Title: More Than Them
Disclaimer: Maybe in another dimension…
Summary: They're magnets for life as well, and now that they've survived, they need to learn to navigate a life that has ceased to be his or hers. Sequel to More Than This.
Chapter 2:
They're nearly catatonic when they finish eating. She's practically in his lap, her head on his shoulder, legs tossed over his, one hand toying sluggishly with his collar while the other tangles in his hair. If he weren't nearly asleep, the hint of her fingers against his neck beneath his tee shirt would have significantly different results, but now, with her breath against his shoulder and her warm weight settled over his body, she's doing a fantastic job of lulling him into slumber.
"Good pizza," she mumbles, sleepy and lazy, her voice a little rough after the day behind them.
"I'm cooking for you in the Hamptons," he replies, though he can barely imagine getting off this couch, let alone doing something as complicated as cooking, or driving.
"M'kay," she sighs, and he watches as her eyes flutter shut.
"Kate," he chuckles, pressing his lips to her forehead. She whispers something unintelligible and cuddles closer. He could get used this Kate—the snuggler. He might even love her more than badass Detective Beckett, because he's the only man who gets to see her like this.
"Kate," he tries again, in time with the turn of the lock to the front door.
He looks over at the entryway and smiles at his daughter as she trudges in, her bookbag over her shoulder. She was studying at Paige's tonight, he thinks, maybe. Everything before the collapse is a blur in his brain, hazy and slow.
"Dad?" she asks, walking over to stand at the edge of the couch, her eyes wide as she takes in the woman in his arms, usually so stoic and strong around his daughter, now curled in his lap, asleep on his shoulder. "What…is everything okay?"
"More than," he smiles, his thumb tracing patterns on Kate's thigh. "We had a rough day, but everything's fine now."
Alexis narrows her eyes, looking from the pizza to them and back, obviously taking in Kate's state of dress and the fact that both of them still have wet hair. "What aren't you telling me?"
So much. "Nothing, Pumpkin."
"Is it about the…case?" she asks, her voice much softer, fear creeping onto her face—a fear he's tried so hard to quell, to take the burden onto himself.
"No," he says quickly, happy that he can be honest about it. "No, it had nothing to do with that. We got locked in a room for the better part of the day, but otherwise, it was uneventful."
"Locked in a…" Alexis trails off, perplexed. He's not about to mention that they were nearly crushed to death too. Shades of the truth will have to do. "But, uh, I'm…you're okay?"
He nods and reaches out to take her hand, pulling her down so he can press his lips to her forehead before she straightens up. "We're just fine. Exhausted, but just fine, I promise."
She nods slowly and he surpresses a laugh. Breakfast the next day is going to be so delightfully awkward. He almost can't wait, and has to wonder what that says about him. "How about I get Kate into bed and come out to give you a kiss goodnight?" he suggests as Kate snuffles slightly in her sleep.
"Okay," Alexis hedges, watching as he gently shifts his partner from his lap and stands, cracking his back.
With less effort than he expects, he manages to lift Kate off the couch and into his arms, bridal style. He staggers a little as he gives Alexis a smile and makes his way through the office. It's a good thing his bed is so close by. Kate weighs next to nothing—and he decides to start getting Italian more frequently—but she's still a grown woman, and he's no movie-theatre-prince.
He settles her under the blankets, brushing the hair from her eyes as he pulls the comforter up to her shoulders. She twitches and blinks an eye open, peering up at him in the darkness.
"Hey," she gruffs out, heavy with sleep. "You carry me here?"
He smiles and crouches down so they're face to face. "I'm just gonna talk with Alexis and then I'll be back. Go back to sleep."
Her lips twitch upward as she reaches out for him, tugging him in by his collar until she has his lips pressed to hers. He chuckles into the kiss, which she can't quite control, and she growls at him.
"I'm trying to be romantic, Castle," she says as he pulls away.
"We have all the time in the world for romance. Sleep now, wake me up later," he says, smiling what he's sure is a dopey grin. He doesn't care. This exquisite woman wants to romance him, loves him, is sleeping in his bed.
She nods into the pillow as her eyes fall shut and her breathing evens back out. He could stare at her forever, but he's got a kid waiting for him in the living room, and so he stands with regret and no small measure of pain from his abused muscles. As much as he'd like three days in the Hamptons, they might have to settle for two. He's not sure he can make the drive tomorrow—not if his legs still feel like this.
