Nocturne Chapter Four

"But in the stillness you may sense everything I long to say,
Unraveling like golden threads, the walls will all come down this way."

-Mary Chapin Carpenter, Ashes and Roses, 2012 Rounder Records
No copyright infringement intended.

She's rolling, skittering off the ledge like she's nothing at all. Insubstantial. She's given her best, and it's fallen miserably, humiliatingly short.

"Actually, we know exactly who we're up against."

Maddox takes in her situation with a calculating glance.

The fear sinks in her gut like a stone. She's going to fall. She's going to fall, and she hasn't kissed him. She hasn't told him. She hasn't loved him.

The man who has bested her seems as if he might step back, leave her fate to her own failure of strength.

But then he steps closer, edges his boot toward her fingers. She can't let go to move them out of his way, can only wait for the inevitable weight, the bone-crushing force to end her.

As he steps and she falls, she screams out for her partner, feels her soul separating, trying to stay behind as her body plummets. Waiting for him to save her.

But she feels the drop—the whip of the wind almost enough to buffet her upward—sees the ledge and the man in black receding, shrinking, so far above her as she plummets.

She must have reached the ground by now—only she hasn't. She's still falling, arms pinwheeling helplessly, legs kicking out for purchase against the vast nothingness of the air, voice hollowing out to a silent rasp.

And when she thinks this horror will never end, will continue into an abyss of loss and limbo, she jolts to a stop, heart hammering against her ribs, limbs heavy but not broken. She sucks in a breath, flexes every muscle, tries to wrest herself up and out of the depths of this oblivion.

She meets resistance, warm and solid and vibrating. No, not vibrating. Speaking.

She can't… everything is lost… Everyone is gone…

"Kate!"

His voice breaks through it. His voice counteracts gravity, pulls her out of the ether.

She's hot. Sweaty. Claustrophobic. Wrapped up and unable to move.

She has to fight for air, fight for space, fight for control.

There are bands around her arms, across her chest, over her hips and legs. She's pinned. She can't move. She needs to move.

She forces a breath in, fills her lungs, struggles against the bonds that hold her.

"Sssshhh. Kate, it's me. You're dreaming. Wake up, come on. Wake up for me."

She stills, tries to take stock of her limbs, find her body in this reality.

"Castle?"

"Yeah, it's me."

He's holding her. He's above her, strong arms bracketing hers, knees straddling her hips.

Castle.

She's with him.

She's naked, in his bed.

They made love.

She fell asleep in his arms.

"You were dreaming."

It's a statement, not a question.

He doesn't ask for an explanation.

She wants to know what her subconscious and her body shared without her knowledge, but she can't ask.

Wetness cools on her cheeks, despite his warm body above her.

He's holding himself up, keeping himself away from her, as though he isn't sure she would welcome the intrusion of his arms and legs around her.

She would. She does.

Her lids shut against the jagged, flickering images, too bright, too stark. But the images are inside her eyes, and closing them only makes them more brilliant.

"Beckett?"

At use of her last name, her eyes shoot open, habit and memory overriding any sense of embarrassment.

She fixes on the deep blue before her, bright despite the darkness of the room.

"I'm here."

Her arms find him, clutch around his middle, pull him down tight on top of her.

"God, I'm here."

He lets her hold him against her, nose to her cheek, skin measuring her breath.

Within his arms, everything becomes warm and safe and solid; he loves her.

She didn't fall from the building. Ryan caught her hand—beat mortality again. For now.

Her consciousness has almost caught up, almost reconciled her dream with reality.

And as much as she can't stand the thought of reliving that nightmare again, she knows she needs to get this out.

Her lips are at his ear, legs are insinuating themselves around his calves, hands are stroking over the tense muscles of his back, as she begins.

"I almost fell off a roof."

He stiffens in her arms.

"What?"

"Today—Maddox. Esposito and I tracked him to a hotel room. We went in without any backup. Cleared the place, found Montgomery's files and laptop, but he came in after us, knocked us both down. I chased him up to the roof."

Unsteady silence is his only response, probably because he's trying not to overreact and scream at her. In hindsight, everything she has done apart from him, apart from coming here to him, is so utterly idiotic.

A tight breath, a blink of her eyes, a tilt of her cheek to scrape against his stubble: these are just enough to anchor her in the reality of this bed before she continues.

"I fought him-hard. Went after him even after he tossed me around. I hit him with every last ounce of strength I had. He nearly choked me, dropped me flat on my back, rammed his knee into my gut, kicked me when I was down."

