fine. He'll compose another PM, and this time he'll read it over carefully before he sends it. It has to be to the point. It has to reel her back in. He opens his laptop and puts his feet on the desk, his default thinking position, and starts to mull over what to write.
She's staring at her laptop. Since Sunday, when she realized that her fanfic pen pal is Castle, she's been looking blankly at the screen every evening, all evening. She's hardly slept. The whole point of writing her story had been to purge him from her system, and what happened? He's embedded in her soul more deeply than ever, that's what. She doesn't think she can bear to have him come back in September, knowing that he's with Gina. He'll be sitting in his chair next to her desk, close enough for her to smell the perfume that Gina leaves on his skin when she kisses him goodbye in the morning. Castle is with Gina. Maybe she could have prevented it, if only she'd told him in time that she wanted to spend Memorial Day with him. But the fact is, he'd chosen Gina. He's been complaining to her about his second ex-wife almost as long as she's known him, and yet there he is, cuddled up with his frosty ex-wife/publisher, melting the ice off her.
Her exchange with feelingtheheat had made her ridiculously happy. She'd felt as is if she were in the middle of a real-life You've Got Mail, but now that she knows who FTH is, it's as though she's been slam-dunked into Casablanca. "Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine." Funny, the character who says that in the movie is named Rick. But she, Kate, is the one saying it here, out loud.
"Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, he walks into mine."
She shakes her head. She's aching to respond to his PM about dogs, but she can't. It would make putting him behind her that much more painful. Excruciating. She's going to read his review one last time, and that will be it. She won't look at it again. It's late, and maybe it will help her sleep, lull her into some better, unexpected place.
Wow. How did she get here? It's a gorgeous room that might be part of a hotel suite. From the club chair where she's sitting, leaning back against a down-filled cushion covered in petal-pink moire, she can see part of a door and the edge of something that could be a placard of hotel rates. If so, they'll be astronomical. There are other doors, too, but they're all closed. This elegant living room must be twice the size of hers. One whole wall is windowed, but the silk curtains are drawn, so she has no clue where she is. The lighting is elegant and low. She closes her eyes for a moment, maybe more, but opens them when she hears a quiet voice to her left.
It's Castle. He's barefoot, dressed in a sky blue shirt that she's never seen before, and a pair of jeans so form-fitting that they must have been made by a tailor. She's sure he's commando, and has to force herself to look up. "Is this seat taken?" he asks, pointing to the matching chair that's just a foot away from hers.
"Uh, no."
"Do you mind if I join you?"
"No. Yes. I mean, no, I don't mind if you join me, and yes, please do."
She can smell his fifteen-dollar-a-bar soap when he settles into the chair. "Are you comfortable here?"
"Oh. Yes. Absolutely." Comfortable? Is he kidding? She wants to hurl herself out of her chair and onto him.
"Not too comfortable, I hope." He's smiling at her. His whole face is smiling at her, and somehow he has two champagne glasses in his hand—where the hell had they come from? He gives one to her, touching the rim of his against hers. When he strokes a fingertip across the inside of her wrist she almost faints. She might have, too, if it hadn't sent an electric charge from her navel, then due south.
"Too comfortable?" How was she able to say that? And why had she said something that idiotic?
"I wouldn't want you falling asleep on me, Beckett." He takes a sip of champagne and sets his glass on the tiny table between them. "Well, I do want you to fall asleep on me, but not here. I mean later, in bed." He tilts his head towards one of the doors, then leans forward, pulls the elastic from her pony tail, and runs his fingers through her hair. "I love that you've let you hair grow."
Dear God, her panties are wet. He can't see them, can he?
His hand moves across her cheek, and he cradles her jaw. He just looks at her; he's silent—she hadn't known he could be completely quiet for so long—as he runs the soft pad of his thumb back and forth below her eye. "You have beautiful cheekbones, do you know that? When you move, or when the light changes, there's the most amazing shifting patterns of shadows. It makes your face so complex. And this little mole under your eye." He touches it with the tip of his index finger, and she shivers. "Do you hate it?"
She can't answer. She's tongue-tied, and there's so much she wants to do with her tongue, though none of it involves speech.
"I hope you don't. A lot of women would. They'd think of it as an imperfection, but to me it just adds more character. And it's sexy."
No, sexy is the long muscle that she can see twitching in his thigh. Sexy is the scar over his eyebrow. Does he know that? She wants to kiss it, to run her tongue down it, but she still can't move. Some force from somewhere opens her mouth and causes her to talk, but she's not in control of what it makes her say. "Where's that bed you mentioned, Castle? It better be in the next room or I'll tear your fucking clothes off you right now."
His impossibly blue eyes are so close, and his breath skates across her cheek and her ear. "My fucking clothes? My fucking clothes are my skin, Kate. I hope yours are, too. That's all I want us to wear. Nothing but skin."