When he returns to the living room, Alexis is sitting on the couch, one leg pulled to her chest as she stares out at the room, her lip between her teeth.
"Hey," he says, closing the office door behind him.
"Hey," she parrots, giving him a small smile. "So," she prompts as he sits, surpressing his groan.
"So," he says, chuckling as she frowns at him. The two women are eerily similar that way—the way they can make him clam up or open up about anything with merely a look. "Things with Kate are…different," he offers.
"Obviously," she snorts. "How different? And how much of this has to do with whatever happened today?"
"A good deal, and none at all," he says, laughing as his daughter huffs. "It's been building. We're at a good place right now, I think."
"How good? Should I be offering pleasantries or pulling out paint samples?"
He blinks at the abrupt question. She's not pulling punches tonight. Though, she's got every right; she's smart, his daughter, and she knows when he's not telling her the entire story. They've been through it enough times for her to know that he won't be telling her anytime soon either.
"Somewhere in the middle, Sweetie," he says, giving her a smile.
Alexis nods contemplatively for a moment. "Are you happy?"
"Very," he replies honestly.
"Okay," she says, smiling. "I do like her, Dad."
"I know you do." He runs a hand over the back of her head. "Do you like her enough to come with us to the Hamptons this weekend?"
Alexis eyes him strangely. "Seriously?"
"We've got a few days off, and we're both feeling like…getting out of the city." Smelling roses, reveling in open sky, leaving their cell phones behind and forgetting about everything that's been in the way for so long—getting out of the city will have to cover it all.
Alexis bobs her head as she takes it all in. "Paige and I were thinking about going up to Princeton for the weekend, actually. Her brother has friends we can stay with, but, um, thank you for the invite."
He feels his heckles rising, the urge to go super-dad almost too much. But he can't push her now, not when she's accepted Kate so easily. He's not going to fool with that.
"Then have brunch with us before we go tomorrow?"
Alexis smiles and he sees nothing but delight in her eyes, for what, from what, he's not sure. But he's not about to question it. "That sounds good, Dad," she says with a soft smile. "Now go to sleep."
He laughs and leans in to give her a kiss before standing slowly, almost making it without any sounds. Just a tiny groan escapes, and he flicks his eyes down to find Alexis watching him, scrutinizing his every move. He smiles and starts for the office, hoping to make a quick escape, but her voice calls him back.
"Can you do me a favor, Dad?"
He turns and meets his daughter's eyes, full of concern, love, and infinite patience. Someday, he'll figure out where she got that from. It's certainly not from him, his mother, or hers.
"Anything," he promises. Because even though it would rip him in two, he'd stop shadowing Kate if she asked. He just holds his breath, hoping she won't. It might wreck them both.
"Try not to die for another few months, okay? I really don't want to be bringing you to graduation on a stretcher."
She says it with laughter in her eyes, but he hears the undercurrent there, the worry. "I promise, Pumpkin. We're doing our best."
She nods, watching him for a moment. "Get a good night's sleep, Dad."
"Goodnight, Alexis," he says softly as she turns and heads for the stairs.
He lets out a slow breath and opens the office door, creeping through and into his bedroom, where Kate is sound asleep in his bed, one hand pulled beneath her pillow, the other curled up to her chest, right over her scar.
He stands in the doorway and watches her sleep for a long moment, uncaring of how creepy it may be, or how lovestruck he must look. It still astounds him that she's alive, every day, and more so on days like today, when they've almost died. And, of course, there's the added shock that she's alive, asleep, in his clothes, in his bed—that he has run his hands over her living, breathing, beating, beautiful naked skin, felt her lips on his, on his own body, on his heart.
He steals into the bathroom and brushes his teeth, uses the bathroom, stares at his reflection, trying to see whatever his daughter saw. He sees the bags beneath his eyes, the slight remaining pallor to his skin, the way he sags just a little bit more than usual. But he sees too the sparkle in his own eyes, the lift in his face, the smile he can't quite contain. He'll never forget this day, for the collapse, for the terror, and for the overwhelming feeling of rightness her words instilled in his chest. For the ache she soothed, for the woman in his bed.
He returns to his room and climbs under the covers, luxuriating in the feeling of his sheets and the pull of her body. She draws him in, even in sleep, and he finds himself completely invading her space, sidling up to her on her side of the bed to slide an arm over her stomach. She doesn't startle, and so he gently pulls them back into the middle of the bed before he buries his face in her neck and slides and arm along beneath his pillow to rest just above her head beneath hers.
