Prana
He hesitates outside the room, his hand wrapped around the edge of the door as a woman passes him, her ponytail swinging with every step.
Kate's already in the room.
And she's beautiful.
She's wearing the same thing she wears every week, a crew neck shirt and a pair of yoga pants. Except her pants are tighter today, clinging to her legs from hips to ankle and he can't help the way his gaze travels down the length of her body and back up again.
He can't fight the image that springs to mind. Of her in the grey dress she wore to the wedding, of the way she smiled when she ducked out of the crowd, avoiding the bouquet toss, of the way her hand had felt in his, and on his shoulder, when he swept her onto dance floor.
Of how soft her skin had been under the press of his lips.
Of the dream that had haunted him that night, the dream where he peels the dress down her body, kissing every inch of skin he reveals.
The forbidden dream that has lingered in the back of his mind since that night, that refuses to let him see her as just a friend anymore.
Even though he's not sure he ever really did.
With a blink, and a shake of his head, he forces that thought back, that image back, and focuses on the people in the room again.
Focuses on Kate.
She's stretching now. He recognizes the routine. She bends down and touches her toes, and he forces himself to look away. And then she leans to one, side, and the other. And then she plants her hands on her hips and twists at her torso, turning towards him.
Catching him staring.
His gaze lingers just long enough for him to catch the flush of pink to her cheeks, the dip of her head as she looks away, and he does, too.
But he can't keeping staring at her from the door anymore, not now that she caught him. So, his gaze still locked on the wooden floor, he steps into the room. He adjusts his mat under his arm as he finds his place next to her, lingering for a moment before he bends down and sets it on the floor.
For a second, he thinks he feels her eyes locked on his back, but he can't make himself look up to try and catch her.
He's the one who stares creepily. Not her.
But when he stands back up, she is looking at him, her eyes wide, her cheeks still stained pink. A small smile flirts with the corners of her mouth, and yet as soon as he looks at her, she looks away.
Probably because he kissed her. Because he's her friend and he pushed the limit and Kate Beckett isn't someone who likes to be pushed.
And yet she speaks first.
"Hi."
It's soft, almost shy, and he can't help the shock that makes his heart skip a beat, because maybe she doesn't hate him after all.
Maybe they can pretend it never happened.
"Hey," he returns.
But he doesn't know what else to say, and she doesn't pick up the conversation.
He swallows nervously, turns to face her, and turns away again.
There's nothing to say, and yet he hates the silence between them.
And he finds himself swallowing back a sigh of relief when Miss Nichols appears at the front of the room, announcing the beginning of class.
He'll think of something to say later.
He hates the silence between them, and the idea of going home without having a conversation with her makes dread weigh heavy in his stomach.
They're friends. She's his best friend.
His best friend.
He can't just…stop talking to her because he's an idiot who wants more than she does, who wants more than she's willing to give. He can't lose the friendship they've built over something as stupid as feelings he was never supposed to have in the first place.
So when the elevator doors slide closed in front of them, trapping them alone, together, in this place that has come to be the home of their friendship, he can't stay quiet.
So he says the first thing that comes to mind.
"Have I ever told you about my friendship with the mayor?"
She turns to him, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. Her arms cross over her chest as she leans back against the metal wall, letting her head fall back with a soft thud.
"You're friends with the mayor?" she asks.
He nods, and finds himself mirroring her position, smiling back at her.
"How did that happen?"
"He's a fan," he answers. "He and his wife came to one of my book launch parties. We met, of course, because you can't have the mayor of New York City at your party and not talk to him."
"Of course you can't." She chuckles. "And here I thought having you in my yoga class was kind of a big deal."
He shrugs. "I thought the same thing about you."
It has her going serious, and his mouth clamps shut, his heart pounding against his ribs. His arms fall from his chest to press against the cold metal walls, and his fingers curl around the railing that frames the room. He holds on tightly, his breath caught in his chest.
She's just a cop.
Well, now she's his friend, but back then, when he first recognized the woman which high cheek bones and earthy green eyes, when he realized who she was, what she had been through…then, she was just a cop.
But he's just a has-been writer who published one thing in the past three years, who published one flop since he killed off Derrick Storm.
She shouldn't have been any more excited to have him in her yoga class than he was to have her in his.
Not that he's going to say that.
Besides, she's the one who speaks, again, cutting through the silence, through the soft whir that fills the quiet of the elevator.
"So, I take it you guys hit it off?"
He blinks, his brows furrowing. "The mayor and I?"
She nods.
