Title: More Than Them
Disclaimer: I don't own any of the Castle characters, just the original ones in my head.
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 3:
Her socks don't match.
He can't help but sneak glances at her feet, propped up as they are on his dashboard while she bops along to The Police, a mutual decision they've finally come to after an hour of bickering over the radio. Eventually, she gave in and pulled out her Ipod, scrolling until he called out for her to stop.
Now, she's drumming on her thighs and mouthing along to "Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic," and he's utterly captivated. But he has to drive, and so he settles on sneaking his looks at her. He can tell that she's onto him by the quirk of her lips as she throws her head back for the chorus.
She looks so free and light and it eases some heavy thing in his chest—something that has felt like summer to him all through the fall and winter. But now, it feels like spring, like air filling his lungs for the first time in months and months. He's not fully convinced that she's left it all behind, can't quite believe that she could. He's having trouble.
But the effervescent woman next to him, with the wild hair and odd-socked feet lifts his spirits, and he decides that he doesn't care whether they've truly left it all behind them in the concrete jungle of their city. They're together now, and he can dive into that, immerse himself in Kate for days—forget about the world and exist only in her.
"You're quiet," she says above the music as the last chords fade away.
"So are you, well, feigning quiet," he teases, opening his mouth to sing along to silent lyrics.
"Shut up," she laughs, picking up the Ipod and scrolling until she finds her Michael Jackson albums. "You love it."
"I'm certainly not complaining," he replies, reaching blindly between them for the bag of M&Ms they brought from her place.
He misses a few times, managing to palm her thigh at least once. After a minute of fruitless searching, she finally gives in and grabs his hand, placing a good portion of the little candies into it for him.
"Thanks," he mumbles around the candy, suppressing a grin so they don't tumble from his mouth when he hears her muttering under her breath. But she loves it. He knows. She's terrible at hiding it, and has been for the better part of the last year.
Especially now, it's easy to spot as she smiles out the window, her hand falling to rub at the place his fingers found on her thigh. She likes to think she's a mystery, but she's not. Well, she is, but some parts of her aren't, and he can't wait to peel off those layers and find every last un-mysterious part of this women—can't wait to revel in knowing her and loving her.
"How much longer?" she asks a few minutes later, when they've both given in and sung along to "Want You Back."
She has a truly lovely singing voice. "Maybe an hour," he decides, checking for landmarks. But it's all highway, and he hasn't seen the Hamptons since the summer, and only briefly then.
She sighs contentedly and cranks the volume for "ABC." He listens as she sings, throaty and rich, seemingly without a care in the world for the fact that he's never, ever seen her like this. The glance she shoots him tells him another story though, one full of understanding, and trust, and giving—giving him this gift of her freedom and resilience.
It doesn't take anything more for him to reach out for her hand, threading her fingers through his. He'd pull her out of her seat and over the console too if he didn't have a certain need to follow the law today.
He has a rule; he has to wait a day after every near-death experience before he taunts the universe. Then again, perhaps he's already taunting the universe, if the gentle scratch of her nails against the center of his palm is any indication.
When the song fades away, she turns her head against the rest to watch him, her thumb rubbing circles against the back of his hand. "So what is this place like?"
"Forty-five minutes and you'll know," he chuckles.
She frowns and pulls one leg onto the seat with her as the other drops to the floor. "Come on, you know you want to tell me."
"What if I want you to be surprised?" he tosses back, just because he can. This is their thing, and though he likes the showers and sleeping, and loves the idea of her writhing beneath him, he enjoys their game.
"If you really wanted me to be surprised, you would have flipped that photo of you and Alexis in front of the house in your room," she says, her voice triumphant. "And really, house is kind of pushing it, don't you think? You should call it a mansion."
"First, I was in no state to pre-plan this surprise last night, thank you. And second, I know, it's huge," he agrees, laughing as she tugs on his hand. "But calling it the manse is a little pretentious."
