Treading Water
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Till Death Do Us Part 4x11
We could be each other's plus one.
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At Ryan's wedding, Castle takes his Plus One duties seriously.
(It's Beckett. Who wouldn't?)
At the end of the night, far past the time of pumpkins and glass slippers, when the champagne has gone flat and the candied mints alone can no longer get them through another song, especially if it's another slow dance with his heart in his throat or on his sleeve, he calls the car service.
His hand in hers, their fingers tingling with the effervescence of the whole affair, they make their way slowly from the reception hall and out into the night. Her breath steams in the cold rosy darkness, the lights near the cathedral somehow more quaint here, an effect that brushes the sky with texture, her eyes the only stars he sees.
They wait on the sidewalk side by side, some of the last to leave. He lifts a hand to brush a curl off the collar of her coat; her eyes dip to follow his movement. His coat is open, still overheated from inside, and she reaches out to unthread his limp scarf from around his neck, snake it around her own instead. His lips curve at the corners, the childlike satisfaction on her face, and he makes a knot for her in the ice blue cashmere even as she tucks her chin down into it.
Wordless. Their eyes catch and hold, breath in vapor clouds before fading away, vision clear.
They've made all the comments they've need to make: about how beautiful Jenny looks, how besotted Ryan is; toasts to new beginnings and committed love; idle introspection and deeper statements on all the particulars. She wants it smaller. He wants it to last. She wants to feel safe to explore. He wants to settle without settling.
The black Lincoln pulls up. One of his usual drivers gets out and tries to come around to open the door, but Castle waves him off and does the honors.
Inside, they sit close on the bench seat, as close as their seatbelts allow (he had to resist the urge to do the seatbelt for her, to check its length against her torso, to fit it snugly into the buckle, to tug the end of her stolen scarf, familiar urges he's not entirely resisted all night).
She lays her hand over his on the seat between them, her fingertips dancing over his knuckles as the car pulls away from the curb. Tinted windows make the world seem darker. Where to first? his drive asks. The address he gives is hers, to see her to her door, but she corrects him with his own instead. The heat rushes up his chest and chokes in his throat, and when he looks at her, she's looking at him.
But there's no certainty there. No assurances. Just a naked impression of her soul in her eyes and so many unanswered questions.
"Kate?" he says, almost under his breath. And when the hesitancy doesn't clear, he turns his hand under hers and closes his fingers around her self-soothing ones. "Beckett." The firmness of her last name has her pulling in a deep breath.
She drops her eyes, nods. The insecurity sinks far below, she presents serene amusement once more, the stillness of the observer rather than a participant in the drama.
That's not right either.
He sits back against the seat, wrestles down his longing, pushes his reasoning to the fore.
He doesn't want there to be any question. He can't remember how many whiskey sours he had, how many glasses of white she drank after dinner. There were five champagne toasts? The wait staff refilled her glass at least twice; he remembers going to the open bar during all the dancing and they'd run out of ingredients for the Old Fashioned, so they switched to martinis garnished with lemons—oh yes, watching her suck on a lemon wedge and not break her smile, so hot—
But all things considered, this is new territory for them, the pace they've set. Four years, with long handfuls of time where they weren't even talking. Hell, almost every year, after the spring flowers bloomed, the allergies set in—whatever tentative thing built over winter never failed to wilt in the summer heat.
This isn't the right timing. She has a wall she needs to unbrick. He's doing work on his own feelings of anger and betrayal, the abandoned little boy routine, as his therapist calls it. And there's the heavy stone of knowing he has to make certain she won't investigate her mother's murder or run afoul of the mystery man who orchestrated the whole conspiracy—which makes him a part of it now, doesn't it? He's involved, one foot in her camp, one foot in the shadows of untruth.
Too much has remained unsaid. The weight of all those silent words could collapse them.
He has some idea, now, what they could be, and he won't sacrifice it to the illusory spell of plus one.
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Kate can sense his mood shift before they even make it to the Village. And she's not confident enough to see this through, not like that. Castle is the one with the experience—
God, not like that either. If she starts thinking about his number, and just how many of those women were famous or even infamous, she won't make it up to his loft any night, let alone tonight.
She knows what she's up against is mostly in her own head. She knows that his eyes follow her when she leaves the bullpen. She knows she often catches him staring at her when he thinks she's concentrating on something else. She knows he finds her tallness fascinating, her job kick-ass, her story inspiring. Not to mention her well-rounded vocabulary.