Her hand falls to curl onto his, threading her fingers into the spaces between his own. "Hi," she rasps out as he presses a kiss to her shoulder, curling around her to get a glimpse at her face. "Ev'ry thing 'kay?"
He smiles. He can't keep up. Every new thing he learns about her makes him fall even harder. Highest on the list now is the way she slurs her speech when she's on the brink of sleep.
"Everything's fine. Sleep, Kate."
"Mmm, love you," she mumbles and he decides he's wrong. That's the best thing he's ever heard—her sleepy, unguarded, 'I love you.'
"Love you too," he whispers, slipping a leg between hers as he kisses her cheek and then slides back behind her, pulling her as close as he can get her. "See you in the morning."
He falls asleep to the steady rise and fall of her body beneath his hand, and he can barely believe that just this morning, he was hoping she'd maybe let him help her into her coat. Now she's in his bed, snoring every fifth breath. Her hand squeezes his and he smiles into her hair. He's keeping her. This is it. There's no going back now.
(…)
He's having the most amazing dream. Kate's lips run over his neck as her hands skate over his chest beneath his tee shirt, fingers tracing lazy patterns as she nuzzles closer. He reaches out to touch his phantom woman, letting his hands explore her body, pushing beneath his shirt, enjoying the way the fabric brushes against the back of his hands while her skin slides smoothly beneath his palms.
"Morning," she whispers.
He smiles and tugs her closer still, seeking out her lips as his eyelids flutter. He tries to keep them closed, wants to savor the moment before he wakes alone. But the moment never comes. Her lips are hot over his, her body shifting to sprawl across his chest as she laughs into his mouth.
"Wake up, Castle," she chides and his eyes pop open to find Kate Beckett in his bed, her chest pressed against his, eyes wide and sparkling with mirth above his face.
"I'm awake?" he says, half question, half statement, all confusion.
He lets out a yelp as her nails squeeze his belly button and she grins. "I'd say so."
"That's mean," he pouts, though it feels more like a grin; it probably is. He can't possibly be anything less than thrilled right now.
She's actually there with him, warm on top of him, smiling, tired face lit up with happiness, even with the scrape across her cheek.
"How's your hand?" she asks, reaching out to gently pull his right hand from her back.
He almost tugs away, wanting to savor her skin beneath his fingertips, but she gives him a look, half amused, half demanding, and he repents. She peers at his hand, now a mess of reds and purples, clucking her tongue.
"We should probably ice this," she decides, bending to place a gentle kiss to the wound that steals his breath away.
"But you just made it all better," he protests. Icing a busted hand is painful, and he doesn't want any pain today—just her, and breakfast with his kid, and the open highway on the way to the Hamptons.
She laughs and he can't help but stare at the easy joy on her face. He can't remember ever seeing her laugh like this; he's never seen her like this, and he can't get enough.
"We'll argue later," she says, shifting off of him.
"Don't go; stay in bed," he protests, reaching out to snag her waist as she tries to roll away.
"Castle," she laughs as he turns onto his side and traps her with his body, pulling her back against his chest, lifting a leg to keep hers both on the bed. "It's nine already."
"Still early," he counters, bending to skate his lips up her throat, smiling as she sucks in a breath.
"We went to bed at what, eight last night?"
"Shh," he mumbles, bending around her to pepper her face with kisses as she turns back to look at him.
"I'll still be here if you let me get up, you know," she says quietly.
He pulls back to meet her gaze, confused. He has no doubts that she's sticking with him for the weekend, and beyond. If she was going to bolt, she'd have done it already.
"I know," he says easily, hoping that the nonchalance in his voice will help her believe that he believes in her. "I just like it here in bed."
"If you let me get up, and feed me, you can like it in bed in the Hamptons," she says after a beat, and he watches the last of her insecurity fall away—at least he hopes so.
He has no trouble playing along. "Will you be wearing something sexy?" he teases, expecting her to pinch him or roll her eyes; instead, she just smiles a slow, alluring smile, and looks up at him through half-lidded eyes.
"I might not be wearing anything at all," she says evenly, her smile growing as his jaw drops. "But you have to let go if you want to find out."
His arm goes slack and she wriggles out from beneath it, laughing as she stands and looks down at him, sprawled out, completely in awe of the tease beside his bed, swimming in his clothes.
