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A one time thing
Chapter Six - An incomplete picture
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If it only takes a moment for your life to change forever, can a 'one time thing' right the wrong? An AU Caskett meeting.
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Kate's hand glides across the metal numbers on the door as she debates what the hell she is doing here. It's a bad idea. She should have just called, but the memory of Castle breaking; the way he had buried himself into her, his sobs racking both their bodies as they'd lain on the floor of the interrogation room, has cracked her resolve to leave well enough alone. Pieces of his mysterious puzzle have been falling into her fingers since they'd met and it's time to form a complete picture of her partner.
Curling her fingers into a fist, she knocks briskly against the wood with a confidence that she doesn't feel, and waits. And waits. She doesn't have a back-up plan if he's not here.
If he's out… at a club… drinking tequila with-
The hotel door opens, and that most certainly isn't a sigh of relief escaping past her lips, because it doesn't matter to her what Rick does in his free time. She has no claim on him. Doesn't want a claim on him.
Liar.
With a hand on the door's edge, his arm stretches across the gap as his body leans against the wall, and she takes the higher road, ignores the urge to roll her eyes at the very clear message he is sending.
Go away.
"How'd you find me- Oh, wait…" He smirks, the arrogant playboy that she first met coming through and she doesn't respond to the taunt, her gaze instead traveling the full length of his body. He's still in the suit he'd worn to work this morning, but at some point tonight he's discarded the tailored jacket. The sleeves of his collared shirt are now a third of the way up his arms and his beautiful skin awaits her touch.
No. Not her touch. Not anything.
"Beckett?" The hint of scotch drifts across the space between them and for a fraction of a second, her eyes close at the smell.
"Have you been drinking?"
"Why? Don't tell me you care, Beckett."
Dropping her stare, she focuses on her father's watch, its face a daily reminder of just what alcohol can do to someone who's grieving, and she refuses once again to rise to the bait. She's put enough of Castle's story together to be almost certain that he has lost someone at some point, and she can share that anguish all too well. But she doesn't know if she can stand here and watch him drink himself into oblivion in order to forget the past.
Going through that once was more than enough.
"Don't worry, detective. I'm only nursing my first."
Apparently he reads her silence correctly and she drags her eyes off her wrist, makes contact with him. She just needs to say what she came here to say and then leave - in one piece.
"Look, I just wanted to let you know that Johnson confessed. Without going into details about your strangulation attempt-"
"I hardly-"
"You had your fingers around his throat. While squeezing! What would you call it?"
Dropping both hands, his arms fall loosely to his side and he backs away from the door. His eyes stay on hers and she takes his actions as an invitation to come in, or at least to stop this rather private conversation from being public.
Entering, trepidation grips her stomach as she closes the door. Turning and fleeing would be easy, is something she has done before in her personal life, but as much as she is good at running down that path, she's also very tired of her reactions. Josh leaving was the last straw. It's made her brave. Made her question her own coping mechanisms.
"Why are you here? You could've just called."
He observes her face a little too intently and she pushes her shoulders back, stands taller. She will not squirm under his scrutiny.
"Why, Kate?"
The need to leave, now, creates a lump in her throat, and as she swallows it, the panic that's inching its way up her spine makes its presence felt, and she takes one step back as he takes two forward.
Maybe brave was too strong of a word. She's supposed to be the one asking questions here. Not him.
"There's more to what happened than just you getting angry at a suspect. It was personal."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't you?"
He has to make her stop. Has to get her mind off him and his life. Off the whys and the reasons and the because. He doesn't want to start their partnership on lies, but he can't tell her the truth. Bringing the words to life will make the nightmare he lives all too real.
Living through it once nearly destroyed him, changed his life forever.
Speaking about it is something that he has never done.
Taking three more steps, he pushes her into the door, his mouth finding hers, his hands tight around her thighs. If he can't ask her to stop talking he'll find another way to distract them both.
He'd promised himself that he wouldn't do this, use her in this way, but maybe it's less about using her and more about what it is to be in her arms, her mouth opening up to his.
It doesn't just silence the past, it stupidly makes him see the possibilities for a future.
Maybe that's even worse.
Lifting her higher, her toes lose contact with ground, and somehow this is even more amazing then the first time they'd been in this position. Without the haze of too much tequila, everything is sharper, brighter… more perfect.
He holds her aloft, her grip finding its way into his hair, her fingers raking painfully across his scalp, and he rocks his hips into hers. The separation is a strain to every part of him, the rebuff of far too many layers leaves him keening in disappointment, has him groaning into her mouth as he pitches into her once more.
Using the back of his knee as leverage, she digs one foot into the crevice, takes advantage of her purchase to hook her other leg up and around his hip and he would applaud her actions, but his fingers will never again depart from the curve of her ass. She fits so flawlessly in his hands, in his arms, in his life.
She drags her lips away from his, and he grunts at the loss. He doesn't want to stop, no matter how much this shouldn't be happening; a one time thing with Kate shouldn't be happening again, and it sure as hell shouldn't be happening with Beckett!
"Is this what you do? How you avoid what's really going on?"
Her questions have him jerking in her entwined limbs, and he shifts his hands off her rear, pushing down on her thighs, and giving her no choice but to stand ungracefully.
Snorting at the irritation, he snarls in response. "Pot meet kettle." He's not stupid, he's witnessed her shy away from more than one comment at the precinct. He's not the only one with a story.
