Beckett does the only other thing that makes sense in lieu of words, which is to drive. Keep moving forward. No more than a mile later a roll of her slender shoulders finds the tension eased some. She's aware of his eyes remaining upon her throughout that small span. Clearly her concern is apparent upon her face. Isn't that an unspoken part of this trip though? Communicating more freely? If she hides from him behind the usual poker-face, what will have changed between them other than their hopes finally being expressed and out in the open? That was a big first step, but a true leap of faith demands more than words to make hope a reality.
When Beckett finally opens her mouth to speak she has no fixed idea of what will emerge. "If you're trying to freak me out, you succeeded." Okay. A bald statement of truth is certainly one option.
Her companion's visage turns away and lowers some with his gaze fixing towards his feet. "Ah. Sorry."
The admonishment escapes her like the lashing of a bull-whip. "Don't ever apologize to me for opening up. Not ever."
Castle appears to understand that the sharpness of her tone is on his behalf this time, thank goodness. He smiles thinly, fleetingly. "For the awkward lead-in then," he redirects. "I don't mean to be cryptic. You said you wanted the heads up. We're of like mind there," he adds before she can interject. "It certainly isn't something I intended to surprise you with."
The driver takes a calming breath. "What're we talking about here?" She tries to keep her voice light, neutral, and almost succeeds. "Is it something you did? Something that happened to you?"
"It's...a bit more complicated than that."
Phew. Wrong answer. It is for her expectations anyway, which she can feel sinking deeper into gloom. It is almost certainly the latter option. The novelist doesn't have a cruel bone in his body. That fact doesn't seem likely to make what's coming any easier to hear though. "For someone who isn't trying to be cryptic..."
The author's hands curl into fists upon his thighs. "I know," he grits. "I was going to come at this gradually, and definitely not on the road where our attentions are divided. Maybe I shouldn't have said anything."
"No," Kate objects quickly. "You did what I asked you to. It's just one of those situations, I guess: be careful what you wish for. But it's fine, Castle. I'm not upset with you. There's no rush either though, okay? We have all weekend."
"We do," the other confirms. "As for that, there are plenty of good memories in Montauk too. I wouldn't willingly bring you anywhere that was only ugly, Beckett. One grim conversation isn't going to ruin this for us."
"Damn straight it won't. Can I ask though...why this, whatever it is? Why now? There are lots of ways to get personal."
"This began months ago, when you asked where my fascination with the macabre came from." He pauses long enough for her to recall the details of their prior exchange. "That conversation has come and gone from my mind since then, but it refuses to vanish entirely. Maybe in part because you don't ask me things like that very often."
Beckett's lips form a line of displeasure. No, she doesn't. He didn't levy the words as an accusation, but it feels like one. Her conscience is uneasy on the matter. Pride demands a comeback or an immediate deflection. She bypasses that in order to ask, her voice a bit subdued, "Did you want me to ask more often?"
"'Want' is irrelevant in this case," Castle replies evenly, and she looks askance at him to hear the coolness in his tone. "The fact of the matter is: I was unable to answer. Not that I was unwilling to share, you understand. I was literally incapable. That's crazy. Have you ever held something inside so closely and for so long that it actually becomes lodged in there?"
She doesn't answer. One secret at a time, Rick. It's my turn to listen.
He notices the lack, but doesn't push the matter. "Part of the reason it's so difficult is because it's not only my story to tell. Dragging those events out into the light means exposing other people. Montauk has always been a small town. One person's trouble can quickly become everybody's problem." He shakes his head a couple times. The gesture terminates with him facing the passenger window and the blackness of the forest whipping by. "Silence always suited me fine on the matter. Until now. Now," he expounds dryly, with obvious frustration, "when I don't know how to start. I've only talked about it with one other person who wasn't part of it, and she ended up on the other side of the world afterwards." Kyra Blaine. So that's what happened... "It's important to me to find the right way to present it to you."
"That's understandable. It is. But I'm not her," Beckett reminds him, reaching for his left hand where it's still knotted upon his thigh. She glances away from the road again briefly to watch his digits relax and entwine smoothly with hers for the second time. She's witnessed him go through the manipulations of the espresso machine, button his coat against the chill of winter at a crime scene, play with his phone beside her desk, and countless other simple acts. It's been a long time to be so close and yet so far from knowing what his touch feels like. It's capably, comfortingly broad, with an inherent strength rendered gentle on her behalf. An adulthood of luxury assures an inviting softness. A youth spent working through harder times left behind the dip and grit of a few discernible scars.
