12th February
She wakes with one of those stupid grins on her face, a grin at memories, at dreams, at contentedness. She shifts her hand from the pillow beside her to run her fingers through her hair, shift it from in front of her eyes, finds a few strands caught on the corner of her mouth and sets them all back in place, readying herself for the day.
Except she isn't.
She's still got her fingers twisted around her hair as she remembers his fingers in her hair.
She'd forgone tying it back before bed, too alive with the sensation of his own fingers racking over her scalp, twisting strands through his fingers, miraculously not catching, not forming knots as he angled her head, tipped her head back. But even before that he'd spent the evening toying with it, twirling the loose curls between his fingers while he sat beside her, sharing her cheesecake after insisting he couldn't possibly fit in anything after their date.
He'd kept calling it that.
It was so overwhelming the excitement which oozed from his every pore that she'd been infected. Sure, she herself had been excited, but he was so open, so honest, so content that she'd found herself showing him, letting him see she felt the same. He'd smiled at her the first time she'd called it such, just in passing, when really it should have been termed dinner. It was just dinner. They hadn't done anything exciting. She'd taken him to a small Japanese restaurant she'd been wanting to try, searching for an excuse to try something different. He'd been willing, crowding her as he ushered her into a cab and gave the address. It wasn't just a sushi bar. He wasn't just any date.
When they'd returned, both pleasantly surprised with their food and their company, they'd settled into her nest of blankets on her couch, his arm draped loosely around her shoulders, her body pressed against his side as she had slowly eaten the dessert before her. She'd taken pause between eat bite, dropped the fork to still his fingers on her shoulder, giving her chills through the dress she still wears, stop his fingers travelling her legs. Her legs had been curled so unceremoniously beside her that if it had been anyone but him she would have changed or not curled into their side to begin with. But it wasn't anyone else. It was him. She didn't have to worry, didn't want to care. She could curl her legs beside her body and let the dress hitch up a little – the blanket was over her lap anyways, but then again, it was also over his, his fingers dancing over her bare knee had been a stark reminder of that fact.
But it didn't matter. He'd already seen it all. Well… he hadn't exactly seen all of her, but he's seen the other all, the vulnerability and the doubts she'd never let anyone else see. Not a single one of them. No other person in her life, boyfriend, friend or parent has seen what he had. She'd never shown them, they'd known it was there though – how some of them had ignored it was startling now, especially when she considered the man who'd sat beside her, the man who started caring long before she ever realised she should let him.
She'd been stuck with that thought so long she realised he'd been eyeing off the cake, so she'd offered him the forkful she'd been toying with, working onto the fork so that when she found balance again she could eat it. But the piece he'd cut her was too much anyways, she wouldn't come close to finishing it – despite her best efforts and his teasing coaxes. He'd just leaned across and taken it from the fork she'd extended, then pressed his nose to her cheek as he chewed then swallowed. He'd hummed his approval and kissed her cheek as he watched her toy with another chunk. She hadn't passed over every bite to him, but she didn't need to. He got more daring after the third offering, kissed the corner of her mouth when she eyed him curiously as she ate a mouthful herself. By the sixth piece she offered him it wasn't about the cake anymore, it was just as excuse to slide her mouth across his own, kiss the corners of his mouth, taste the edge of his lips while he ate the portion, just about swallowing it whole but lingering long enough that when he opened his mouth she'd make a noise as she tasted it on his tongue. She hadn't been able to stop herself, each time. The taste of his tongue was intoxicating enough, lingering long after the cheesecake had gone, tasting her for its self. It had given her some respite knowing he made similar appreciative noises when he tasted her mouth, cheesecake or not.
She snaps out of it, finds her fingers pressed to her mouth, like she's trying to contain her smile, like she's trying to remember the pressure of his mouth slanted across hers. She's not trying to do either, why bother, neither will work.
She realises it's been fifteen minutes since she woke, she's been lost in her own mind, in memories of his mouth for fifteen minutes. She shudders as she realised all he did was kiss her, slide his fingers through her hair, skim her knee beneath the blanket, then kiss her longingly at the door, sliding his fingers over her back. But he'd pressed his forehead to her own and told her he'd see her tomorrow. It wasn't a weighted promise but she wants it to be. She wants him to turn up and… She didn't know what exactly she wants him to do when he arrives. But she wants him to return, or invite her over. She could just turn up. She might. But right now she has things she needs to do.
