11th February
Those thirty six hours have passed as a blur of time, a haze of evidence, a parade of suspects and a disgruntled detective. Their guy had been elusive until it became clear another suspect was lying to incriminate himself. But checking that guy's alibi lead to their actual murderer, it was the complete opposite of what they'd been looking for. But it was the truth, a closed case, so none of them had any complaints.
He's been watching her struggle all day to keep coughing fits muffled, keep the headache at bay by touching her fingers to her temples, then limp through the paperwork with heavy eyes. He knows she's run down, past the point of tired, but unwilling to admit defeat. So he's done his part, kept filling her mug with lemon and honey, smirking at her as he drops it onto her desk and tells her to drink. It seems to help with the coughing fits at least.
Thankfully they'd caught their break just before lunch, so he knew she had no reason to stay past mid-afternoon. He'd doubted she would have stayed even if they hadn't, she's been struggling to keep it under wraps. He'd left at two, touching her wrist softly as he stood to leave. A simple gesture, an 'I'll see you later', but the smile she'd given him had been telling, completely open and carefree. She was happy, maybe even excited. To say it suited her is an understatement. It made him giddy to know it was him who'd put that smile there, that unguarded smile. Even if it was only a second, it had been there. And he certainly wouldn't be forgetting it.
His crazy-arse plan of chocolate hearts, teddy bears and coffee beans had tilted her off-centre just enough that she'd taken his hand as she overbalanced. It's not complete progress but it's the beginnings of something he won't let her step back from. He won't let her take back the fact she wrapped herself around him as they slept. He won't let her forget he's kissed her twice now. He certainly won't let her forget she has initiated another two for herself, reciprocations count. He won't be forgetting either. It's shocked him, given him this indescribable hum, his body so happy he can barely contain it. It's not that he ever doubted her, or her capabilities, it's just he assumed she wouldn't cross the boundary. He assumed she wouldn't let herself dangle from the wall and meet him halfway.
Except she has been doing more than meeting him in the middle.
Yesterday morning, after she'd gotten the call from dispatch she'd swatted his chest and told him to get moving, to make some toast for the road, that she'd be five minutes then he could freshen up and she'd drive him over to the loft to change, joked the sweats and bed hair would undoubtedly raise some questions with the others. When she'd come into the kitchen, found him spreading peanut butter on her toast she'd kissed him, soft and sweet, like a habit.
He never wants to do it any different.
But this morning she'd picked up him up on the way to haul in their suspect. She hadn't done anything other than smile gently in greeting and steal the coffee he'd brought mainly for her. It was almost as good as the previous mornings greeting as he watched her drink it down and smile before launching into a full explanation of her morning with the boys, apparently Ryan had caught the break, stared the guy down until he ran himself into a circle, trying to claim ownership of a crime not his own. He should have asked for a few details from his friend.
Interrogation had been painful, attorney refusing to let his client oblige so Beckett had been ruthless. She'd worked the guy down enough so that when they described blow-by-blow how he had killed her, he had physically flinched, repulsed, remembering the horror Castle added with a practised finesse. Then he'd admitted it with a nod of his head, a slip of "she begged me to stop." Case closed.
He doesn't want to leave her side, but he needs to give her the space to finish working, officially wrap up their case, tie it all together so that even the most ruthless of attorneys can't tear it apart. Her stack has shrunk considerably in the past hour, he knows she'll be home with more than enough time, but she's powering through it even quicker than normal, with a higher efficiency, like she wants to get home as much as he wants to arrive there himself.
.
'Gone home yet? Remember you have a date to get ready for.'
She shudders as she reads it, her concentration broken only as she heads too far across the hall outside her apartment, almost colliding with the door to her own apartment, who knows what else suffered the same near misses.
She startles back to reality, sticks her phone into her mouth, holding it between her teeth as she keeps hold of her wallet and fumbles the key into the lock. She realises, as she forces the door open, that's the first time either have termed this dinner as a date. Like the term holds some other connotation of a formal occasion laced with romance and deep meaning, a future. The realisation should terrorise her, haunt her, sneak up behind her and scream in her ear, startling and piercing, shattering a mirror she's been watching. Ruining everything.
But it doesn't.
'Home now. I'll see you at 6.' She types it quickly after swiping her phone screen with her sleeve, removing the saliva with a snicker. She really should break that habit. She'll end up with a shattered screen when she drops it.
She'd assumed it was a more formal 'date' when he'd asked, but date seems like such an odd term when it comes beside Castle. It shouldn't though – they've basically done it all before. They've gone to dinner more times than she can count, gone out for drinks on multiple occasions even gone to the movies. Sure, they'd been partners and friends at the time and never… more. But the leap isn't shocking, it had always seemed inevitable. She hadn't assumed differently when he'd asked her and she knows he hadn't meant it any differently, not for a second.
The response is instant, a smiley face with an odd parenthesis she's never seen used in the context before. Curly brackets must be something he's picked up from Alexis. She doesn't question the face, just notes that if she squints her eyes a little it looks cute, like its being mischievous, that's enough of an explanation. It seems like it's served its purpose.