"Can I run my stuff through the washer?" she asks as she walks into the bathroom, leaving the door open as he lies there, trying to remember how to move his body. "Rick?"
"Uh, yeah," he calls, trying to school the grin at her use of his first name. He just loves the way it sounds when it's unattached to something serious or teasing—just her, brushing her teeth with his toothbrush in his bathroom.
He fails, the smile splitting his face as he leans against the doorjamb, watching as she holds her hair back and spits into the sink.
"What?" she mumbles around the brush.
"Nothing," he laughs, stepping inside to grab the comb on the counter, attempting to get his hair into a semblance of order.
Kate spits and then passes him the toothbrush as she takes a few sips of water to rinse out her mouth. He nudges her with his hip and brushes his teeth while she plays with her hair, finally sighing and pulling it back into a ponytail. He's a bit disappointed; he rather liked the waves she had going. The way they fell into her face and she kept blowing them out was cute.
Then again, Kate in a ponytail, bending down to pick up her discarded clothing isn't a bad image at all. So he'll settle. Hell, he'll take her drooling and dirty if it means she's on her way to wash her clothes in his house.
He whistles as he finishes getting ready, throwing a few changes of clothes and some toiletries into a bag as he goes. He's still stunned, dazed, and elated over the very idea of taking her to the Hamptons for the weekend. And though they can't just turn back the clock—can't erase the other people, the bullets, the bombs, the freezers—he feels like they're getting a fresh start anyway. A new beginning for a them that might actually last.
He wanders through the office, listening to an animated conversation between his daughter and his muse, girlfriend, love, partner, soon-to-be-lover (if he has any say in the matter). His eyes flick to the smartboard in the corner and he stops moving, his chest tightening with realization.
In the haze of yesterday, he didn't think to mention it, didn't think about his own secrets. But he has them. And the wall she's talked about might not be there right now, but will is slam up the moment he mentions the case? Or will she accept his actions, understand that he couldn't include her, that he was waiting until they needed to open it up together?
"Dad?" Alexis calls, and he realizes that he's standing in the doorway to the living room, silently freaking out. Great.
"Morning, Pumpkin," he says, plastering on a smile as he walks to the kitchen, noting Kate's narrowed eyes. The woman doesn't miss a thing.
"Kate's making waffles," his daughter continues, oblivious to the looks flashing between them over her head. He's grateful for that, at least.
He shakes his head lightly, silently saying, 'later,' before sidling up next to his daughter to watch Kate as she continues pouring batter into his waffle maker. It's astounding how good she looks in his kitchen.
"You didn't need to cook," he says as he squeezes Alexis' shoulders. Kate smiles at him with a small laugh.
"Felt like it. Your kitchen's huge."
"Yours isn't much smaller now," he muses as he reaches for a strawberry. The woman works fast, though, maybe Alexis helped a little. How long was he actually standing in that doorway?
"Do you cook much at home, Kate?" Alexis asks.
Kate gives him a look to stop the reply that tries to tumble from his lips. "Sometimes," she shrugs. "I'm usually too busy."
"Her refrigerator is a take-out shrine," he mock-whispers in his daughter's ear.
Kate whacks his uninjured hand with her spatula and Alexis laughs. "I don't think you're gonna win, Dad," she says, patting him consolingly on his opposite hand.
He represses a hiss of pain and Kate's eyes soften. She puts the spatula down and walks to the freezer, pulling out a bag of peas before glancing around. She spots the towel and wraps the package before handing it to him as he unwinds his arm from his daughter's shoulder.
"What happened to your hand?" Alexis asks, looking between them.
"I honestly don't know," Castle replies and Kate presses her lips together to keep from laughing. They share a glance that's as much amusement as it is a silent, 'thank God we're alright.'
"You don't…"
"Knicks and scrapes can be as much of a shock after the fact as the chase itself," Kate supplies quickly. "I don't remember how I got this either," she adds, pointing to her cheek.
In the bright light of the kitchen, he notices that the cut is a nice, even red line, with no pink around the edges. Thank goodness for small favors. He should see if he's got any maderma or vaseline lying around for her; his hand can scar all it wants—would be rather manly, actually—but he's sure she doesn't want another memento of yet another brush with death.