If she stands any hope of seeing him she has to force herself from her thoughts, do some of the washing she's been putting off for weeks and function somewhat normally. It will take two hours, at most, it's still fairly early and the sooner she starts the better.
.
She's forced herself to move, get up and make coffee, jolt her mind into the present, away from memories and imaginings of today. She's brought it into her room while she fills the basket now in the doorway with her clothes. First to go in are the pyjamas as she sheds the clothes, finding jeans and a top quickly, too easy. She empties the hamper into the basket, not as many items as she expected, two loads at the most, once she separates the whites. She's moving around the bed, tugging the corners of the sheets out from beneath the mattress, loosening it, ready to strip it bare. A habit she's kept since she was too small to manage the large spreads of fabric on her own, untucking the corners and pulling them off the bed, waiting for her mother to come and take the other side. She's undoing the buttons, fiddling with the press duds her mind wandering but her eyes following suit, eyeing off the bear, now settled on her pillow, perched there, eyeing her off, begging for acknowledgement, for memory.
She smiles as she realises slowly, it's over. He can't possibly have more gifts, he doesn't need them, they've served their purpose. She flicks her eyes to the dresser, the buttons now all undone, the cover open, wide and gaping. She should feel exposed as she eyes the corners of the notes, the pieces of cardboard, but she doesn't. She can't stifle her smile, can't dampen it, can't bring herself to want to.
She spies the most obvious of her gifts, the cactus still sitting on the dresser, perched precariously above the small pile of paper. She should put that away, slip it into the bottom of her jewellery box or something, keep it safe, away from prying eyes. But she isn't bother now. She needs new sheets.
Then she spies it.
The hint of yellow at the back of the cactus, the odd creamy green of the bud has changed, is now a bright yellow. She's missed it. She has to wonder when it happened. It hadn't been like that on Friday night or Saturday morning, he would have said something, surely.
She drops the mess of sheets from her hands, the gaping hole fallen to the floor, suddenly closed, healed, for now. She takes the two steps to her dresser, spins the pot around to get a better view. It's odd, brilliant yellow and opened wide, in full bloom. She'd opened the curtains when she got up, forcing the light into the room, making burrowing back beneath them completely unappealing, but all that's done is emphasise the cactus in front of her, cast a light over it that seems to make her wandering mind focus. She's certain, so certain it's actually shocking. But it's not panic, it's certainty, unwavering doubt that is being affirmed by the flower on a prickly succulent. She slaps her thigh in an instant, searching, not finding. Where did she put her phone last night?
She swallows and smiles as she realises it's still in the clutch she left on the kitchen bench, discarded and forgotten at the prospect of dessert. Not 'implication of more' type dessert, but actual dessert, happy and content to settle into where they are, into them and nothing more. She shudders. She'll have to take the box with her when she goes to the loft later.
She snaps a picture of the cactus, ignoring the fact she let the light from the window seep into the frame and cast its glow across the wood, the gleam evident. She sets her phone on the edge of the dresser after she sends the image through, it doesn't need any text to accompany it, it says enough. She goes back to the bed, working with a practised ease while she doesn't wait for him to respond, flicking her eyes to her phone each time she hears any noise. She should know her own ringtone, her own message tone. But she's quivering as she balls the sheets up and tosses them into the basket. She kneels on the bed and moves Alex to the sheet still beneath her knees to drag her pillow across the bed, undress the wad of stuffing.
She tosses the material across the room, another ball and sets to work on the spare. The pillow she refuses to sleep on, even since it's been replaced. But she toys with the loose corner in her fingertips now, slides a hand over the curve of the material, then another. Studying the divot where his head had been, already a dent in her life, a physical reminder of his presence. As if he himself wasn't reminder enough now she didn't just have little reminders, there was a dent, a void only he could fill. She shudders as she slides her hands over it once again, stripping off the cover to see if it's still there, if he exists beneath the layers. She's being stupid, kind of petty but she doesn't care.
Then her phone goes off and she balls up the material in her hands, dropping the pillow back to the mattress as she moves to see his response. But then stops dead as she raises her arm to toss it, a distinct crinkle, an odd rustling noise. She scans the room briefly, wonders if there's something-
There's something in the pillowcase, she realises as she squeezes it tighter. Her attempt to stop it rustling only served to accentuate the sound.
What's he done now?
She's unbundled the material, the phone still alight with his response, now forgotten.
She blinks as she tugs out the light blue material, a tiny shirt, doll's clothes. But that doesn't rustle, it's silent as she pulls it out. That's not it.