She decides she needs to take a bath, force herself to relax, stop herself considering brackets and colons, and soak in the heat of the water before she has to go back out in the cold, the hot in the air will clear her sinuses as much as it will clear her mind. She could do with the complete silence it affords her, the lack of urgency washing over her. It will be good to remember there isn't an urgency to this. He's giving her as much time as she needs, as much as she wants. She's not sure how long it will be before she's content with it, with them. They'll need to have a discussion, probably a few, before things settle down, until they find out what they are and put a label on it, define it and tell their families and friends. Then they'll have to tell the world.
But she shouldn't be considering this while she sits on the edge of her tub, waiting for the water to heat up enough that she can stick in the plug, ensuring it's as hot as possible.
She sees the steam seeping off the water as it comes into contact with the cool air in the room. She settles the plug and goes back to her room for underwear and a thick robe, she doesn't need to worsen this sore throat, regress the progress it seems to be making, the tea and endless syrups he keeps sliding in front of her at any opportunity. She's letting him. He's being attentive and caring and generous, like always and she's as grateful as she's ever been, just now – now she gets to thank him for it, no hesitation in smiles and touches, sure not in front of the boys or Lanie, but moments of acknowledgement, of thanks, however brief, she knows he appreciates them.
Everything is so practised, so routine, so habitual that it's easy to slide her hand over his as she moves beside him in the break room, graze his knee with her own as she scoots her chair in, or bump his foot with her own while she does paper work. It doesn't matter that it's not new, these things have a meaning now, a deliberate purpose, a weight they never carried before.
Waking up with him the other day had felt like an old routine. At the time, she'd supposed it was that she knew him so well, had spent mornings with him before, when her apartment blew up, during their visit to LA, it was all the same, but still completely different. He'd slid out of her bed, reluctantly uncurled himself from her body after pressing a kiss to her neck, at her hairline, just behind her ear. Why she'd rolled away from him in the middle of the night she wasn't sure, but the fact she'd woken in his arms, one slid beneath her sheets and one over the top of her blankets and his own. He'd broken through all the barriers separating them, even in his sleep he'd crushed walls. When he'd skimmed his hands over her hips as she greeted him in the kitchen a few minutes later she'd realised he had broken down her walls, when it happened she still can't decide, but he's there and he's not leaving, standing in the rubble of her life he's taken her hand and offered her several options. She's never been more grateful of another person in her life, no one has ever been so understanding, so patient, so willing. But he has. He continues to amaze her. He has proven he is not the celebrity persona the media have created for him. His offer of the other half of his piece of toast had crumpled what doubt remained about whether they should be doing this, about whether she should have let him stay, whether she should have taken his hand. But she'd only had a fleeting moments doubt, a moment to review the reasons why she couldn't not before he'd grabbed the two hot mugs of honey and lemon he'd left on the counter while she finished his toast. She swallowed the dry bread as she accepted the proffered cup, tossing that already crumpled doubt into the trash, the lid slamming shut behind it like she'd locked it away and thrown away the key.
She sinks into the tub as she considers the walls are still there, given they're pretty much piles of rubble, the occasion skeleton of the structure which had surrounded her, destroyed. She could have refused his help to clean up the mess, recycle that material to build something else, she couldn't not use the resources she has to build herself up stronger than ever. It would be foolish not to use those. But why bother to keep him out, push him away, while she does it. All it would lead to is impatience and then he'd find someone else. She can't have that. That isn't even an option. One and done. They're not even 'one' yet but she's done. He'd glimpsed the insides of her fort long ago and it had only made him more determined, now here they are, together. Getting him back to the other side would be a mammoth task, but she doesn't want him to leave, she won't ask him to leave. She hopes he doesn't want to leave. She wants him to stay. Walls be damned.
.
He's early. Verging on insanely early. There is still almost an hour before he should be turning up at her door.
She won't be ready. But he's already killed time.
Poor Alexis had been on the verge of strangling him, his constant hovering and odd choices of discussion topics were unfailing evidence of his nerves, his excitement, but she'd been studying so she didn't want him hovering, excited or not. His mother hadn't been there to bug so he'd kissed his daughter and told her to have a good night. She'd scoffed lightly and sent him on his way, calling him back to straighten the tie he'd skewed with his nervous energy.
She won't be ready.
But he's already walked the last three blocks to her place, killed as much time as he can stand. He wants to see her, so ready or not here he comes.
.
She's not ready. It's not even close to the time to her having to be ready. But he's knocking on her door.
She knows it's him, the soft hesitant knock, like he hopes she doesn't hear it.
But she does.
She's on edge, cautious, excited. So it wouldn't be missed. She's been debating clothes, standing in her room in her underwear the cold trying to force her to make a decision, hands on her hips as she regards her wardrobe with as much malice as she might throw at a murderer. It is certainly giving her as much hassle. But the knock forces her to tug her robe back on, wrap it around her body and answer the door.