"True," she says, reaching out with their joined hands to grab an M&M, a dexterous feat she manages with just two fingers. "But house really isn't fair either."
She brings their hands up to her mouth and pops the candy inside, her tongue somehow grazing his thumb as she goes.
"Now who's not playing fair?" he gasps out, his breath caught in his chest. She just licked his finger. The tease.
"Oh come on, it's not as much fun if I have your permission," she says and he can hear her smirk, though he refuses to look at her.
"I haven't given you my permission," he counters, tugging their hands back toward his side.
"Actually, I wasn't aware that I needed your permission," she says as she draws their hands back to her chest and bends to feather her lips over his hand, turning to find his pulse.
"Kate," he mumbles, trying to figure out just how it is that she can bring him to his knees this easily. Her lips close over one of his fingers and he groans. "Gonna crash the car," he manages and she pulls away from him with an audible pop that does nothing good for his current state.
"You're evil," he offers, tugging his hand away from hers because the glint in her eye spells anything but a quiet rest of their trip.
"What'sa matter, Ricky? Can't take the heat?"
He glances over at her and meets her sparkling eyes defiantly. "I can take the heat just fine. I'd just like to be able to walk when we get to the house."
She laughs, loudly, her beautiful voice ringing around the car. It takes him a moment, through the haze of desire and taunting that fills his brain, but then it clicks, and he grimaces.
"Things getting a little hard for you over there?"
He chooses not to answer and secretly delights in the way she laughs into the back of her palm, watching him in amusement. He loves her like this—can't believe she's like this, now that he's laid himself bare, exposed his secrets. He can't believe she's given the case up, let it lie, decided to live her life with him, sharing herself with him.
"Hey, you with me?" she asks, her voice softer, more affectionate.
"Yeah," he murmurs, flicking his eyes over to meet hers. "I'm here."
(…)
She's standing on the deck when he makes his way back down the grand staircase, their suitcases safely tucked away in his bedroom. The double glass doors are thrown open behind her and the chill sea breeze wafts around the first floor, rustling the pages of books he's left lying around on the coffee table in the living room.
He stares as she stands at the railing, her hands planted firmly on the soft wood as she leans forward into the wind, her hair whipping back behind her. She's exquisite and he can't move for a long moment, mesmerized.
Eventually, the cold gets to him and he ventures onto the porch, walking with a measured tread he's sure she can hear. She doesn't turn but offers her hand, taking his to pull him against her side, their fingers twined together on the railing.
"It's gorgeous," she says, her eyes on the choppy sea at the end of his small, private stretch of beach.
"Passes the test?"
"No test." Her fingers squeeze his and he watches her face as she watches the sea.
He smiles and leans down to press his lips to her shoulder. "Sorry it's not sunny."
She shakes her head, staring out at the gray sky above the murky water, riled by the coming storm they can see on the horizon. "I like the storm."
"Derrick Storm?"
She knocks her head into his, lips pressed together, suppressing a smile. "Your ego."
He grins against her shoulder and snakes his hand from hers to scoot around her body, letting his hands fall on either side of hers, her back pulled flush with his chest. He hears her let out a small breath before he presses closer, shifting her until she's standing straight. She leans back into him, letting him take some of her weight, and he releases the smooth wood to wind his arms around her figure, fingers digging and twisting into the simple white tee shirt she wears beneath her NYPD sweatshirt.
His cheek finds its place against the crown of her head and he takes a deep breath, filling his lungs with the sea and the sand and his muse, soft and fluid against him.
"What do you want to do?" he asks, his voice drowned slightly by a rush of wind that whips up the beach.
"Walk before it rains?" she suggests, her hands coming to rest on top of his, fingers working their way beneath his palms so his traps hers against her stomach.
He nods against her head and reluctantly pulls back, stepping away from her for a moment to close the deck doors so that they have some warmth to come back to. It's perhaps 45 degrees out, and the wind makes it colder, but he can see the appeal in taking the walk—the open sky, the vast expanse of water, her fingers threaded through his, shoulders bumping.