In one move—she hadn't known he could be that graceful, either—he scoops her into his arms, carries her to a door which he magically opens, and sets her on a bed. The sheets are already turned down. And then his hands are on her breasts and he's kissing her so deeply and erotically, that she can hardly breathe. She trying to unzip his pants, but she's too clumsy. He's kissing her even more deeply, and her moan is so loud, protracted, physical, that it wakes her up. She looks around the room in a daze. She's in her apartment, not a hotel, and she's alone. She either went to bed naked or took off her shirt and panties in her sleep, because they're on the floor. Her chest is heaving. She's had sex dreams before, but nothing like this. And never about Castle. This is a first, an explosive, heart-pounding first. She rolls over to get out of bed and is startled to find her laptop next to her left hip. It's warm, so it's still on. When she clicks the mousepad the screen lights up, illuminating her email account. There's one new, unread item, a PM sent twenty minutes ago, at 1:45 a.m. It's from feelingtheheat. For the first time in days, she laughs. Oh, she was feeling the heat just now, all right. The wild minority part of her overrules the cautious majority, which is most of her, and she opens the message.
Dear SoNotNikki79,
I haven't heard from you since Sunday, and I'm afraid that I must have offended you somehow. That's the last thing I wanted to do, and I usually have good manners, so please accept my apologies.
In your last PM to me you mentioned that everyone has secret sorrows. I thought that was a lovely phrase, but I also thought that I shouldn't comment on it since I was probably being too personal. Told you I was nosy! There was another reason, too: this has been a difficult summer for me. One of secret sorrow, as you'd say. Regrets, mostly. I've been on my own since early June, wallowing in self-pity. When I happened on your story I was so excited: we may look at Nikki and Rook in different ways, but your take on it, the direction you took them, fascinated me. It pulled me away from myself, and God knows I needed that.
More important, I loved our exchanges. I felt as if I'd popped up in The Shop Around the Corner, an old rom-com before anyone called them that. It's a favorite of mine; you might have seen it in its updated form, You've Got Mail.
We've been in touch for only a short time, but—I hope you won't mind this—I feel as if I've known you forever. If you don't reply to this, I'll understand, but please know that my apology is sincere. I'll close by saying that I miss hearing from you.
Feelingtheheat
She reads it again and again until she can almost recite it. He's on his own. He's been on his own since early June, "wallowing in self-pity." That must mean that he and Gina parted ways, mustn't it? There's no other explanation. This changes everything, except for one thing. She has to be more cautious. She can't let Castle know, or even suspect, that she's SoNotNikki79. She's got strong feelings for him, but she's not rushing into anything. The man has two ex-wives and a string of ex-girlfriends. When he comes back in September, she'll be the Beckett he said goodbye to at the end of May. At least, that's what she'll let him think. It will be obvious, fairly soon, that she and Demming aren't together, but that's all. In the meantime, she'll write him back, but she'll wait until she's had some sleep. Besides, she doesn't want to look too eager.
Her alarm goes off at 5:15, half an hour earlier than usual, so that she has time to put on her fanfic hat and write a short PM.
Hi, FTH,
I'm the one who should apologize. I was in a funk and never answered your last PM. You didn't offend me one whit.
She crosses out "one whit."
You didn't offend me at all. In fact, you made me laugh. You also sent me to Google. There really is such a dog, crossbreed, though it's known as a dachsador. I like your word, dachador, better. The other's a little too cutesy for my tastes. Funny how an S can mess something up. Like ass and pass, for instance.
She crosses out "Like ass and pass, for instance." It's too flirty. Too Beckett-and-Castle. She ends the paragraph with "Funny how an S can mess something up" and starts a new one.
Your Zip dog idea is a winner. If I ever take a vacation, I'll take a Zip dog with me.
I'm sorry that you've had a sorrowful summer, and hope that things are looking up. If you don't hear from me for a while it's because I'm busy at work and also trying to finish "Bad Good Night." Maybe next weekend or the one after I'll watch The Shop Around the Corner on Netflix. Thanks for telling me about it.
Snick
At 7:15, when she's ready to leave for work, she sends the PM, and turns off her laptop. On the way down the stairs of her building, she catches herself humming "The Man I Love" and claps her hand over her mouth. "Oh, my God, Kate," she whispers. "Shut up."
In his sprawling kitchen in the Hamptons, he's drinking coffee and chewing on a piece of toast. He'd promised himself that he wouldn't check his fanfic email account until lunchtime. On the other hand, lunchtime is not set in stone. If he started work at, say, 4:00 in the morning, he'd eat lunch 8:00 or 9:00. It's almost 9:00 now. He swallows the last bit of toast, puts his mug in the dishwasher, and heads for the shower.
It takes him a little longer than usual to shave, since he hasn't been near a razor in four days. Dressed in a clean tee shirt and shorts, he returns to the kitchen. The stove clock says 9:32. Lunchtime! He may not have started work at 4:00, but where is it written that there must be a four-hour interval between breakfast and lunch? Nowhere. He turns on his laptop.
She's back. She'sbackshe'sbackshe'sback. He's so happy that he doesn't even mind that she might not write him again for a while. He's a born optimist, and he hates being pessimistic. From nowhere, some lines of Tennyson—something he read when Alexis was a baby and jotted down—loom up in his memory. "Hope smiles from the threshold of the year to come, whispering 'It will be happier'." That's all he needs until September, which as far as he's concerned is the new year. A new year with Beckett. In his mind she's now also Snick, but she's never going to know that. Never. That's his secret. He's a hopeful man again.
TBC
A/N Thank you again for all your support. If you're in the US, have a wonderful Fourth of July. If you're not, have some fireworks anyway!
