A/N: Apologies, life eh! I endeavor to do better. Thank you for reading and taking the time to alert/review your words and growls and enthusiasm never fail to put a smile on my face. X
The door slams in his face and his mouth hangs open and Castle stares as though the next manic blink of his eyelids will restore sanity to what is in fact an extremely fucked up situation.
One second he was kissing her and the next their little bubble burst - he glares at the door - no actually, it's more like their bubble exploded and he has no idea why.
She's gone and yet her voice lingers in the atmosphere, too thick and charged with anger and regret for the force of her words to dissipate.
You have no idea how much more there is to Nikki Heat.
Castle swallows them down, lets the sentence sink like a stone into the pit of his stomach. Is that what this is about?
Their early fight floods his mind, clarity like crystal, clear, painful and sharp, digs its claws into his subconscious and the words he used to hurt her - the words she threw back in his face - spin like a cyclone.
There is more to the character, of course there is, he knows that, he knew that, he created her. But why would she - Beckett - even care if she wants a better writer?
Multi-faceted. Crazy. Frustrating as hell.
He glares at the door again, chanting phrases as he tries to make sense of the words she threw in his face, and the vision of her as she left him comes into focus once more.
Vulnerable?
A shade of pain had darkened her pupils far too vividly, when only moments before they had been lightened by the pleasure coursing through both their bodies.
Hurt?
There was something to the hard set of her lips - the faintest quiver.
Did he hurt her feelings as much as she hurt his with casual comments flung about in the heat of the moment?
Castle drags a hand down his face and finishes buttoning his shirt. He catches the back of his neck in his palms as he rubs at the muscle there and grinds his teeth together.
Loving her and being in love with her are two very different things. One he's not sure he had a choice in and the other he has absolutely no idea how to go about.
How do you love a woman like her?
And just like that he's back to what the actual fuck, Beckett?
She's a warrior and she's fierce, cautious and outgoing. She's angry and gentle and she fuels his imagination like no other, but more than that, she's special and she's real. She's extraordinary and it burns like acid through his chest that she doesn't see that, that she doesn't see what he sees.
It shouldn't get under his skin the way it does, the way she does, but that - the fact it hurts like hell - tells him there is something here.
They could be more.
It hurts him that Beckett can cast him aside so easily. She doesn't see herself, but she see's even less of who he really is. It leaves a bitter aftertaste in the back of his mouth, more anger.
Castle's striding back and forth now, almost unaware of his own actions. His fists ball up and his nails cut into his palms, palms that are still warm with the touch of her skin.
The scent of Beckett lingers all around him.
He doesn't know how to go about loving her - dealing with her, getting her to listen - but going after her seems like the ideal fucking place to begin.
Growling at himself, Castle gathers his courage and stoops down low to pocket her underwear. Anger propelling him like gasoline, indignation a vivid burning rocket fuel that lends speed to his footsteps.
He resists the urge to punch the door, opens it instead and, without blinking, strides straight into her.
Beckett, with her back to him, fingers clutched behind her. The body that just drove him half insane with ecstasy now frozen and rigid in front of him - and when Castle glances up he can see why.
A mass of photographers hover barely inches from them.
His first instinct is to yank her back into the bathroom, keeping them unmasked and out of sight, but that will inevitably stir up a shit storm that will not end well - especially for this guarded woman in front of him, undeserving of the baying jackals out for blood.
Castle refuses to let her be torn apart by the savage and relentless hounding she would endure. The slander and ridicule that would be thrown her way because of him.
His hands land on her bare shoulders, slide down her icy arms and he can feel Beckett tremble as she stares at the mob of press, loud and vicious and within arms reach of where they stand.
They are - thank fuck - facing away from the writer and muse frozen immobile in the doorway. The legion of flashing lights aimed in another direction and taking pictures of something - someone - else.
The ricochet of flashlights throw themselves around the room like rampaging lightning, casting stark white light and luminescent shadow where they fall.
But the barest rumble of a scandal at their backs and Castle knows exactly how this will end.
Fucking badly!
He doesn't say a word, doesn't risk the sound of his voice catching in the wrong ears and alerting them to their presence. Instead, Castle reaches out, slides his fingers between her own chilled digits and claims Beckett's hand. And, with a sharp tug, he pulls her off to the side.