Soothe
His shoulders are drooping, eyes downcast when she unlocks her door, ushers him inside. Wordlessly, she follows him to her bedroom. They peel off their own clothes, so far from romance that neither even attempts to touch, but they brush each other accidentally when she steps out of her pants, and he stops what he's doing, lays a warm palm hesitantly against the bare skin between her shoulder blades.
Her spine curves instinctively into the touch, and as she stands, she turns to face him, takes in the shape of his body. He's let his arm drop away, highlighting the inward curve of his chest, the slackness of his hands as they dangle at his sides, the subtle concavity of his spine. As if that's not enough, the darkness is all there for her to read on his face: the low-slung brow, the creases framing his clouded eyes, the tight line of his lips, the clench of his jaw. It's the same face he had when he confessed the intrusion Tyson revealed to him in holding.
He told me he watched us, Kate. He watched us making love.
At least the words echoing through her mind are in Castle's voice, but he isn't spared the horror of hearing Tyson speak of something they have guarded so closely between them, protected against even the opinion of friends, of family until so recently.
Those words are floating between them, clouding their instincts, making them second guess what should be coming naturally. Enough of this. Let him see. Let the whole world see.
Stepping in to him, she reaches for his face, brushes light fingers over the cut on his forehead. The EMTs cleaned it, deemed it unworthy of stitches, but the hours of meetings with the assistant DA and internal affairs and the endless paperwork have given it time to bruise.
"This bothering you?"
"Not much."
Mirroring her pose, he tries to be gentle as the pads of his fingers trace her own remembrance of their night. His voice is low, gruff.
"You want some ice for this? Looks like it hurts."
This is her opening, and she looks through hooded eyes to find his, tries to tell him.
"No. No ice. Just…"
Curling her fingers into his hair, she tugs him down, aligns his lips with her swollen cheek. It's not her most subtle hint, but it's effective. His warm breath washes in reverent preamble before the soft, sure brush of his mouth finds the edges, just exactly where he knows the touch won't sting, won't make things worse. An invocation that walks that perfect line between too much and not enough.
The negative space between their bodies vibrates, cries out to be erased, but he won't touch her, doesn't pull her into his arms as she expects, as she craves.
So she puts in the work, takes the lead, determined to defy every one of the doubts Tyson has seeded.
Wrapping him up in her arms, pulling him close, she turns into his lips and nudges with her own. Insistent, but not intrusive. His arms finally, finally take her up, hold her against him, but it's all with kid gloves, as though he can't quite commit to the embrace.
But she pushes, parts his lips and slides her tongue into the warmth of his mouth, finds his to confront it, with action if not words. God she wants him. The wave of need hits her, having built over days of having him at arm's length, kept apart. And the spark of it all surfacing is staggering—she wants the stark, irrevocable reality of his weight on her, his body not just touching hers, but invading, filling, linking, sharing physical space inside hers. No words, no kiss will ever accomplish what their bodies can when they make love. It makes them stronger even on the best day, and now, today, when they are both falling apart, she thinks it's the only thing, and the deepest thing that will bring them back together.
As she clings to him, he pulls back, separates, ends the kiss so abruptly she lets out a shocked gasp of air as they part. Ducking her gaze, he won't even let her read his eyes to figure out what's wrong. She tries words instead.
"Castle, I need you."
He's looking off over her shoulder, toward the window, afternoon sun filtering in.
"I don't think… I mean, I want to, but I just…"
Oh… Oh. Her eyes close on the sadness, the swirl of hatred at that horrible man, at the terrible world that has upset everything in their lives, and their love, so completely.
Not wanting to force something unwanted on him, she simply stands close, lets her body brush his, her nose graze the collar of his undershirt. But after a moment, she thinks better of it. Knowing him, and knowing his creed of honesty with her, she takes his words at face value. If he says he wants to, then she believes him, and she can get them there.
Slowly, but purposefully, her hand strokes his chest, up and down over his breast bone, as her other arm encircles his ribcage. Her breasts graze against him gently, letting him get a feel for her gradually, merging with him. Her first good sign is his arms coming back around her, his fingers threading into her hair. Leaning in closer, tipping up on her toes, she bends her head forward, puts the curve of her neck in line with his nose.