They fall silent for a few minutes while Kate finishes the waffles and Castle moves around her, peas wrapped around his hand as he struggles to make coffee and grab plates. He makes sure to let the fingers of his left hand trail over her back as often as possible and she shoots him a look. He grins back, unashamed. He's taking her to the Hamptons, so she can lie naked in his bed, preferably deliciously sated and panting; he could care less about her fake-glare right now.
"When are you guys leaving?" Alexis asks as Kate passes her a waffle.
His daughter watches them shrewdly, though he sees no reproach there. It looks more like fascination, and he can't really blame her. He's fascinated by this twist in their relationship as well.
"We," Kate begins, staring at him pointedly. He realizes he's tuned out, letting images of their shower flood his brain. Can she blame him, really?
"We were thinking we'd eat with you and then head to Kate's to grab her stuff," he says, accepting his own waffle with a kiss to his partner's cheek.
She swats him away with a smile and follows him around the counter, sitting down on his other side, leaving him between the two most important women in his life.
"You're going to Princeton this weekend?" Kate adds in, grabbing the syrup before he can reach for it.
Alexis laughs at them. "Yeah. Did you apply there? Dad mentioned that you ended up at Stanford."
Kate nods and he's proud to see no jealousy in his daughter's gaze—just curiousity. He knows it's not just for the Detective's educational past either; Alexis has been fascinated by his muse for almost as long as he has, even if there were times when she'd have rather he forgot all about her.
"I think I did all the Ivys and a few states," Kate muses, wrinkling her nose in recollection. "It was hell. I feel for you."
Alexis nods emphatically. "Applications sucked. But at least they're over."
"The waiting's not much better though, is it?" Kate ventures, and he feels his chest swelling, overflowing as he listens to these women talk around him, as if he's not even there. He can't even pretend to be insulted by it.
All too soon, Alexis is kissing him on the cheek and heading up the stairs to pack her own bag while Kate moves around him, cleaning. He watches her for a moment before joining her at the sink. He reaches for the sponge but she pushes his arm away.
"You'll hate yourself if you get that soapy," she says, nodding toward his swollen hand. The peas helped, but she's probably right. "Dry for me?"
He smiles and leans in to press his lips to her cheek before he walks around her to wait on her other side, towel at the ready. They work quietly, sneaking glances at each other, and he thinks they're ridiculous—two grown adults looking at each other beneath hair and bowed heads.
"What had you so thoughtful?" she asks. Ah, maybe he was being five and she was working up the courage to ask him. He would rather they be children.
"I," he pauses and weighs his options. He can bring her to the Hamptons, fall more in love with her, and then break her heart, or he can come clean. He's far beyond tricking himself into pretty fantasies and happily ever afters. He wants his life with this woman, and if the four years with her have taught him anything, it's that the good guys don't always live, and happily ever after is as elusive as the meaning of life.
She cocks her head, silently urging him to continue and he sighs. "I have something to show you," he says quietly, and even he can hear the resignation there.
She frowns and takes the hand he extends for her. The walk to his office feels like a death march and those beautiful visions of her on his big white bed seem to crack and split into versions of her storming out, slapping him, punching him, sobbing and screaming.
"Rick," she murmurs.
He realizes that they're standing in front of his smartboard already and he closes his eyes before reaching around her to grab the remote on his desk. He straightens back up and looks into her eyes with his heavy heart ramming against his rib cage.
"About a week after you came back after the summer, I got a phone call," he begins, and her hand tightens around his. "I don't know who he is, really, but he told me that if you didn't stop investigating, they were going to kill you and Roy's family," he recounts, pushing the button on the remote so that the screen flares to life.
Kate sucks in a breath and stares at her own face, her hand slack in his. With extreme regret, he reaches forward and taps her nose, expanding the vast array of information they've amassed.
"I couldn't tell you to stop," he continues, his voice hoarse as she stands there, mute. "But I couldn't let you get killed, or Roy's family, Evelyn—so I…"
"Told me to stand down," she provides, and some part of him registers that there's no malice there, only quiet softness. He doesn't quite know what to do with that. "But you didn't."
Ah. "No," he agrees. "But I haven't gotten very far either."
"This is new," she remarks, dropping his hand to walk forward and press the Mayor's picture. "Why is Wheldon on here?"
He sighs and rubs a hand over his face. He's digging a hole he's sure he can't climb from, but he owes her the anwers, and she hasn't stormed out yet, so he ploughs onward. "Smith, the guy, calls me during the case and keeps saying 'listen to the evidence,' that there was more at stake than a one woman's death."