He does, too. "Yeah, I guess you could say that," he answers. "We realized we had a shared love of poker, and he ended up inviting me to his next game, with a few of his other friends, including, uh…Roy Montgomery."
His gaze falls, and flicks back up to see recognition flash in her eyes. Her arms tighten around her body, her fingers clutching at the fabric of her shirt.
"Oh," she breathes. "He was my, uh, captain for a few years."
"I know," he says.
A lot of people do. It was all over the papers, his death and then the funeral gone wrong, the picture of her with the bullet in her chest, lying on the ground, tense and bleeding out. The picture of her and her team carrying and the casket down the aisle between rows of headstones.
"He was great man," he adds. "I didn't know him all that well, but he seemed like a great man."
She smiles, her eyes foggy with nostalgia until she blinks it away. "He was," she agrees. the words soft. "He truly was a great man. He was a…hero."
He nods at that, his teeth catching the inside of his lip as his hands knot together. His gaze locks on the tiled floor, on the swirls of brown and grey in the white of marble.
She's a hero, too. Roy Montgomery was a hero, but so is Kate Beckett.
He doubts either one of them have ever known it.
"Can I ask you something?" he whispers.
He forces himself to look up at her, finds her looking back at him. Her eyes are wide with curiosity, with worry, and for a minute he expects her to say no, or to refuse to answer and wait for the elevator to slide to a stop at the ground floor.
But she nods, slow and hesitant, but there all the same.
"Do you have any resentment for him, for Montgomery?" he asks. "I mean, since it was at his funeral that you got shot?"
Her gaze falls again. Her arms fall from around her chest, and she mirrors his position, her hands clutching at the railing that he's holding onto. She takes a deep breath, clutching at the metal like it's grounding her, keeping her from falling apart.
And then she shakes her head, swallows thickly. "No," she answers. "Not for Montgomery. He didn't…do anything. Well, he did, but he tried to protect me. I could never resent him for what he did, and it's not his fault that I got shot."
She looks up at him at that, and that vulnerability he usually feels lucky to see suddenly feels like a curse.
She trusts him, and that's great. But seeing her like this, seeing the effects of everything that's happened to her…it breaks his heart more and more each time.
"I hold resentment for a lot of people, Castle," she says. "But Captain Montgomery isn't, and never will be, one of them."
He nods. "Okay," he whispers. "I was just curious."
She offers him a small smile, nodding her head in something that seems like understanding, or maybe acceptance, and her grip on the railing loosens.
"What was he protecting you from?"
It comes out without his permission, and he shoves his hand into his pockets to keep them from flying up to his mouth, he squeezes his eyes shut to keep them from going wide.
He should have expected it, though.
He never knows when to just shut up and accept what he's already been given.
"That's a long story," she answers.
And that has his eyes going wide.
He accepted a slap, or the silent treatment, or dismissal, not an answer, however quiet and forced and mumbled despite the tight clench of her jaw.
"It's a really long story, Castle, that still doesn't have an ending."
"Can I at least know the beginning?" he asks. "Or the gyst of it?"
She looks up at him again. It's not vulnerability that shines in her eyes this time, though. Nothing shines in them at all. They're dark, somber with pain.
And he wants to reach for her, take her hand or wrap her in his arms, hold her close until the pain fades and all he can see is the ghost of an ache, the bright gleam of vulnerability that he hates, but would take over this any day, any hour.
Instead, he digs his nails into his thighs to fight the urge, offers her the smallest of smile in a feeble attempt to be reassuring.
"He was protecting me from the people who shot me," she whispers.
"The people who shot you?" he asks quietly. "I thought it was a sniper, just one."
She nods. "One person pulled the trigger, yes," she says. "It was just one shooter, but that doesn't mean only one person who shot me, or, well, who had me shot."
His brows furrow. "Do you have reason to believe there was more than one person?"
She shrugs, opening her mouth to answer, but before any words can come out, the elevator slides down, then up again and freezes. With a ding, the doors slide open, revealing a lobby of people, a few of them waiting to step onto the lift.
She turns to look at the room to their left, and then back to him, and he's shocked when the smile that curls at the corners of her lips looks almost apologetic.
"That's a long story, too," she says. "A story for another time."
And when she walks away, he follows close behind, his jaw hanging open, curiosity coursing through him with every pounding beat of his heart..
The mystery of Kate Beckett just keeps getting more complex, and he fears that now he's in too deep to ever make his way back out.
Not that he'd ever want to.
As always, a huge thank you goes to Lindsey for all her help.