He breathes in—she feels his chest expand under her hand—and then nuzzles just behind her ear. Her own nose is full of his scent, and she knows the days haven't been kind, but the sharpness of his sweat, the last lingering hints of cologne from days ago fill her senses with him, light up some primitive part of her brain that sends her hormones into overdrive. And she's counting on that same instinct to flare in him.
She isn't disappointed.
His lips paint a warm circle on the tender skin just below her hairline.
Emboldened, she lets her hand skim down his waist, over his hip, and forward, finding him soft and still.
Air blows out across her neck as he reacts to her gentle touch, shoulders tensing, hips drawing back the smallest measure, fingers flexing against her waist as if to push her away.
All she wants is to melt this self-conscious shyness away, banish the embarrassment forever. She wants him to be comfortable with her no matter what's going on in his head, with his body. And so she pushes again.
Pulling him down to her mouth, she forces his eyes to focus on hers.
"Let me love you."
His face opens up, and it's like all the air has rushed back into the room. She presses her lips to his again, firm, determined. And she keeps her other hand exactly where it is, traces the outline of him through his boxers, making it clear that she knows what's going on, is right there with him, but isn't about to give up so easily.
When her tongue delves past his lips, a groan echoes into her mouth and his tongue pursues. There's the slightest twitch under her fingers, and he presses himself into her palm.
From there it's a blur of his hands light and teasing on her bare breasts, his mouth hot and wet against her neck, his teeth tugging at the curve of her ear. He's filling her hand now, prompting her to shift and grip him more firmly.
Reaching for the hem of his own shirt, he shucks it off, and then pulls her hand away long enough to slide out of his boxers, remove her underwear, march her backward toward her bed. Before he lays her down, she encircles his length again, stroking the silky, tightening skin with a feather-light touch, just the way she knows he loves. That prompts a moan, and a jerk into her hand.
Hauling her up and half-tackling her into the soft pile of blankets and sheets she left rumpled the day before, he covers her body, finds her eyes, his dark with desire.
"See what you do to me?"
Wanting to be clear on the point that this is not a one-way street, she takes his wrist, slips his hand between them, lets him feel exactly what he does to her.
"Feeling's mutual."
His chest vibrates against hers with his responding growl, and he parts her thighs, settles between them. He takes her in one firm stroke, forces a gasp from her throat at the sudden stretch, the complete fullness. It's fast, and every thrust hits home, building her up before she even has a chance to prepare. How does he do this, synch up with her so completely in this act even when they are off balance in every other way?
Her mind flashes back to the gut-wrenching fear of a few hours ago, when she thought he might have to watch her die again, the absolute devastation she felt only a day ago at the thought of losing him. And now, here he is, not just standing beside her at the murder board, not just making her a cup of coffee or bringing her an unexpected bouquet of flowers. He is making love to her, pressing her into her mattress with every solid, sure shift of his hips. His body, warm and alive and finally able to show her exactly what she means to him, is inside hers, reeling out pleasure like strands of silk, light and lustrous and strong.
Her heels connect with the bed and her hands find his hips, and she whimpers as her climax closes in. But as she's about to fall, just on the precipice, he stops, stills every motion.
Breath hot against her cheek, his voice comes out as a hoarse whisper.
"Open your eyes, Kate. I want you to see."
When did she close them? No matter, they blink open now, and she does see—sees the bright blue rimming dark pupils, sees the pink of his lips where they've swelled from kissing her, sees the absolute devotion spilling out of every pore.
He still hasn't moved, and she wants him to, God she needs the pressure, the friction, just one more moment and she will…
"I love you."
His words fill her chest, but with them his breath halts, his eyes widen, and then she feels him. Feels the swell of him deep inside her, so subtle she thinks she might be imagining it, but then he pulses, a tiny movement that has nothing to do with his hips, and warm, wet heat washes over her, and the realization that she's just felt his body come apart inside her triggers her own climax. Her body clenches, and she lets out a helpless little cry as her muscles clamp down in perfect counterpoint to his.