Tears are streaming down her face, and he's nearly vibrating above her, holding back some deep seated impulse by staying still. But she is grateful for that steadfast immobility. She needs the anonymity of silence, the steady pressure of his body over hers to get all of this out.

"And I just kept getting up again—diving in. He finally shoved me off, probably didn't even mean to aim the way he did, but I rolled right over the edge."

Her voice breaks and she has to catch her breath.

"It's okay to cry; let it out."

She nods into his shoulder, but he finally moves enough to look into her face, reaffirming their connection for just an instant—just long enough—before he wraps his hand behind her head and holds her to him again.

The last of the sobs work their way out of her lungs, and she tries to finish, burrowing against the ridge of his collarbone.

"I caught the edge… I was holding on by my fingertips; I knew I was going to fall. I thought he was going to finish it. In the dream, he did. But today, he just looked down at me and walked away. Probably thought it would be more poetic if my own weakness… If he didn't even have to…"

She takes a noisy, sloppy breath, can't face him.

"I yelled for you."

Lifting up, he tugs gently on her hair to get her to drop her head to the pillow, forces her to look at him while she tells him the rest. His eyes are swimming. She can see the tracks of tears glistening in the weak city light through the blinds.

He needs this. He needs to know. He needs to understand why she's here now.

"I saw your face. It was all I could see. Trying to make me see reason, telling me you love me." She blinks hard, futilely tries to hide more tears, but they escape anyway. "I swore I heard… I heard your voice calling back to me—telling me to hold on. And I thought, 'I've never given him the chance to tell me when he wasn't crying.'"

His tears overflow again, but now her hands are there, wiping them softly away, pressing gently against his cheeks to smooth out the hard press of his frown. He smiles as he utters the words again.

"I love you. Sorry—still crying. Damn it, I guess I'll just have to say it again later."

The sudden upturn of her lips surprises her; unexpected happiness spills from her chest. She finds his lips, kisses away as much hurt and pain and regret as she can.

He is the one to break off, pulling away only enough to see her, smiling brightly.

"I have an idea."

"Okay… Should I be worried?"

"Nope."

Kissing her forehead with a noisy smack of his lips, he extracts himself from her embrace, moves to climb off the bed in the direction of his office.

"Where are you going?"

Though she does her best to take the shrill, needy tone from her voice, she's nearly certain she's failed.

"Still no power. Guess the generator is out, too. Going for the candles."

"I'll come with you."

She's up and after him, trailing naked into his personal space as he reaches for the bottom drawer of his desk.

Coming up with a bag of red tea-lights and a wand lighter, he straightens and kisses her nose, which is much closer than it ought to be, considering that she has her pride, really she does.

Crowding her backward toward his bedroom, he catches her off balance, and she stumbles a bit, still not as comfortable as he seems with all this nakedness.

She sees his expression alight and can't help the moment of foreboding fear. He has the bag of candles and the lighter in one hand, but even so, he reaches down, scoops her up, holds her close as he carries her back through the bedroom and into his bathroom.

"You're either really brave or really stupid, Castle."

"Counting on the former."

She rolls her eyes as he sets her down, feet hitting the cold tile near his massive freestanding porcelain tub. It's egg-shaped and white from what she can see, as modern as the rest of the loft.

Bending down, he shows her his tight derriere and plugs the drain, starts the taps. Steam billows almost immediately.

"Good thing the water heater is gas."

She's not sure what to do with herself now, after being literally carried into the room, set down before the tub. He's dropping candles on every flat surface he can reach, pinching up wicks and setting them aflame. The room comes to life in a warm, orange glow, flickering unevenly and reflected back in the mirrors above the vanity, the dark windows above the tub.

With the air conditioning off, he opens the windows, lets the whipping wind have its way with the wax and string.

He opens a drawer below the sink, pulls out a few bottles, scans the labels as he sets them on the counter.

"Bubbles? Bath salts? I might even have foaming bath salts in here somewhere. Alexis is the one who uses the tub, so she's got it pretty well stocked."

Glancing up for her answer, his eyes snag at her hip.

"Oh, Kate."

In an instant, he's on his knees before her, reaching out with tentative fingertips. He palms her just below the edge of the bright purple blotch, strokes his thumb across the curved edge where Maddox's knee has left its mark.

"He hurt you."

Looking up, with eyes so sad, so full of unvoiced regret, he turns her a bit, drawing her side more fully into the flicker of candlelight. He takes in every inch of her, inspects every blemish. His touches are light, never eliciting pain even though she's sure everything will hurt tomorrow.

She's made a half turn for him, and he hasn't said another word, just quietly lets out a breath every time he finds a new place.