She glances over again when his lack of comment becomes prolonged and finds him focused on their hands too. "No," he agrees quietly, "you're not her." His thumb smooths across the ridges of her knuckles. "If anyone out there is equipped to know the story and not let it change the way they see me, that person is you."
"Perceptions change," Beckett cautions gently. "That's what happens the more we learn about one another or experience things together. It doesn't always lead to a dead-end though. I want to see you, because I want us to progress."
His mouth lifts slightly at the corners and one eyebrow ascends fractionally into suggestiveness. There isn't enough emotion present to ascribe much validity to the tease. The detective purses her lips and waggles his hand in hers in playful reproach anyway. He's trying not to cast too great a shadow over the happiness with which their trip began. It's sweet. But if it's a choice between a weekend of fun and frolic or knowing more about him...there's no contest.
They drive on in silence for a ways. She suspects he's holding back specifically to give her room to process what's been said so far. Once it settles in some she finds the respite welcome. Given the work they do together it would be easy for him to assume she'd be able to view the cadavers in his closet without flinching, or that she'd prefer to hear it all now and get it over and done with. It's different when its personal. Castle is a gentle man at his core. The thought of him suffering somehow, even if it's long since over with... That genuinely disturbs her. She wouldn't have figured that to be the case with him. Nothing too bad anyway, not to the man who chases her into distraction and amusement day in day out.
Surprise.
Gradually, Beckett climbs out of her thoughts and becomes aware of the slow, sliding repetition of his thumb moving upon her. He moves from the middle knuckle of her index finger down into the slightly webbed gap, and halfway up her middle digit. Then back down to the gap again for a light press and glide of his pad. The pattern repeats while she absorbs the soothing pleasure of it. Finger sex. That's what it is. The spread of digits being comparable to a pair of opened legs. She looks askance at him, but there's no indication of devilishness. "Don't make me pull this car over again."
Castle withdraws his grasp along with the rush of a sudden smile. He looks a little amused and a lot surprised to have been nabbed in such a subtle act of flirtation. He clears his throat quietly and settles back to watching the road as though nothing had occurred. Mmhmm. I've got your number, mister.
She returns her freed appendage to the wheel, privately exhaling a breath of relief. From day one the sexual tension between them has been real, like a dinner being set out upon a long banquet table. Over time, throughout so many little moments, they have laden it with myriad tantalizing exchanges and morsels of delicious imagery. If sex could be likened to such a buffet, however, Beckett's always been a woman to go through the appetizers of foreplay with a small plate. It's delicious. It's fun. But tease her too many times and she's swapping for a platter and marching off to get herself some meat. You're such a hopeless romantic, Katie. Not even. She's a woman. With needs. And it's been a while. Mmph...
"Talk to me," Beckett voices on the tail of a huffed exhale. "About...stuff."
"Ah. My favorite topic of conversation," her companion replies with mild sarcasm. "Stuff."
"Oh man, I didn't even ask. I'm so sorry. I assumed by the silence... Would you, uh, rather tell me the bad part now?"
"No, no. Your instincts have it right. I don't want to spoil our evening by getting into that now. You wanted the warning and it's been given. I feel... I feel really good tonight despite all of that. Actually, I think my brain is still in partial meltdown over the fact that we're here. Together. I'd rather ride that high a while. Or, wait. Is that—do you mind?"
She smiles and shakes her head. "We can leave Saturday open for the rest of it."
"You want to make a date to be depressed by my decades old baggage?"
It sounds weird to her too when it's put like that. "I like being organized," Beckett defends.
Castle chuckles briefly. "It's a date then. Tomorrow evening."
"Good. I've seen what you do with too much idleness on the open road though." An unapologetic smile appears even as his gaze travels to her right hand upon the wheel. "So let's apply that creativity of yours to entertaining me during this last leg of the drive, shall we? Verbal means only, Castle."
