Disclaimer: The only part of Castle that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.
A/N I'm surprised that several people wrote that Kate won't be able to go to Paris without a passport. Have faith in Castle: there's no way that he would forget that detail. He may be in love, but he's not a nitwit! And now, bon voyage.
"Paris?" Kate is so shocked that she almost topples over her suitcase. "Are you crazy?"
"Non, cherie," Castle responds, using about ten percent of his French vocabulary before they've even left U.S. soil. "Je suis pas de crazy." He's pretty sure that's way off the mark, but also pretty sure that she'll understand him.
"I can't go without my passport."
"Don't worry, it's right here," he says soothingly, as he pulls a slim leather case from the inside pocket of his jacket and flips it open to reveal two passports: hers and his.
"How did you even find it?" she asks, as shocked by that as she is by their destination.
"When you got it replaced after your apartment was bombed you said that from now on you were going to keep it in your desk at the precinct since that seemed safer. Less likely to blow up. Nice picture, by the way. Mine looks like a mug shot." Relieved that she isn't furious that he'd gone through her desk, he smiles and slips both documents out of the case to give to the ticket agent. "They're ready for us; we can check in."
To save precious minutes when they land—because this is truly a flying visit—they carry their bags on board. They're barely in their buttery leather seats before a flight attendant brings them Champagne and ramekins filled with salted nuts. For the first time in her adult life Kate has room to stretch out her legs during a flight, and she does, sighing happily.
"Castle?"
"Oui."
"Ah, tu parles français!"
"Er, non."
"Don't worry," she says, patting his knee. "We'll stick to English."
"Thank God. Although please feel free to say sexy things to me in French."
She checks to make sure that no one's looking, then nips his earlobe and whispers, "Castle, je suis raide dingue de toi."
"That sounds incredible. Is it unprintable?" he asks hopefully.
"Nope. I just said that I'm totally crazy about you."
"I am, too. 'Red,' or whatever you said."
"Raide. Never mind." She clinks her glass against his. "I want you to know that I'm beginning to understand first class. Not that I really doubted you. I'm just glad you're the one paying for it." She takes a sip, and her eyes go wide. "You are paying for it, aren't you?"
"I am. Wait until it's time to go to bed."
"What?"
"These seats turn into beds. You can actually lie down on them and sleep." Several hours later, when they're miles above the Atlantic Ocean, he hears her murmur.
"Castle?"
"Mmm?"
"Please don't ever break up with me."
"I won't. Hey, what brought that on?"
"Cause I'm spoiled now and I could never afford to fly like this."
He drifts into a dream in which he's making a list of other ways he can spoil her.
There's a car waiting for them at the airport (of course there, is Kate thinks, not at all surprised to see a driver holding up a sign with Castle's name on it), and less than an hour later they're at the registration desk of the Hotel Raphael. It's small, quiet, distinguished, and luxurious.
"Your suite is ready, monsieur," the clerk says, handing over the keys.
"Thank you, Maurice. I'm sure it will be perfect."
"A suite, Castle? Wouldn't a room be enough?" she asks a few minutes later, as they leave the elevator and walk down the sixth-floor hallway.
"Nope."
"I know that you love extravagant gestures, but we're only going to be here til tomorrow evening."
"Still no." He tips the porter as quickly as possible because he doesn't want to miss Kate's reaction. From the corner of his eye he sees her hand fly to her mouth; it's clear that she's almost as stunned as she had been at the airport when he'd told her where they were going.
She's standing a few steps inside the door, looking around the sitting room, with its pair of white settees facing each other across a coffee table, a magnificent antique escritoire against one wall, and French doors leading onto a terrace. "Oh, my God, this is so beautiful."
"The presidential suite is bigger, but this seems more appropriate for us. Come here. Let me show you." He takes her hand and leads her out onto the terrace. "This is the Arc de Triomphe Suite," he says, as he points down the street at the dominant feature of their immediate landscape. "And that's why."
"The Arc de Triomphe. I can't believe it, Castle."
He pulls her close against his chest. "Maybe we can revisit the subject tonight. Your Arc de Triomphe moves."
"Maybe we can."
"For right now, how about some breakfast? I could call room service and we could shower while we're waiting."
"Yeah, I want to get out of these airplane clothes. And I'm starving."
While she's getting undressed and turning on the water, she can hear him on the phone. Good, he's not trying to order in French. "Castle?" she calls out. "This shower is great. Not as fantastic as yours, but almost."
"As long as there's room for both of us, it's fine with me," he says, stepping inside.
"Bienvenue à Paris." She gives him a very wet kiss.
"Even I know what that means," he says, kissing her back. "Welcome to Paris to you, too."
They have breakfast—fruit, croissants, deep bowls of cafe au lait—on the terrace. "What would you like to do first, Kate?"
She licks a bit of raspberry jam off her lip and he can barely contain himself. "Go to the Musée Carnavalet."
"Museum. A museum about carnivals? They have a circus museum here? That's cool."
"Sorry, no. The Carnavalet is a museum about the history of Paris. I'm dying to see the bedroom."
"We have a spectacular bedroom here, you know."
"I know, but this is the bedroom, with the bed."
"Trust Paris to have the definitive bedroom. I can't think of a better place."
"Castle, it's Marcel Proust's bedroom, and bed. He wrote In Search of Lost Time there. I was so proud when I got through all seven volumes in French, you know? It took forever."