Every muscle is straining as he keeps himself perfectly still through it. But when she feels one last aftershock, he finally gives in and rocks into her. That movement, after the void of sensation, shocks her body, confuses everything, and without any warning she's coming again, keening out as he keeps up his motion, rides her through it, whispering words of love and awe and gratitude against her lips.
When she surfaces from the haze moments later, his weight is draped over her, chest still heaving, hands stroking aimless patterns over her arms. His stubble is scraping into her collarbone as he brushes his lips there, more caress than actual kiss.
Pulling in a shaky breath, she tries to clear her head. It's enough to spur him to gather her up, roll them under the covers, tug her, boneless, on to his chest.
It could be minutes, it could be an hour of quiet communion later, when his voice rumbles under her ear, happy and warm.
"So are you really going to let me buy you jewelry?"
The smile comes unbidden to her lips, but she doesn't lift her head.
"Sure. Just no diamond earrings."
He chuckles, bouncing her head up and down with the sound.
"Don't worry, won't be getting you diamonds like those any time soon."
A tingle trails down her spine where his hand is gently stroking, but she ignores the obvious implication and chooses to keep it light. Tilting her head up, she plants her chin against his pec and squints at him in her best perturbed Beckett expression.
"And not one of those crazy designers that sell cookie-cutter boring stuff for ten times what it's worth just because their name is embossed on the back."
His only response is a very exaggerated roll of his eyes.
With finality, she adds: "And no spending twelve thousand dollars."
Threading his fingers into her hair, he lowers his brow.
"Do you want to just come with me and pick out exactly what you want?"
Exasperation looks cute on him. She keeps up the contrariness just for fun.
"Of course not! Half the fun is in the surprise."
That hits the mark, and she watches him tip over the edge, gets flipped under him and pinned to the pillow for her efforts.
"Well, then quit telling me what not to get you, you ridiculous-"
The laughter just floats out of her, and he scrunches his face up as it hits him.
"You did that on purpose! You are a mess! Do you know that? A frustrating, ridiculous mess!"
"Yes, but I'm your mess."
A kiss lands on the tip of her nose.
"True. But just for that I'm going to spend fifteen thousand dollars on the most ridiculous, designer, diamond-encrusted monstrosity I can find, and then I'm going to make you wear it in public!"
"You better not, or I'll never go out in public with you again."
"You mean someday you actually will go out with me in public?"
Her smile falls at the hopeful sound of his voice.
"I know—Gates. But she's bound to find out eventually, now that everyone else knows."
"I promise I'll go out on a real date with you once Gates knows."
"Great. I'll tell her tomorrow."
"You'd better not—jerk."
"Kidding. Kidding. Just don't tickle me."
He leans in, lays his lips gently on her tender cheek. His action shifts the mood, brings her back to where this began. The last thing she wants is to shove all of it down, ignore it, cover it up. Darkness seems to find them, time and again. This time, she wants to face it, stare it down, bring all of it into the light. Maybe today they've done that, at least better than all the times before. She won't ignore it, though.
"You okay?"
His words are slow to surface, and his eyes are fixed on the spot she's sure is a lovely shade of purple by now. But eventually he finds them, speaks them looking into her eyes.
"I'm not okay. Almost losing each other again—that will never be okay. The hole in my chest when I think about…"
His eyes fall closed for the briefest moment.
"It's still there. But it's filling in faster this time. I've always had to watch from a distance while you cover up your bruises, put on a show of strength."
Moisture pools in her eyes, and her heart breaks a little as she thinks back to all the times they had to heal alone, apart. A tiny smile crosses his lips, breaking her out of the melancholy, and prompting her to return it.
"Now, with you here, letting me be with you, all of it is easier. Because now I get to kiss your bruises."
# * # * # * #
Just a little sexy post-ep for "Probable Cause," because it got stuck in my head. Tons of people have written these, but it kept stomping its feet at me and growling ominously. Hope you enjoyed it!
Joy, thanks for yet another successful trek through the Scrabble dictionary. You're racking up those billable hours. Y si, debemos utilizar el familiar, amiga mia.
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