She searches again, pulls out a small hat and pants. Then she realises, when she sees the mock logo what it is. It's an outfit, her uniform.
She laughs softly to herself as she balls the items in her hand, tossing them toward the bear on the other side of the bed, like she's capable of putting them on for herself.
She strips the last sheet, still laughing quietly to herself. Only when she's tossed that last ball into the basket does she grab her phone and sit cross legged on her underlay.
She shivers as she waits for the phone to respond, to unlock and allow her to view the message, finds there are two.
Stunning. The flower doesn't look too bad either.
She's confused, she's not even in the picture. She presses the buttons, examines the picture, certainly not in it, not even her shadow.
I'll be there in five.
She's shocked by the second message, curious. She hadn't even heard the phone go off. She has to check the timestamp to find he could have arrived minutes ago.
When? She types the response quickly, sends it as she presses the pile of fabric into the basket, grabbing her keys and leaving the phone open in the top of the basket. She's already heading down the stairs when it lights up again.
I'm coming up now.
Meet me downstairs, laundry.
.
He feels her presence before he sees her. He rounds the doorway, leaving the short hall, and finds her with her back to him, working methodically over the washing machines. He perches himself against the machine behind her, she doesn't acknowledge him she doesn't have to. She's stuffing sheets into the dryer and he has to smirk, she will have found the tiny outfit.
"Hey," he says when she shuts the lid, turns the knobs and presses buttons.
She doesn't turn immediately so she definitely knew he was there. She holds the basket at her side, as she steps up and slides her arms around his waist, letting the ones his opened arms envelop her.
"Hi," she says softly against the side of his face, kissing him once before withdrawing and heading for a different door to the one he used. The one a too-trusting older woman had held for him. He wonders if she'd considered that.
He follows her up the stairs, letting her carry the empty basket. He'd never realised there was a staircase, but he supposes it's for maintenance workers, given the fuse boxes which line every few flights. It doesn't matter, it's not even important
When she gets to the door he crowds in behind her, moves to whisper in her ear and she stops moving, waiting for him to move or preparing to strike. He isn't sure. But then she shifts her head just a little so her ear moves past his cheek, her temple touches his forehead. He takes that as an approval.
"Miss me?" he whispers softly.
She laughs softly. "No." He doesn't believe her, her voice is too quiet. Maybe she didn't miss him, but she's at least been looking forward to seeing him.
"I missed you," he says into her cheek, kissing her once and sliding an arm across her stomach, pulling her back against his chest.
.
His breath is warm against her skin, tickling her with its warmth. Then his hand is gliding across her stomach, feather light and coaxing. She had relaxed at his kiss, ignored his words – too easy a mark for a witty retort.
"Crap! Castle, what-" She spins on the spot, backing into the door as she shies away from it, from the bone chilling cold, like he's shoved snow down her back.
But he's laughing softly. "Sorry," he offers. His smile suggests he isn't really apologetic. "Didn't you see it?" he asks as he holds the plastic bag up for her inspection.
She shakes her head. She most certainly hadn't, but she hadn't been looking, too focused on his presence, on his hands on her back and on his mouth at her cheek, to bother with other things.
"Are you going to see what it is?" he prods softly, letting the plastic spin in his fingers.
"A tub of ice-cream?" she guesses, softly, stepping forward to take the bag and open the door she'd already unlocked.
"Today I'm not sure it's can really be considered a gift, but I thought it was time we talked, we work out what's going on. Also I think you need to know why now, why Valen-"
"What?" she interrupts. Pieces already falling into place.
.
He leans back a little, so he can watch her, curious. "What 'what'?" he asks.
"Valentine's day?" That's the part she's dwelling on, really? He'd expected hesitation in making labels, forming some kind of line between home and work. But
"Yeah?" he asks, cautious. "Why'd you think?"
She shrugs, as she heads over to the kitchen, tugging him along by the elbow, not finished. "I didn't know, Rick. I just thought you'd gotten sick of waiting, decided to make a gesture…" He watches her trail off. She is realising she's still right, there had just been an occasion to prompt him into action – a romantic occasion with flowers and candy hearts in shop fronts making the decision for him. He explains it to her, just like that. That he wanted to give her these things, small things, but meaningful, to show her he cares.
She just nods periodically as he speaks, as she heaps ice-cream into a bowl, almost the whole tub. But he won't comment she needs the distraction.
