Request from Imhereforthestory – You're constant reviews and encouragement have made this as easy as pie.
One Week – Bare Naked Ladies
How can I help it if I think you're funny when you're mad? Trying hard not to smile though I feel bad.
.
It's been seven days since it all came to a head, crashed down around them and left them raw, chests heaving, throats dry, eyes wide at the realisation of what they'd just done. Seven days since they butted heads, barely concealing their jibes as they kept their voices low, making the words more searing than resounding shouts ever could be.
He doesn't even remember why she walked away, left his loft before his mother cooked the dinner she'd insisted upon – a thanks for saving his life, again. He'd gone into the study, slammed the door as she exited through the front, the sounds reverberating through the apartment simultaneously, some morbidly coordinated dance. That was their problem. They were so in sync that they knew what buttons to push.
He knew he'd pushed too hard when she'd started shaking from the anger she was trying to contain. Then she'd throw her arms up in disgust, shoved against his chest as she advanced on him, not backing down, continuing her verbal assault. He had quivered at her proximity, wanted to just crush her against his chest and forget this, neither of them even know what this is about. He knew that from the beginning. When she cocks her head to the side, he knows she's leaving. He does reach out to her as she pulls away but she just shakes her head at him. "Apologise to your mother for me," she said softly before she spun on her heel and made a beeline for the door. His mother hadn't spoken up, for once, and he was grateful. He had been too livid with her to make excuses for her, for himself.
.
It's been five days since he saw her again, braved going to her apartment to face her. Five days since he tried to make it right, in his own way.
She'd groaned as she answered the door, giving a grunt before she strode away from him and sat herself back down on the couch, curling back underneath that blanket and stared past him at the TV as he sat on her coffee table, touching her legs, trying to steal her attention. He'd failed miserably at his goal, so he had leant back and let a thought escape. He couldn't make it any worse could he?
"How do we fix this? What do you want me to do Kate?" He didn't like his own pleading tone. He didn't like that he has to be the only one to fix this, to step up and be the grown-up. But he would have, for her.
He didn't like the soft scoff she gave in response.
"I don't know Castle, how do we?" She didn't bother to look at him as he could only gape in response. The worst part about it was they'd been working together still, almost normal. He didn't know if he'd had anything left to say there, especially if she wasn't open to it. She must have needed more time, just like he'd feared she would and hoped she didn't.
"I'll go," he offered quietly. He'd risen from his place on the table, not bothering to look at her. That's when she'd finally glanced at him, taken in his hunched shoulder and stupor. Then she had been on her feet.
She stood in front of him again, chest heaving, eyes fearful, throat dry at the realisation that she couldn't let him leave, but didn't know that she wanted him to stay either. He understood, he felt the same and neither knew how to fix it.
He'd caught her as she let herself drop to the floor, catching her just a second too late as her knees hit the rug with a loud thud. He hunched over with her and let her cry, let her sobs fill the room. It didn't matter right then that he should have left her there, it didn't, it still doesn't. He could never walk away. He knows that now, knows that no matter how many times she told him to go he wouldn't.
They hadn't said anything after that. She'd just grown silent and he'd noticed the time. It was mutual agreement that time, but it still didn't make it hurt less when this time he was the one who walked out.
.
It's been three days since she turned up on his doorstep, quietly told him she wanted to apologise to his mother for the scene they'd forced her to bear witness to. Three days since he'd stood beside her and listened to his mother chastise them like the children they were being.
He'd followed her to the door, muttered a soft goodbye, that he'd see her tomorrow. He'd caught the look in her eye, hoped his was as apologising, matching what he saw there, the guilt and realisation more scathing than words ever would be. He wanted to apologise, but how do you say anything that is close to enough, a simple 'I'm sorry' would fall on deaf ears. He'd have to work it out, make it up to her. Just not this afternoon.
The look in her eyes stemmed from the fact he'd apologised to his mother, telling her he'd started it and Kate had just reacted to his stupid comment. He'd watched her stiffen beside him at his words, too subtle a response for his mother to notice, but Kate also hadn't moved her eyes from his mother as she watched the older woman to continue to speak as she paced dramatically around the living room, dancing with the furniture, using the objects as her props, tools in her guilt trip. Her words mixed with his own, but he knew Kate had heard every single word.
He'd only confessed to half of it, not even the right half of it.
Sure he'd made a comment, but then she'd made another, equally as jokingly serious as ever. But then he'd gone the extra mile and acted on impulse. The time impulse had started this. To that he wouldn't, couldn't, shouldn't admit. Not to either of them.
.
Yesterday he'd realised he had to fix this, right now, after a message from Esposito asking where he was, what other engagement did he have, he'd missed a 'doozie', as it had been so aptly termed. Yesterday he'd told his teammate he'd had a lunch meeting, lied to save them from the 'mum-and-dad' drama unfolding around him, around her, around them all.
He'd feigned a lunch meeting, joked he'd catch the next one. The fact that she hadn't called suggested he might not. So he'd gone over there, turned up on her doorstep late, taken in her pyjama bottoms and thick jumper, her hair knotted high on her head. Just in time, but he felt guilty to be keeping her from sleep. He shouldn't have.
She didn't stride away from him this time, he saw her fight it as she waved him inside, curled her arms around her chest, self-conscious for reasons that escaped him. She'd never been ashamed of her body before, her figure or her lack of make-up. Not even a lack of undergarments had stopped her before. But maybe they all just added to her real discomfort, make a handy disguise for the fact she'd been embarrassed by him turning up like that. She'd been embarrassed that he would have the gall, that he would even realised she'd excluded him. That she'd doubted he'd find out.
"I should have called," she said it so softly he barely heard it.
Damn right she should have. But he didn't say that, he wouldn't make this worse.
"Why didn't you?" He choked on the words, struggled to maintain a composure he was not feeling.
"I didn't know what to say," she confessed so softly it's barely audible over her breathing.
"You…" He stopped, started again. "We didn't have to say anything," he said softly, as he stepped close to her, refraining from touching her, but showing her he was there, all she had to do is step forwards too, meet him in the middle.
She didn't move. But she did flick her eyes up to meet his, a sign she just needed a little more time. So he suggested coffee, moved to serve himself, navigate her kitchen and offer her a cup of her own coffee. She'd smiled at the suggestion, despite herself. But it was something, a step forward he'd take, for now.
Tomorrow she'll be ready. She'd asked him, right as he left, after his tight smile of farewell, to come get her from the mechanics in the morning, her bike needed work. She needed a ride. They'd been the first words she'd said in almost a week that hadn't been about their stupid fight. She was promising to step forwards the next day. His smile wasn't tight as he nodded and left, listening as she locked the deadbolt behind him before he walked away. This time he was happy to go, it meant next time would be better.