It doesn't seem to ruffle her in the slightest though, one hand cupping his jaw, fingers grazing the stubble that lines the hard edge, and she whispers, "Tell me."
"You wouldn't understand."
No one understands.
Leaning into him again, her free hand fists the material of his shirt, and it takes all he has not to collapse into her arms. To remain unwavering despite the concern shining in her eyes.
"Try me."
His head shakes as he drops his chin to his chest and he pulls back. Is it concern he sees? Or just pity for the man that lost everything?
"No. No, I don't need your pity. Your sympathy." He reaches behind her, tugs the door into her body in a clear indication for her to leave and she steps around him with a huff.
"You're being an ass."
Shrugging, his stare stays on the ground while he holds the door open wide, ready for her exit. She's right, he is being an ass, but letting her see any other part of him isn't an option.
Walking through the gap he's created, she pauses on the threshold, and he doesn't dare move, god forbid he fall to his knees in apology.
"Maybe what you see isn't sympathy. Maybe it's empathy." And with that parting remark he hears her footsteps as she walks away.
Walks away from him.
Slamming her apartment door closed, Kate storms in the direction of her bathroom. She needs a shower, desperately needs a change of clothes after her… interaction with Rick. She should never have gone over there, should have listened to her head. Being in a room with him, alone, is just asking for trouble.
She needs to stop listening to her heart – and she definitely needs to stop listening to the arousal coursing through her veins. It whispers that this is more than some one time thing; seeing him - all the different sides to him - is breaking down her normally reserved approach.
With Josh, with Will, with all her past boyfriends, she has knowingly held them at arm's length; she's kept her secrets – hidden. She likes, likes with all her heart, but loving leads to being open and exposed to too much pain. Her mom's death and her father's descent into the bottle cured any need to go down that road.
So she needs to forget. Forget what it is that calls to her so strongly. The way her skin comes alive under his. The way her body aches whenever they slide past each other. The way her heart-
Stop. Stop now.
He is just her partner. Just a work partner. Nothing more. Can never be anything more.
Entering her bedroom, she slumps onto the floor, her head pillowed by the mattress as his words echo in her mind, his anguish cracking the sentence apart. "I don't need your pity. Your sympathy."
Except it's not pity. Not sympathy. Whomever has died – and someone in his life has died – was close to him and she understands that all too well. She doesn't look at him with those emotions glazing her expression. He was wrong there. Her soul bleeds for him because it's empathy. It's the knowledge of what it is to have lost a part of yourself.
God, she misses her mom.
Reaching under the bed, her fingers move through the dust, past the plastic containers that were shoved there to be forgotten, until they hit the hard lines of metal. She shouldn't be doing this right now, she should just go have a hot bath and read a good book. But Rick's eyes crash through what are good plans, relaxing plans. They haunt her, and they're not the only ones to do so.
She pulls the box out from its hiding place, turns the combination that is stiff from disuse, and, unlocking the lid, she purses her lips tightly, smothers the sob that crawls up the back of her throat, refuses to acknowledge the tears that are stinging her eyes.
The past was put behind her a long time ago. She can focus on the happy times. She can.
And maybe if she tells herself this enough she will come to accept it.
Lifting the sweater that lies on top of the belongings, she brings it to her nose, inhales deeply and while the scent of her mom leeched from the material years ago, when she closes her eyes, she can still smell her, can picture her as she hurried to get ready for their morning of ice skating.
God, she misses her.
Placing it to one side, her fingers fall on the silver necklace, her mother's ring capturing the light and reflecting it back in little rays that illuminate the inside of the box and a smile breaks free. She had placed it in here more than six months ago, when things with Josh had ended up in bed, and he had grumbled and carried on about it scratching him. The fear that she would misplace it if she constantly took it on and off while not at home had led her to tuck it away with a heavy heart, hiding it with the rest of her mom's things.
Josh is just another piece of her past, and sliding the necklace over her head, Kate returns it to where it should be. Beside her heart.
With one hand encircling her mother's wedding band, the other continues sorting through the memories; the concert tickets, the hand written notes, the last book her mom had read, the case file that she had not so secretly obtained. The shame and embarrassment that came with Montgomery calling her out still burns her cheeks. He had made her put the investigation aside, had threatened her job, and she is grateful, mostly. The hours of counseling at least got her to a point where she didn't need to look into it on her own as she had once planned.
She may still have walls that keep her from risking her heart, but the drive to find out the whys has dulled with each year that has passed.
Picking up the novel, she eyes the cover fondly. This had been a big part in changing her life. The way the characters had found justice for others had led her to become a cop. She had found the book half read, lying open on her mom's nightstand, and it couldn't stay that way. Her mom was a firm believer in finishing a book regardless of how good or bad it was. "The words were written and they deserve to be read."
Chuckling at her mother's tone, still crystal clear, Kate runs a finger across the almost forgotten title, past the cover art and to the bold lettering of the author's name.
Richard Castle.
Holy. Shit.
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The overwhelming response to this story has left me... speechless and on cloud nine as I happy dance around in a way that makes my kids groan.
Thank you, truly xoxo
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All the hugs and kisses to Jo and Jamie and their patience when I suddenly announced that I needed it beta-d, again.
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Thank you for reading xoxo