"But you don't know what," she surmises.
He shakes his head. "All I know is that Smith wanted Wheldon to stay where he is—something about a pawn being more powerful than a king. The Mayor keeps me at the Precinct—"
"To keep me off the case," she completes, and he's struck by how quick her mind is. He shouldn't be; she's extraordinary. He's always known that. "I wish you'd told me," she says and he feels his heart shatter at the toneless quality of her voice.
"I couldn't," he replies. "You were so hell bent and if I'd given you even the name Smith—"
"I would have gone and gotten myself killed." He blinks and works his jaw, but no sound comes out. "I get that."
"You," he manages, but can think of nothing else to say. He doesn't understand. Where's the yelling and screaming and 'we're done, Castle?'
"But before now," she explains, turning back to him, her face a confusing mix of emotions he's can't name or keep track of. "Why did you do this? Why would you risk this? Do you have any idea how dangerous this is? How it could just as easily be you the next time?" she hisses, but it's a muted anger that he can't understand.
"I can't watch you die again," he roughs out, finding his voice behind the lump in his throat.
She nods contemplatively, her hands fisting at her sides. He watches as she sorts things out in her mind, her eyes moving quickly, from his face to the board, up and down. Her mouth opens and closes a few times, as if she's holding back words, reprimands, slaps. His heart hammers in his chest and his breathing speeds up. He can't stand the silence, can't stand not knowing if each passing second is the last of whatever it is they've started. Or worse, if each passing second is the end of everything they've ever had.
Finally, she reaches out and plucks the remote from his hand, turning and pressing the large button so that the screen blinks out. "No more," she says and he gapes at her.
"What?"
"I don't want you investigating anymore."
"Kate, I…"
"You think I can watch you die?" she asks vehemently and he's sure he isn't breathing anymore.
All he can do is rasp out her name, gutted by the intensity of her gaze.
"You think I could come back from putting you in the ground? You think that wouldn't kill me as much as it would you? What about your daughter, and your mother?" Her eyes pierce him as she steps in front of him, raising his uninjured hand to press the remote roughly into his palm, curling his fingers around the device, his arm caught between them.
"No more, Castle."
He nods, unable to refuse her anything. He can't apologize, not for keeping her safe. But she's not looking for an apology, not with the way she's searching his face, his eyes—not with the way her chest rises and falls in controlled, even breaths against his.
"You're not mad?" he asks, wishing he could take the question back as soon as it passes his lips.
"I'm furious," she says softly and his entire body sinks. Her hand squeezes his where he holds the remote, and it's almost painful. But there's something in the gesture too, something warmer, more like affection, a bond, a them that might be stronger than the pictures and all the death. "But you promised me a weekend in the Hamptons."
His eyes pop open—he didn't even realize he'd closed them—and he stares at her, astounded. "I…"
"Your good heart and your idiotic brain don't always come up with the best schemes," she says, and he hears the supressed bite, the emotion she must be shoving down somewhere—somehow astoundingly holding onto this fragile thing between them. "But you're a good man," she tells him, reaching up to press her palm to his cheek, her voice stern. It's not quite a caress, but it's far from a slap, and he figures he'll take whatever she's willing to give. "Don't do it again."
"I won't…I mean, if you're in danger, but—" Her fingers find his lips and he clams up, waiting for her next move. He may make a stink about it, but she's the leader here, and he'll follow her wherever she wants to go, especially if it's still to the Hamptons, with him.
"We'll deal with your hero complex another day," she chides. He opens his mouth around her fingers, desperate to explain that it's no hero complex; it's her life, and he better damn well protect it, but she beats him to it, her eyes wide and clear, the conflicted clouds lifted and drifted away somewhere. "And I love you for wanting to keep me safe."
He swallows and she laughs softly, pushing her fingers against his mouth for a moment before dropping them to rest at his hips. "Let it go for the weekend."
"Will you?" he asks, unable to understand how she's still there, caressing his hip, even though he knows she's mad, and hurting, and broken—the pieces that are his fault will always weigh heavily on his shoulders, even as he finds the glue to help her put herself back together again.
She leans up and pulls his face down to hers, running her lips over his, her teeth nipping at his lower lip for a moment that's entirely too short. She leans back and meets his eyes, and he's astounded to see that all he can find is love and exhaustion staring back at him.
"Take me away, Rick," she whispers.