He smirks when he sees her. "Aren't you ready? We have a date." He's teasing, at least he better be teasing, he's forty-five minutes early.
"You're forty-five minutes early," she chides, leaning against the door, unconsciously blocking the doorway, unusually self-conscious. There is a knowing look beneath his smile, a glint she saw cross his eye when she opened the door to him, he knows there is very little beneath the robe. And he doesn't mind.
He shrugs. She knows that means he couldn't wait.
"So?" He's brushing it off. She might just have to let him.
He's stepping forward to greet her, kissing her cheek softly.
She has to force her eyes back open, notices the box he's pressing into her hands as he regards her curiously again, a little mischievous and considerably excited. She's not sure it has anything to do with her state of dress this time, he's watching her face not roving his eyes over the robe.
"What's this?" she asks as she takes it. She's got a fair idea but she'll play the game, preferring for him to tell her rather than guess.
"What's this?" he echoes as he slides his hands along her forearms, running his fingers over the soft fabric.
All it takes is for her to level her gaze on him and he stops, but the smile doesn't drop from his face, his hands don't move and she doesn't mind, her own face feels like it's been held in a wide smile all day, her cheeks are beginning to protest.
"Dessert," he explains softly, stepping around the door, kicking it closed with a heel a second later.
"Oh. What is it?" She's feigning curiosity. She really doesn't mind what it is. She is a little fixed on the idea it means he'll come back up with her, though there had been only a slim chance he wouldn't be.
"It's a surprise." His fingers find her elbows, brushing the soft matieral against her skin as he kisses her softly.
He hums slightly as he withdraws. "I've wanted to do that all day," he confesses quietly. She had too but won't vocalise that need just yet. But he knows.
He's watching her, curious. She can't find words so he continues.
"So this," he nods to the top of the box, unwilling to let go of her for a second, "will clear things up later."
Now she's confused. Completely confused. "Huh?" she asks. His expression tells her it isn't stupid she's confused, he's on his own thought path.
"Now you have a legitimate reason to invite me back here, one that doesn't imply many other things."
Oh. Now she follows. "But who says this will go well enough that I won't ditch you at the restaurant, fake an emergency and leave you there."
"Then you've got this to wallow with about the failed hopes you had for your evening." His voice is soft, restrained a little, like he's afraid of that.
She scoffs. He really thinks she'd come home from a bad date and eat a whole cheesecake? But it's not even a possibility. Even if this evening is a disaster, neither will be ditching the other in the restaurant.
"It won't be horrible," he says softly, crowding in close again.
She shakes her head, no it won't be. It's him. She knows there will be some extravagant plan, but for now, she's content just to kiss him softly and retreat.
"No it won't. But I have to get ready before it can be anything," she says softly as she presses the box back into his stomach, forcing his hands to slide over hers on the underside of the box, an unnecessary touch she certainly isn't complaining about. "Give me ten minutes," she offers, kissing his cheek again now his hands have been forced into distraction.
"Five," he bargains.
She shakes her head, not negotiating. But if she happens to be ready quicker, sooner (and she will be) then he won't mind. "Stick that in the fridge," she calls as she heads back into her room, shutting the door. At least now she's certain what to wear, how to keep him looking at her like that all night. Though, he'd look at her like that if she wore a potato sack.
.
She's ready in five and he is no less than amazed, how she pulled herself together in that time he isn't sure. She didn't look dishevelled, far from it, never does, but he's still unable to stop his mouth dropping open slightly in response, not a very appropriate greeting, her laughter suggesting that's quite okay though. His mouth only closes when she leans in close to press her mouth to his, soft but not hesitant. He slides his hands over her hips, up to her waist, pulls her close for a second.
She lets him crowd her as she locks the door, sticking her keys into the small purse she's holding then not objecting to his hand on her back, leaning into him as they wait for the elevator.
"Where are we going?" she asks quietly, like she's suddenly realised he hasn't mentioned it, that she has no idea.
"Where ever you want." He watches her mouth drop open slightly.
"You didn't make reservations?" she questions, turning to look at him, almost completely at eye level with her heels.
"Nope," he shrugs. Normally he would have, but tonight she's in control. Sure he's turned up much earlier than expected, applied a little pressure, apparently in the right places, nothing has phased her. Not even his almost uncontrollable gawking at the robe, barefoot and clad in the thick robe. She hadn't shrugged one on the other morning so it spoke volumes about her state of dress. He'd had to swallow and watch her, too much intensity when she opened the front door would certainly spoil their entire evening.
"So where are we going?" she asks as the elevator doors open and reveal the empty car to them.
He kisses her softly once they close. "Up to you," he assures. It really is. If she says she wants to go and get Falafel from a cart on a corner, he won't be complaining.
Her only response is to bite her bottom lip, considering.
They've got all night, he realises as he slides his arm across her back, gliding over the soft material to tug her flush against his side. Tonight she's just Kate, not in any way a detective he must answer to. She's just his date. Well she's not just his date, she's his partner. A term which is gaining new meaning with each passing day.