She's dragging him down the deck steps and out into the sand before he really notices. She laughs as she pulls him out into the middle of their stretch of beach, her face alight as she sinks and rises in the sand, both of their sneakers filling with tiny rounded glass. He's never really been able to reconcile the soft sediment with its shattering counterpart; but he's developing a new appreciation for it, if it means he gets to watch Steely Detective Beckett laugh with delight as he slips after her, running behind her as she heads for the water.
She stops suddenly as she skids to the edge of the breakers. He's not nearly as graceful and nearly topples them both into the frigid water as he hits her back. She laughs and stumbles with him as he tries to balance them back out. But she's steady in his arms, and once they've stopped teetering toward the steely water, she leans back against him, taking up their position from the porch, but now with the sea playing chicken with their toes.
"I love the wind," she says over the slosh of waves and whip of air as it whistles past them.
He nods his head against hers, pulling her tighter against his chest. He has a need to have her close, to savor the peace that surrounds them, even with the storm baring down on their little stretch of haven. The open sky, the water, the wind, the clouds—he cherishes all these things he was unsure of seeing, feeling, experiencing again, much less with the woman resting against his chest.
"You should see it in the summer," he says. "When we can swim in the water and stay out all night, build a fire."
She hums, trailing a finger up and down his arm, raising more goose bumps than the chill around them has already. After a moment, her fingers thread through his. "Sounds nice."
He wonders if it would have been like this two years ago—them, wrapped around each other, quiet and calm together. Somehow, he always envisioned them here with more teasing, more taunting, with her in a skimpy bikini and him working tirelessly to get it off her.
But this—this is better, this is real. "We could have everyone up," he continues, letting his thoughts find purchase on his tongue, lips against her ear. "Memorial Day, Fourth of July. There's enough rooms."
"Especially if we're sharing, right?" she murmurs, and he grins.
Perhaps there's still teasing to be done. The thought settles something in his gut—the idea that they're still them, just a newer, shinier, more cohesive version of the them they've been.
"Well, it would be strange if the lord and lady shared separate quarters," he chances, waiting for her move.
"Were we a lord and lady, that would be standard."
"Yes, but this is modern nobility I'm talking about," he argues, letting one hand release his forearm to trail up her stomach until she bats him away with a laugh.
"Of course you are," she tosses out, her head falling back against his shoulder so she can look up at him. "I'm also betting that you have the best bed."
"I think I'd rather let you test that theory," he mumbles, his lips at her temple.
And as much as he wants her flesh, feels the carnal need building slowly, he's wanted this for years. He's wanted her pliant against his chest, existing with him rather than beside him—sharing his sandbox rather than watching him from the swings. He's a man, with his needs, and they roar beneath the surface, but with near-death staring down his back, he finds that he's perfectly content on the beach, in the cold, wearing sweaters and pants and shoes.
"Can we walk along the beach?" she asks, tearing him from his thoughts of summer sunsets and more weekends spent just like this.
"Yeah," he says, bending to feather his lips over hers, because he can. "Barely anyone's up this time of year."
She smiles and puckers her lips to reach his where he's resting a breath away. Then she gently pulls from his arms and takes his hand, stepping back from the water to wander down toward the rock outcropping in the distance. They walk at the edge of the wet sand, where it's steady beneath their feet, but they're safe from the angry breakers.
Somewhere in his head he recognizes the darkening clouds and the pick up of the wind as they meander, but she's telling him about the summer she and her parents spent in Jersey, renting a house, and he's too enthralled by her tale and the way her eyes sparkle in memory to care about the coming weather. So he lets her guide him down and around as the shore curves, until they're almost a mile from his house.
She looks over at him and comes to a stop to reach up and brush the hair from his eyes. She opens her mouth for a question, but he watches as a raindrop hits her forehead, stalling the thought. They tilt their heads up to the dark sky as more and more droplets begin to fall.
