Extraordinary Individuals
By Rianne.
He is so close, dizzyingly so.
Her fingers sliding up his throat, warming against the heat of his cheeks.
Her body strains, leans, aches.
Her mouth craves. Sweetened by her miniscule taste of him.
She has tumbled over the abyss, admitted her most secret desires and the world has not ended.
Yet.
He still hovers, wavers unsure. He won't meet her eyes.
And the fear, it creeps, it rises.
Turning her stomach, fidgeting her along her nerves, through her veins.
She had always trusted he would come willingly, when she was ready.
But he is not.
He is just standing there. Stock still, palms hovering over the curve of her shoulders.
Like he is afraid to touch her lest she shatter before him, reveal herself a mirage.
And her fear is mounting, the uncertainty, a sickening edge to each breath, as humiliation rears its head in her darker recesses.
Her limbs beginning to shiver, the confusion of her mind disrupting the physicality of her body.
Traitorous tears beginning to well, stomach cramping up.
What if she is wrong?
Has been wrong. All this time?
Been stupid and assuming and headstrong.
What if he doesn't want her anymore?
What if he never did?
He could hardly be blamed.
Her, all scarred and broken. All dripping and dishevelled.
Eyes wide and no doubt betraying her considerable emotional distress.
Why would anyone want that? Want her?
He loves (loved?) strong, capable, extraordinary Beckett.
But tonight she is Kate.
Regular, ordinary Kate.
Heart in her hands; held out to him.
Waiting.
Terrified that everything she has ever held dear, has held secret, has pined for, and thought would happen someday, is crumbling beneath her touch.
Is this what being without a wall is like?
If it is she hates it, it goes against every instinct which has helped her to survive this past decade. Sets every conceivable alarm bell ringing.
Is this right, how it is supposed to feel?
This overwhelming sensation of helplessness, this desperate trembling ache for someone else who understands, and accepts and loves you regardless?
All your failings, all your issues, everything.
This defencelessness in laying yourself bare and waiting, hoping against hope that the person you desperately want to trust does not cause you pain.
Is this how he has felt, when she laughed at his declarations, his unsubtle compliments, when she yelled at him for his actions, twisted his ear, or walked away mid-sentence leaving him hanging?
When he told her he loved her as she lay dying?
Did she make him feel this way? Her beautiful big hearted, strong, buoyant friend. Who makes every single day better just with his presence.
Does he hurt like she does?
Is it worth it? This pain, this ache of unrequited love?
But something, a conscience that sounds far too much like her mother whispering in her ear urges, yes.
And her heart takes over.
She begs.
Rising onto the tips of her toes, murmuring for his forgiveness, his understanding, his love, in a voice she doesn't recognise.
Giving in to the mindlessness, letting her heart lead, whilst inside her the desperate pleas throb with each heartbeat. Quivering and broken, but still frantically beating.
She is too far now, too far gone.
She cannot step away.
Please just…
Please…
I lo…
She can't say it. She isn't brave enough, won't tarnish the moment with no definite hope of an echoing response.
So she lunges forwards again, a coward, with nothing else to lose.
The bravest she has ever been with her heart.
No other way she can express the way she feels, the need she can no longer contain.
-000-
He remains still. Body entirely rigid. Tension in every muscle.
Unwilling, unable to decide.
He is all emotion, letting anger and incomprehension reign.
Too hurt to give in yet.
He needs to know.
The whole story.
He cannot just accept this change in her. This complete one-eighty from just hours ago.
Who is this frightened, penitent, breathless stranger?
Beckett doesn't let him close. Fights tooth and nail for her independence, for the veneer of togetherness.
She doesn't let him see her like this, when she is broken and needing and raw.
And now he understands why.
Has to take a step back from his desire to fix this, to comfort and soothe.
He needs to know. He has to know. The trigger, the cause, what put the light to the taper and created this explosion.
Brought tears to her eyes, fearful, pained and grieving. Brought her to his door murmuring for forgiveness.
He is stubborn too.
He will wait her out, he cannot let her have this so easily, not after their hideous fight. Not when she showed so little regard for him; for his caring, for that of her family, his family, their police family, for their love for her. Their go to the ends of the world kind of love for her.
Not when just minutes ago he thought this, they, them were over.
But this close, nose to nose, with her eyes gleaming gold with emotion, and the trembles that rush through her frame and the scent of her so familiar a craving for him.
She is begging, and offering him just what he always thought he wanted.
But like this?
With her tears, and distress, with their hurt and their misunderstandings.
This isn't right.
She is begging, and Kate Beckett never begs.
This is as serious as it gets.
Serious and heart breaking, and her vulnerability is all wrong.
Her palms cradling his face, fingers shifting in restless caress.
And he wants to fix her, wants this for them, for them to be happy.
Then she is kissing him again.
Lips stroking, sucking hot, and she is soft and real, really real, the touch of her mouth bringing it all home to him.
Feels the heated splash of her tears on his cheek.
This is wrong.
He wants, and he needs, and he could drown in her, but he can't.
He pushes her back, tearing his lips away.
