Misconception
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It's miraculous, but Kate Beckett is in his arms.
Her skin is hot where his palm cups the back of her neck, and his shirt between them is plastered with her tears, not to mention that the underside of his jaw and neck is wet with his own, but they're still here.
Still standing.
Neither of them speaks. The room is dark and the night presses in at the windows. Kate's fist is in his shirt at the small of his back, and every breath of hers judders in her lungs like she still can't quite gather herself together.
Stay until I can breathe again.
He's not proud of this. It will stay with him for the rest of his life, what he's unintentionally done, what he thought he was doing and what he ended up with in return for it. He thought one thing, and he was wrong, and he let impatience and his own fears deceive him into believing that everything he thought he knew was a lie. But it wasn't, and he hurt her, and all she's done is just try. She was just trying to be the kind of person who could be in a relationship with him; she was trying for him, and now he has to live with this.
He's responsible for making Kate Beckett cry.
Castle finds the courage to stroke his fingers through her hair, combing it back from her tear-damp neck. For some reason, she settles to the touch of his hand, gentled, and her tears stop. Her breath releases, and so does her fist in his shirt, and her body grows heavy against his, exhaustion sinking her into him.
He dusts a kiss at her temple, cautiously. She's limp and unresisting, entirely unlike everything he knows of her, and he can't help nudging them both towards the bed.
She sucks in a ragged breath, and he pauses, waiting for yes or no, but she turns and sinks to the mattress, crawling up towards the pillows. He follows, calculating every movement to keep from ruining whatever peace she's found, and she wordlessly rolls onto her side in a fetal position, her back to him.
He pauses at the foot of the bed, one hand planted into the mattress at her hip, but maybe this is too soon. There ought to be penance, and holding her while she cried can't be the only thing required of him.
But Rick can't help leaning in and softly kissing the rise of her hunched shoulder, closing his eyes as the scent of her fills his head.
He hopes to God he didn't ruin this. Hopes she's forgiven him, but more, that she can forget it as well. He doesn't know how he can continue if he gets this close to everything he wants and is denied.
Suddenly he feels her fingers on his cheek, curling at his ear. Her palm is warm and damp from tears and he bows his head over her, his forehead touching her shoulder. Her arm draws back around his neck, hanging on to him, holding him to her like benediction.
He folds down behind her, laying his head on the pillow with hers, his body matching the compact lines of her legs, the curve of her waist, the smooth hill of her shoulder.
She tugs on his wrist and drags his arm around her, silently, and he shifts a little closer, the heat of her skin suffusing his own.
He can finally breathe again.
He holds her carefully, staying exactly where she's put him, his elbow bent against the top of her drawn up thighs. Their fingers are tangled together; she rubs her thumb along the side of his hand, and the sensation is overwhelming. He has to press his cheek into the pillow to ground himself, swamped by a thick, choking love and a need he feels entirely ashamed of.
She's draped over his forearm, the warm press of her breasts against him. The rest of his body is stiff and cold; the only heat is where she touches him.
Kate sighs and shifts, a movement of one knee, her shoulder drawn in. All without speaking. Her hand covers his, their fingers laced, that soft and unconscious stroke of her thumb.
He's stunned by how compact her body is, how he dwarfs her, how small she's curled up. His own body is like a shield around her, as if he can protect her from himself, and he stays very still, their bodies mere inches apart.
The heavy scent of her hair and skin fills him - a smell so familiar that he can't even distinguish the cherries any longer; it's just Kate, the perfume of her presence. Warm and light. He can detect the city on her clothes too; she's still halfway undressed and it can't be comfortable, the reminder of how far they've come and how far they have to go, but he won't call attention to it.
He can feel the heat of her breasts against his curled fingertips, and he nudges his head closer to hers, the strands of her hair getting caught in his eyelashes.
He lifts his head, and she startles, but he moves closer, inching forward on the mattress until he can slide his other arm beneath the pillow. She sighs and relaxes again, and now he's holding her completely, and she's loose and warm within the haven of his arms.
Like she trusts him. Like she actually trusts his protection, trusts him to be her partner.
He lies down just behind her, and she nudges back just enough, just enough that their thighs meet, her hips bumping his lap. Castle lets out a long breath and dips his chin until his forehead rests at her nape, her hair brushing his cheeks.
She's still here. She loves him too. They can figure it out.
After a moment of just breathing in the darkness together, he realizes he's stroking - very lightly - the skin of her stomach where her shirt is unbuttoned. He spreads his hand wide and the tips of his fingers span all the way to the waistband of her panties, encompassing the whole of her stomach.
And their baby. Covered by the reach of his hand.
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