She knows he's been touching her in soft little ways all night, moments out of time: his finger hooked in the pocket of her dress, the side of his hand brushing her thigh, his fingertips lightly at her back, his cheek to her jaw bending close, even knees under the table, elbows bumping at dinner, a hand brushing aside her hair.
When the car stops in front of his building, double parked, he turns and she can see it on the tip of his tongue. I should go up alone. But she doesn't let him say it. "Make me a cup of coffee, Rick. Sober us up a little beforehand."
An instant flush in his cheeks. His eyes are a color blue she didn't know could be so penetrating. She pushes on his shoulder to get him moving, and to avoid the violent longing in those blues—longing unfulfilled.
He hands her out after him and she forces him to keep that hand as they walk into his building. The more nervous he is, the less so for her. They're good partners that way, the opposing forces of their personalties finding level.
"Decaf?" he asks in the elevator.
"No," she hums. "Could use something to wake me up."
"Long night." As if a warning.
"Rick," she chides softly. He flushes again and looks at her; the elevator stops, dings, the doors open.
He gestures with his free hand—she leads the way off the lift and into the hall, Rick not far after, their hands still clasped. He is smooth with the key, no fumbling, so he's managed to regain some confidence by the time they walk inside and shrug off coats.
He unwinds his scarf from her neck. Stares at it a bit too long.
"Hey," she says.
He looks up.
"Nothing has to happen you don't want to happen."
His ears flame. "It's not—that's not—Beckett, isn't that my line?"
She tilts her head, intrigued by the embarrassment, or shame? which colors him, the way he strangles the scarf before he can finally loop it around the closet door knob. "Let's not be constrained by gender stereotypes," she says lightly.
His hands fist, release. He strides past her for the kitchen. "In that vein, let me get the coffee started."
"Thank you," she answers graciously, pointedly.
His hands pause as that strikes him, he huffs and adjusts his grip on the coffee scoop. "Okay," he says. "I feel there are things we haven't had a chance to dive into yet, and I don't want to make any mistakes here." His head comes up, his eyes meet her squarely. Indicating all his seriousness.
But there's something vulnerable in it that pushes her forward.
He backs away. Feigns putting the water on to boil, as if he isn't avoiding her.
"I think mistakes are bound to be made," she observes quietly. "I think it's how we use those mistakes afterwards that's really... the measure of a relationship."
His adam's apple bobs in his throat. He looks at her again, nods. "This is too important to me to get this wrong."
She feels the tightness in her chest release, a smile floods her face. "You can tell me no at any time."
He huffs, rolls his eyes. "Jeez, Beckett."
"Rick," she insists. His ears go pink again, but this time it's different.
He stops watching the coffee percolate and now he looks at her again. Really looks. "And when I tell you no?"
She grins. "We can just cuddle, Castle."
He laughs. "Okay, I walked into that one."
"You did."
"Uh-huh." He braces a hand on the counter, an easy position, some slouch in his hips. "I can find you something to sleep in."
Her mouth opens, but she falls silent. He really is planning on telling her no. "Call your bluff," she insists, almost asking.
A short shake of his head. "Full house. Remember?"
"Oh." A hot spike in her cheeks and he smirks. She gestures vaguely towards the stairs. "I... didn't forget exactly."
"Expect them home any time now," he says, as if nonchalant.
She tries to sift the feelings still tumbling through her, finds only one she can label. "You really can find me pajamas?"
His eyebrow raises.
"Pajamas the rest of your full house can see me in," she amends hastily.
"Of course." He says it like a challenge. Like he thinks he's finally scared her away.
Scared isn't this feeling. "Then go," she tells him. "Find me something more comfortable to slip into and I'll finish up the coffee. I owe you a few anyway."
He comes around the counter as if to call her bluff, and when they pass, his hand trails her hip over the dress and suddenly they both pause, far too close, the heat, the tension. She sways on her high heels, his nose brushes hers.
"Have I said?" he breathes.
Her heart is suddenly pounding. "Said?"
"How you look."
She presses her lips together, a shake of her head.
He sighs. "You look happy."
Her breath falters, struck by how incongruous it is. How often she's not been happy, so deeply deeply not happy.
"And so..." He lifts his hand to her cheek, his thumb framing the line around her mouth as if stopping a tear. His mouth touches hers as he sighs, "so beautiful."
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