Sees rather than hears the distressed whimper that escapes her.
He breathes.
Forcing his thoughts to clear.
Panting out each exhale, huffing out his anger and pain in measured increments.
Watches as more tears escape her searching eyes.
Trailing their way down her cheeks, unchecked and unashamed, huge droplets of sorrow and shame.
He can't, he can't give in, let her distract him.
He, they, need to do this. He needs some answers, needs to hear her say them out loud, to acknowledge them for herself. To let him accept and understand that she knows all that they have put each other through.
He meets her gaze.
"What happened?" He grits out, his voice on edge.
He waits.
He waits for what? Her retreat, her defence, her anger? Her fight or flight reaction?
Her tears continue to fall.
Fight or flight?
Her eyes dip, and then rise again to his as her answer comes.
She chooses quickly.
She chooses fight.
"He got away, and I didn't care."
She is so close she only needs to whisper, but she sounds calm.
"I almost died, and all I could think about was you."
Resolute.
"I just want you."
The need in his body is sharpened raw.
She is reaching again, fingertips brushing over his tingling lips, then she arches, closing the breach, mouth open, hovering over his.
Tempting, open and vulnerable.
Everything he has ever wanted.
Literally aching.
For him.
For them.
And everything that comes along with that. Love, desire, blissful sweetness.
His tension grows, stiffening everything, body alert.
There is so much for them to talk about. So much unsaid that needs to be. But there is so much more than just hours before.
There is a them and a future and an us.
And there will be time to think, to talk. And that time is not now.
-000-
He leaves her hanging there. Open mouth seeking and needy.
Quivering with want.
She needs him to move. To want her too. To give some sign of consent, assent, and wanting in return.
Then he is moving, and sweeping and she is suddenly weightless. Feet off the ground. The overwhelming heat of his body surging into hers, lifting her, their bodies pressing the door closed behind her, before he crashes after.
All breadth and heat and Castle. Every inch breathlessly engulfed.
Closing the door on their pain, giving into the inevitability of their future.
Just him and pressure and heat. Stirring her body, making everything blur.
His mouth, his tongue, swirling her stomach, rousing the butterflies of her arousal into a symphony. Everything beats.
Her jacket is gone, his hands in motion. His palms, huge against her cheek, sliding into her hair, searching out shivers from her skin. Warm arms binding around her waist, pressing her closer. Curling around her jaw, curving her shoulder blades, desperate to feel her closer.
He is primitive and strange and perfect.
One broad thigh insinuating between hers with ease, its pressure against the heat of her, the heat of him, making her already blurred vision swim.
She is gasping into his mouth. All she can hear is them and their breaths and the suck of their lips, and the racing beats of their hearts. And a hum, an electric hum which prickles each nerve, warmth and awareness spreading, awakening, alive.
This is special, this is new and familiar, overwhelming and just right.
Then his mouth is on her throat, lips and tongue dancing over her pulse, sucking slow, weakening her knees. His arms tightening, keeping her with him, supporting her weight.
Her fingers clasping at the black cotton of his shirt, at the feel of his heart pounding back at hers. The crisp and soft of his hair, the spot just beneath his ear that makes a shiver run through him.
He is all response, all instinct and desire, he is essential and powerful and treating her just the way she needs him to be. Raging heat and impulse so desperate it is self-sustaining.
But it is he who recovers control first. Gentling his touch as his kisses find the place where throat becomes clavicle. Lips sipping at the curve of the bone. Shivers radiating. Before descending, her skin shimmering with the touch of his lips, with the boiling blast of breath he exhales.
He tugs each shiny black button from its fold, a kiss to the new place revealed, moving slower and slower as she tries not to squirm, just to feel and enjoy it. Her world focused on the tender press of his lips to her sensitive flesh.
Then the next kiss doesn't come.
He has paused, and it takes her foggy brain a moment too long to realise what he is seeing.
Her scar.
The bullet hole that nearly ended it all.
But the reverence in his halted gaze causes her wounded heart to throb. It's already racing rhythm beginning to skip.
There is pain trapped in his stare. Raw and desperate and reliving the nightmares all over again.
She catches his palm as it falls dazedly away, capturing his fingers within her own. Raises it slowly, gaze never breaking from his, searching and deep, attempting to reassure.
Her trembling fingers press his to the struggling beat that pounds away between the curves of her breasts. Its rhythm a promise. That she is alive, that she is okay, that things will be better. She will try harder, to be safe, to be open, to love and protect his heart as he does hers.
His touch is right. Healing. Gentle against her skin as their pulses calm with the connection.
He is familiar again, her gentle giant, her best friend. And he is looking at her like no one else exists in the world but them. And it's right, it's so right.
Their clearer minds and hearts meet again in slow kisses of promise. Light and exploring.
Their eyes open as their curving lips meet, and she finds her smile reflected, his giddy elation mirroring hers.
Her trembling fingers curl into his larger, steadier grip and she tugs. Inviting, leading the way.
Swollen bottom lip caught between her teeth, brave and nervous and so ready.
This is it.
This is always.
(tbc)