She's peripherally aware of him studying her. "Okay," he begins, drawing the word out in consideration. "Well, we still have—what, half an hour? How about I tell you knock-knock jokes for fives minutes, read you a few selections from the car owner's handbook for fifteen minutes, and we can spend the last ten minutes playing I-Spy?"
"First of all, I am not that anal about being organized, wiseass. Second of all, I said 'entertain'."
"Hrm. I could list some of your more favorable traits in alphabetical order. How about that?"
Beckett stirs with quiet humor. "See? And you made it sound so hard to think of something fun."
"Ass," he begins, eyes widening theatrically as he nods in self-agreement. "Breasts." More, and more vigorous nodding. "Calves. Don't mistake my lack of further nodding to indicate any less approval. I just made myself a little dizzy is all."
She snorts quietly. "I wasn't serious about this game to begin with, but I definitely don't like where it's going. Would it kill you to pick something you can't put your paws all over?" Or your lips. Or tongue. Or—
"Duodenum."
Beckett's laugh spirals up and out unrestrained, her face tilting upwards. Okay, you got me. It's nice to be gotten. She isn't sure if using humor right now is them running away from their problems or merely balancing the scales. All that's certain is how good it feels to see him smiling freely. She's still trying to tame her humor as she begins speaking, "G-g-gross! You know damn well I meant something non-physical. Do you even know what the duodenum is?"
"Of course. And in keeping with your stipulation I listed something I have neither the ability nor desire to fondle. Not even yours, although I'm sure it's quite lovely."
"Bullshit. You couldn't think of another body part for the letter 'D'." She shoots over a self-satisfied smirk and tilts her head indicatively at him. "I could come up with one." Or go down on one. Just sayin'.
Now her companion is the one shifting where he sits, as if privy to the dialogue of combating urges within her mind. "Hush," he growls back at her, "it's not your turn. And for your information: diaphragm, dermis, derrière."
An imperious eyebrow creeps up over a hazel orb. "I don't 'hush' for anyone, buster. And you already said ass."
"Oh, Beckett," he returns, and sighs with dramatic fondness, "it's worth mentioning at least twice."
The detective lofts a hand in the air in forestallment. "Okay, jeez. On second thought, let's both hush."
"Eyes," he issues, so stealthily she momentarily questions having heard it. Before she can admonish him for continuing the novelist eases in closer from his seat. Uh oh. He plants an elbow on the center console less than a foot away and perches that proud chin in his palm. The smile has retreated again, but for an entirely different reason. "Fingers," he adds and reaches with his right hand to slide his digits over hers upon the steering wheel.
"Castle," Kate warns past a tightness in her chest. She's trying hard to take this nice and slow. For his benefit, because it's clear this getaway is important to him for reasons beyond the obvious advance it means for both of them. The last thing she wants is to somehow misstep and make light of what he needs to share with her. "I said verbally only."
It is directly to that tightness at her core he goes upon lowering his hand from hers. Reaching for her chest is very bold even by his usual standards. It makes the woman jerk her hips backwards in the seat in surprise even though the rest of her absolutely seethes with invitation: Touch them. I double-fucking-dare you. He hovers neatly between her curves though. Two fingertips come to rest at the hollow of her throat. A soft tick greets the scrape of his nails over each button of her white dress shirt along the way down to the center of her chest. He pauses there.
"Gladiolus," Castle rumbles. "Center segment of the sternum."
"Verbally only," Beckett warns again, for what she determines to be the last time.
"As in oral?" Oh the indecency of that smile. "I could be persuaded."
Wow. Just...wow. Writer, you have no idea the kind of fire you're playing with. Muscles taut, Kate pulls in a breath. Her eyes snap shut against the feel of his wrist becoming an obstruction to the lift of her right breast. She forces them open and whips her focus from the road to him. She isn't even aware if he's smiling. There is only that gaze boring into her, and goodness how those pupils have swelled, yawning to their utmost with a forceful lure not unlike gravity. "Are you done?"
"Do you want me to be?"
"I...need you to be if you want to arrive in one goddamn piece."
He reluctantly eases away to sitting properly. It feels like an unseen umbilicus links them and is tugging something out of her along with every inch that expands between them. A casual flip of his fingers precedes his grumbled, "There's just no end to what we can't do in a moving car, is there? Luxury indeed. I'm considering demanding a refund."