"Trapped in a collapsing station, then struck by lightning—no one would let us live that down," she laughs as thunder claps over the sea.
He smiles and wraps himself around her, pressing his lips to hers as the rain begins to fall in earnest, soaking them through without effort. But her lips are warm and soft beneath his and she opens her mouth, a cavern heat he takes time to plunder and explore, before a shiver wracks her slim frame.
"Don't forget hypothermia," he whispers as they break apart, chests heaving, eyes just a shade darker than before, fingers pressing more deliberately into giving flesh.
She laughs and steps back to take his hand, letting him tug her back toward his house. It's fun for a few minutes as rain pelts them and their heavy shoes begin to clump in the sand. There's something free and live about it—about being caught in the rain together, where nothing can crush them.
But he feels the cold seeping past the fun, past the joy of what they wanted yesterday, when hope seemed so far beyond their imagination. The icy chill of the agitated sea spray and the rain, too warm for ice, but too cold for spring showers, pounds at them and he feels her slow down as he does.
"We're almost there," he says as his teeth chatter.
He observes her, lips lightly purple as she smiles at him. "I think we'll make it," she teases and he growls, lunging to spin them around.
She laughs, at him, at them, at the fact that he's concerned for her in only a rain shower. But how can he not be, when he's felt her blood spill through his fingers, seen her lights go out as tears stream down his nose? It may just be rain, and he's certainly up to the task of warming her up, but the pallor of her skin brings back too many near misses, and one only yesterday.
Her laughter softens and then she turns and takes his hands, jogging up the beach with him trailing behind her, eyes flitting from her damp hair to her ass, hugged by wet denim. He's concerned, but he's still a man, with a woman with astounding assets running in front of him. He's admired her legs before, stolen glances at that denim-clad rear, eyed her chest more than once, and he does so enjoy those moments.
But the smile she gives him as they hit the deck and clamber up to stand beneath the roof, panting—it's the most amazing thing he's seen on her. It beats everything. All the smiles, all the looks, even the kisses and press of her naked skin cannot top the way she's looking at him now, all softness and happy contentment.
"What?" she asks, wringing out her hair.
"You," he replies, the answer tumbling from his lips. He doesn't care. She's there. They're even—secrets exposed—and she's standing on his porch, finally at the Hamptons house, finally his.
She shakes her head and takes his hand, throwing the doors open and hurrying them inside. He closes the sliders behind them and they stand in his kitchen, dripping water onto the terracotta tiles, skin unsure of how to react, to relish the warmth or shiver away the cold.
She shakes and he lets out a laugh. "Come on. I have a bathtub the size of your walk-in."
"I don't know that I approve of you taunting my closet," she grouses as he leads her up the stairs, their shoes left in a puddle near the door.
"You'll approve when you see my tub," he coaxes, smiling as she stumbles into him as they make their way across the soft-wood hallway on the second floor, slipping and sticking in wet socks.
"As long as it's warm," she chatters, the hand not threaded through his tucked across her stomach, preserving her feeble heat.
He can't help but agree as his shirt sticks to his back, a plane of frigid fabric over his frozen skin. That bath sounds more like heaven every second.
He guides her into his bathroom, squinting as he turns on the bright lights, illuminating the wall to wall tan tiles. He hears her let out a loud breath at the sight of the sunken tub in the corner, spanning an entire quarter of the room. It's a Jacuzzi and sometimes makes his hot tub obsolete, especially when they can have privacy in his ensuite. Plus, with the huge, tinted windows that look out on the ocean, he honestly can't think of a reason to ever leave his room again. Not when he's got Kate Beckett shedding her sweatshirt to reveal her soaked white tee shirt.
"What?" she asks as he toes off his soggy socks, watching the way her chest moves with her stilted breath. "Really?"
He grins without shame. She's his, and he's seen what's beneath that shirt. He has ever reason to leer. He keeps his eyes on her as he moves to the corner of the room and turns on the taps, letting hot water fill the tub, steam erupting into the air.