She crowds into his side as she goes to walk past, kissing him softly. "Thank you. But Valentine's day? Why not…" He watches her focus, her whole face shifting as she grabs hold of a key point. "You waited?" It's exactly what he expected. The question is soft and hesitant, but her eyes are giving her away, showing her amazement, her gratitude, her feelings as it hits her all at once that he's here in front of her.
He can only nod stupidly and wrap his arms around her, amazed she can keep the bowl out of the crushing hug but still have both arms wrapped around him.
He draws back slowly, kisses her softly, touching his tongue to her lips after only a polite second of hesitation.
.
She shudders again as he touches his tongue to the roof, running it along her hard palate. He's smiling, laughing at her response, so she draws back, sucking on the tip of his tongue for a second, lingering. But there is time for that later right now she's got some secrets to spill.
She tugs him to the couch, he barely lets go of her, just settles her wordless over his legs, prompting to lean back against the arm of the couch, her legs draped along the length of her couch, the bowl nestled in her lap.
She gives him a mouthful of the ice-cream before she speaks, lets him smile in approval, kiss her softly before she ruins it with words. She's not sure how this will go.
So she says it in a rush, explains everything. He just nods and takes the spoon she's discarded, wordlessly plying her with the fast melting gloop as she speaks.
"I know," he says softly when she's finished. Finished confessing that she knew all along, that Ryan hadn't been able to keep it from her that he'd been concerned, asking for signs about her mother's case, that she's had those names flagged in the system so as soon as he looked into them, she was notified.
She's shocked. "You're not mad?" she asks.
He chuckles at her and she swats his shoulder as he slides it around her, pulling her weight against his side. "I've known all along Kate. PTSD wouldn't be triggered by a gunshot if you don't remember being shot." He shrugs, like it's no big deal. "I know why you had to… You just needed time."
She's glad they've basically emptied the bowl, it makes juggling it on her lap while she wraps her arms his neck so much easier.
She pulls back, nestles both into his hold and into the arm of the couch."Not anymore," she says softly, a promise. "But…" She doesn't know how to say it, fiddles with the spoon into the melted ice-cream.
"But we take it one step at a time. One day at a time has worked well enough so far, right?" He shifts his thigh, causing her whole body to rise and fall.
"So we go slow. Just see how it works." She's nodding as she says it and he's leaning forward, claiming her mouth, sliding his hand up into her hair again. When his fingers find her scalp she feels him lift the bowl, move it who knows where, who cares. She certainly doesn't, not while he's here. Then his other hand is skimming a thumb at her jaw, cradling the back of her head with his other fingers as they work their way through the loose hair.
Then his mouth is gone, his fingers have stilled. He touches his nose to hers once, grabbing her attention. Apparently she looks as far off as she feels. She smiles a little in apology, realising he wants to say something.
"It'll work." He didn't need to say it, vocalise it. But he has.
She huffs a breath out, soft but amused. Like he read her mind, like she can't believe it. But she does.
She just nods and nestles into his side. "So what do we do today?" she asks after a minute.
"As appealing as your washing does sound," he kisses her softly when she laughs at his teasing, "I thought you could come hang out at the loft for a few hours."
"You could have just called and asked me, Castle." She watches him raise an eyebrow at her regression to his last name. Its habit, this isn't serious like before. She doubts it's a habit she'll ever break.
"And ruin this," he says softly as he lifts her again, apparently amused by this new trick. "I don't think so. Plus the ice-cream and this talk were another gift."
She smiles, kisses him softly in thanks.
Then realises something. "If this is about Valentine's day, it's two days away Castle. Why'd you end it early?"
"Complaining?" he teases softly. "But it's not over."
She can't stop her mouth dropping. "Not over? But you got your date. And I'm here, aren't I?"
She watches him chuckle as he pulls her flush against his body, hands roving over her frame. "You certainly seem to be." He kisses her softly. "But this was just part of it, most certainly not the grande finale." His voice is light and excited, but she groans.
"No more surprises." She manages before he presses her back against the couch, leering over her eyeing her cautiously, daring her to kiss him, to give in. She doesn't.
"One more," he mutters. "You'll find out tomorrow." He's certain. Like finding out what it is will be something amazing to her. The look in his eyes makes her think it might be a good thing not knowing, just for now. As long as he doesn't keep her waiting too long.
"One more." She's certain. No more surprises after that. Then she gives in, leans up to meet his mouth and shivers contentedly when he slides his fingers into her hair again.