But then he lets out a chuckle. Ah, she wondered when he would find it. She cranes her neck to see his face as she feels his fingertip tracing the dark lines. He's smiling again.

"Cyrillic?"

She nods. His look of giddy excitement lights her up inside, makes her want to light him up, too.

"Герой же моей
повести - правда"

And that pretty much does the trick. Christmas morning with all the toys.

"Just when I think you can't possibly be any hotter, you stand naked in my bathroom and speak Russian to me." And that is a smirk she just has to return. "What does it mean?"

"'The hero of my tale is truth.' It's Tolstoy."

"Of course it is."

His warm words caress her skin as he kisses the lines of unfamiliar characters.

"Will you teach me how to say it sometime?"

Everything melts with his tenderness, his reach into this future they are creating tonight.

"Sure."

He grins and grips the tub and counter, pushes up with popping knees to stand behind her, shake some bath salts under the stream of water.

"Why don't you get in—I'll be right back."

And he's out the door, leaving her alone with her bruises and her scars. She understands his hesitance to touch when she sees herself flicker into focus in the steaming mirror. Her day is painted upon her body in brutal brushstrokes, more blunt than any description. The visual seems to remind her body of every spot, but there's nothing for it now but to soak in the heat.

The satin finish of the faucet handle is cool as she turns off the flow of water, lets the silence settle in around her.

The first touch of heat against the tip of one toe has her pulling back, too much, too fast. But she knows she'll adjust, knows in the end it's just the shock of newness, not the warmth itself that sends her shrinking back. And so one toe, and then a foot, a calf, a knee. She breathes and lets the heat soak through one limb before dropping her other in beside it, then finally submerging, settling her neck against the warming porcelain.

Her lashes flutter closed, sinking her into inky blackness as goosebumps erupt.

Soundlessly, he's beside her. She feels his presence as he enters the room, like a lodestone tilting toward her north.

She finds him crouching beside the tub, covered in his robe, holding out icy water and a palm with an offer of two ibuprofen. A pile of fluffy towels lays on the counter beside him.

An urge to kiss him senseless overwhelms her—for all this quiet care, for not making a single move to seduce her.

The catch in her voice surprises her as she thanks him, downs the pills, gulps the water.

The look on his face conveys only concern, and love, and he stands as if to step away.

It's a reflex, it must be, the way her hand shoots out, envelops his wrist before he can put distance between them. Somehow, it's essential to her that he stay-essential that he be here with her to help her heal this time. Because now they can heal each other.

"And where do you think you're going?"

Perplexed at her teasing tone, he quirks his brow.

"I'm gonna need someone to wash my back."

A hint of upturned lips reflects back at her. Dropping his hand as he drops the robe, she scoots forward to give him room. A new flush suffuses her skin as she reacts to his body. She still can't quite get used to the fact that all this brazen nakedness is allowed, that all of him is hers for the seeing, and for the taking.

He seems conflicted at first, but he steps in, sits behind her, legs scrunched up, unwilling to touch her.

Enough of that—she slides back until all he can do is stretch his legs on either side of her hips, wrap his arms around her and settle back.

Steam curls up around them, lazy tendrils wafting in the air currents stirred by the breeze through the window. The only sound now is street noise and the occasional ripple from one or the other as they adjust, learn how to just be, how to sit quietly, comfortably, with no work to do.

Arms and legs and skin and breath, muscles unclenching, joints relaxing—this must be what calm feels like, when it's shared. She has never known this sort of quiet communion existed with another person.

It would be so easy to doze off just like this. With the adrenaline finally fading, some of the fatigue is sneaking in, reminding her of her earlier abuse. But even as she feels the strength ebbing, a different energy is flowing into her. She's absorbing it in waves from the heartbeat pulsing at her back, the chest expanding against hers. He stirs slightly just before the words wash over her.

"I think it's finally over. The rain."

Not just the rain, but that'll do for now.

"I think maybe it is."

# * # * # * #

Bows to Joy, keeper of all missing words and punctuation.

I continue to be baffled by the magnitude of the positive response to this little post-Always fic. Every single review is read and appreciated.

Review that made me grin like an idiot: Caffinate-me for her absolutely ridiculous love-song sappiness. And the one that made me blush: MirandaJayne for calling my writing "silky-smooth" and "undulating." And it wasn't even an M-chapter… Is it warm in here? Also, lv2bnsb1 I stand corrected—no more "Quickie" references. I am profoundly long-winded.

The first and only BSG winner was roslinrocks – "Whadaya hear, Starbuck? Nothin' but the rain." You want to pick a (short) line to fit into a chapter later?

Playlist is growing:

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