"Oh, yeah, I remember that he used to write in bed. I didn't know the bed was still around. He died in the Twenties. It's amazing that the bed survived the war."
"Well it did, and I want to pay it homage." Kate puts down her coffee and cocks her head. There are still so many things she doesn't know about him. "You ever do that, Castle? Write in bed?"
He looks very serious, until a smile blooms across his face. "Not since you arrived in it."
Some time later, when they've worked their way through the museum to the Proust exhibit, Castle is disappointed. It's small and dingy. Surely one of the greater writers ever deserved better? He's just about to say something to Kate when he he feels her trembling. She's weeping. She's so overcome with the place, with the weight of it, that she can't say a thing. He quietly takes a handkerchief and puts it in her hand.
"Thank you," she says, after drying her eyes. "I haven't been to Paris since I was a student, and this part of the museum was closed. I was furious. I had no money, either. I could just about manage to buy a coffee and a ticket on the metro."
They decide not to decide where to go; instead, they spend the day wandering around, in and out of museums and shops and cafes and parks. They eat escargots in a wine bar, and ice cream cones as they walk along the Seine. When the late afternoon sky is impossibly blue, Kate pulls Castle onto the grass, lies down, and begins to sing softly.
L'espoir fleurit
au ciel de Paris.
She kisses his hand, rolls on her side, and starts singing again, this time looking into his eyes as she does.
Sous le ciel de Paris
les oiseaux du bon Dieu
viennent du monde entier
pour bavarder entre eux.
And then she stops singing, but she doesn't stop looking.
"You're going to have to tell me what that means, Kate," he whispers, and brushes her hair from her cheek.
"The first part was 'Hope is blossoming in the Parisian sky'."
"And what about the rest?"
Beneath the Parisian sky
God's birds
Come from around the world
To chat among themselves.
"It's from an old French movie. I always loved the Edith Piaf version best."
"Nah, Edit Piaf has nothing on you."
"You think?"
"I do. You know what else I think?"
"No."
"I think we should go back to the hotel and take a nap before we go to dinner."
"Sold," she says, getting to her feet. "Next stop, the Raphael."
As soon as they're in their suite, Kate strips and gets into bed. Not entirely in bed: she's sitting up against the headboard, covered by the sheet only from the waist downward. When Castle comes in, he stops short.
"Whoa. I thought we were going to take a nap."
"Well, I'm in bed, aren't I?"
"Yeah, and they'll be no napping for if you're looking like that."
"I was thinking we could nap après."
"After, right? Après what?"
"Après sex."
He takes off his shorts, drops them on the floor, and jumps onto the bed. They're making out like two teenagers in the back seat of a (very expensive) car when Castle's knee nudges hers wide apart. "Why does everything sound so much sexier in French?" he says, his mouth about an inch above her breast. He draws two fingers up the inside of her thigh and stops when he feels her slick and warm and wet.
"Why do you think they call it French kissing?" she says. "And get those magic fingers of yours working, Castle, before I go insane."
Eventually, they really do nap. They nap so soundly that they wake up only because he'd had the foresight to set the alarm on his phone, and they take a hurried shower.
"So are we going to one of those nice restaurants you promised me?" she asks while she's doing her make-up.
"We are. So you could wear one of those nice dresses I saw you hang up in the closet this morning."
The dress of dark blue silk proves to be even naughtier than it is is nice, dipping deeply both front and back. Castle has a hard time concentrating on tying his tie. "You're hopeless," she says. "Let me do it."
The sun is already low when they get to their table at L'Épicure, a three-star restaurant where the service equals what's served. By the time they've finished their dinner, it's after eleven. "That's probably the single best meal of my life," she says. "I don't think I'll ever forget it."
"Neither will I. Good thing we're not driving, given all the wine we drank."
"You want to walk back, Castle?" she says cheerfully. "It's so beautiful."
"It is, but we've got a car waiting."
"Oh. Okay, I guess that's good. My feet might have given out part way there," she says, looking at her very thin, precariously high-heeled sandals.
They've been driving for a few minutes when she looks through the back window. "Wait, aren't we going the wrong way?"
"To the hotel, yes, but we're going somewhere else first."
"Please tell me it's not a patisserie or something. I really can't eat anything another bite."
"Not a patisserie, trust me. But you'll like it."
The not-a-patisserie they're going to turns out to be the Eiffel Tower. When they get out of the car near the base, Castle tells the driver they'll be back shortly.
Kate tips her head all the way back. "Geez, Castle, are you sure it's still open?"
"Yup, I checked. Come on. I think we'll get the last elevator ride up."
They spend a few minutes strolling around the top, looking at the city in every direction. "I have to say, this was worth it, Castle. Even if we have to go right back down in a second. In fact—" she turns her head left and right— "where is everyone?"
"I tipped the elevator guy to let us stay up here a bit longer."
"You tipped the elevator guy? How the hell much money did you give him?"
"Worth every penny." He stops and captures her hand. "How do you like our tour of the monuments of Paris so far, Kate?"
"So far, I'd say the experience is monumental."
"You would?" He's looking dreamy as he leans in and kisses her. "Monumental, huh?"
"Yes," she says, beginning to feel quite dreamy herself.
"I'm glad," he says, dropping to one knee and opening a little box. "Because I have a monumental question. Will you marry me?"
TBC
A/N The hotel (and the suite!) and the restaurant are all real.