"What is it about men and white shirts, anyway? Wouldn't you rather see it without the fabric?" she asks as he turns and steps closer, trailing the bottom of his jeans along the floor, leaving the tiles glistening in his wake.
"Yes," he replies, reaching out to help rid her of the drenched shirt, lifting it over her head, watching the way her stomach muscles ripple in the cold.
She meets his eyes as she lets her arms fall to grab the hem of his own shirt. He lifts his hands and together they pry the garment from his skin. He tugs her into his arms as soon as he's free, and this time it's his hands that find the clasp of her frozen bra, freeing her and letting it tumble to the floor.
She smiles up at him, hair plastered to her face as the mirror behind her begins to fog. His brain short circuits as her warm fingers trail down his stomach to find his belt buckle. She smirks as she pulls the leather from his hips, dropping the belt with a clatter that rings around the room.
"Out," she commands softly, tugging on his pants once he's clumsily undone his fly. They crumple stiffly to the floor, his boxers not far behind.
He returns the favor, taking longer to brush his fingers beneath the waistline of her jeans, against her satin skin. She shivers, this time from pleasure not cold, and he grins, leaning down to run his lips over her neck as they free her from her jeans, sliding her panties—today a deep purple—down her legs.
And then they're naked. It's still new, still marvelous, but they're less star struck, less hesitant. Her hands glide up his chest to rest behind his neck while his span her entire waist. Her figure fits within his palms. She's so slim, so lithe, so very, very hot, the way her mouth slants over his and her small breasts press into his chest.
The sound of water breaks his concentration and he turns, bending with her still in his arms to shut off the faucet. He steps in first and holds out his hands for her, helping her over the edge of the tub, though she needs no help from him. She takes it anyway, and he might love her even more for that—that she lets him take care of her, sees his gestures for what they are, hasn't run screaming with hatred for his having tried to save her.
And as she snuggles back into his chest, the near-scalding water relaxing all of his strained, frozen, tensed muscles, he gazes out the window in awe. This woman has stuck with him, past his secrets, past her secrets, past so many things that, were they any two normal people, would have torn them apart. Hell, if they were normal, they never would have ended up here. She would have been in and out of his bed after that first case. She'd have been nothing but a memorable blip, as sad as that thought makes him.
But she isn't. Instead, her fingers trail along his thighs, nails scraping in a gesture that's far from innocent as they lounge in his tub in his summer house in the dead of winter.
"Kate," he groans, letting his head fall back against the padded rim of the tub.
"Hmm?" she responds, and he knows just by the sound that she's smirking, thoroughly enjoying the overwhelming power she has over him and his body. "Something the matter?"
He chuckles and lifts his head, only to bend forward and latch onto her neck, his hands splaying out over her stomach. She sucks in a breath and her body goes slack against his, her hands gripping at his thighs as he lets his hands trail higher.
She turns her cheek, halting his movements as they stare into each other's eyes. "I'm taking this tub home with me," she says, smiling, her eyes crinkling in happiness, her body wriggling beneath his wandering hands.
"How 'bout we just keep coming out here?" he suggests as he leans down to press his lips to her nose.
Her smile grows and she leans up to press her lips to his. "I'll settle for you, I guess," she whispers as she pulls away.
"Settle for me?" he gasps, mock-affronted even as he laughs along with her. "I like to think I rank above the bathroom accoutrements."
She grins and brings a hand up to cup his cheek, dragging him into another kiss, her tongue sweeping along his bottom lip. He shifts so he can crowd her against the wall of the tub, engulfing her with his body, eager to feel all of her. One of her legs hooks over his, and it's an accomplishment that they don't sink in a pile of jumbled limbs and heated kisses.
When they break for air, panting, hearts unable to keep up, she rests her forehead against his, warm breath coasting against his mouth.
"I suppose the tub won't take me to bed," she whispers.
He grins, letting a hand run down to cup the back of her thigh. "The only person, man, or thing taking you to bed, is me."