Disclaimer: The only part of Castle that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.
He looks down at the crotch of his jeans; it's a reflexive move, completely out of his power. Commando. Busted! How the hell did she know? His fly isn't open. Does he have a torn pocket? Is there a rip in the seat of his pants? He not-so surreptitiously runs his palm over it. No tear, no rip. Finally, he looks up. "You have X-ray vision now, Beckett? I never figured you for that superpower."
She's grinning. It's the first time he's seen her look happy, truly happy, in at least a month.
"The doorknob, Castle."
"Sorry, what?"
"You left your shorts on the doorknob, in the bathroom."
Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. And borderline embarrassing, too, which he's damned if he's going to let her see. As opposed to his underwear, which she already has. At least it wasn't his any of his cartoon-figure ones, or the new pair that says Bottoms Up! and has bottles of Scotch with little wings flying around. He'd never have heard the end of it. End. Geez. "I do have more than one pair, you know," he says in mock indignation. "In fact, I have dozens. Scores. Hundreds, probably."
"Not here, you don't."
"What makes you think that, Detective?"
She cocks her head and looks at him appraisingly. "I don't have brain damage, despite what my recent, what do you call it, pharmaceutically-induced behavior may suggest. I got shot in the heart, not the head." She pauses. "You didn't bring a bag. I'd have seen it. You said you left in a hurry to get here, so you must not have taken the time to pack anything. Therefore, you have no other shorts with you. Deductive reasoning. I'm a detective, remember?"
"But you're supposed to be off-duty."
"Never. At least not when it comes to detecting underwear." She has a microsecond to decide if she should be really bold. What the hell, yes. This is tame after all the other things she seems to have said, or texted, to him in the last several hours. "Or lack of it."
So help him, he snorts.
She looks as if she might do the same, but then she says, "Those ones you were wearing are very nice, I will say. Couldn't help noticing the mother-of-pearl button."
She'd noticed the mother-of-pearl button? What did she do, anyway, examine them like crime-scene evidence? Too bad he wasn't wearing them at the time. He wriggles a little on his chair.
"Couldn't help noticing that you're still not wearing a shirt, too."
"And you're still not wearing a br—. Pants! You're still not wearing pants."
Her cheeks flush, and she glances at her legs. Then, very slowly, she stretches out the neck of her tee shirt, looks into the opening, and raises her head again to look unflinchingly at him. "You're right, on both counts. You could have said the word, you know. Bra. I'm wearing no bra and no pants. You a detective or somethin'?"
He holds her gaze, too. "Nope. Just a lowly writer, an ink-stained wretch. But I've been following this one detective around for three years. You'd be amazed how much I've picked up from her."
"Like what?"
"I wouldn't know where to begin, really. How about I tell you something that I learned today?"
"Okay, shoot. Not literally, please. Had enough of that to last me a while."
Oh, my God. She's so adorable. "That even though she's a cop and I'm a writer, there's a lot she can teach me about language."
"Yeah?"
"Turns out she's a wordsmith. Really. Said something today that I've never heard before, but it's in my lexicon now."
"I hope she wasn't cursing."
"Absolutely not, although she's taught me a few colorful words over time."
"So what was it?"
He knows he's pushing it, but they've come so far, and he really doesn't want to hold back any longer. And he suspects—more than—that she doesn't want to, either. "Moneyhoon."
She looks blank, but interested. "Moneywhat?"
"Hoon." Don't run, Beckett, he thinks. Please don't run. We're so close, and I know you can feel it, too.
She's a little pink around the edges, and clears her throat. "Was there a context? I mean, of course there was. Context. Right, so can you use 'moneyhoon' in a sentence?"
He raises an eyebrow and nods his head, tacitly urging her to continue. She can get there by herself, he's sure of it, and he's ready to catch her if she slips.
She brings her top lip down over the other and makes a little sucking noise. He may not survive it and he's trying so hard not to stare. Oh, she stopped. She's opening those lips, which are wet and shiny now. Like cherries. Like the visual equivalent of her shampoo.
"She put it in a sentence, huh?"
"Yup."
There's a silence that seems to stretch all the way to the pond, across it, down the dirt road, and through the woods. Finally she mumbles, "Gonna have to give me a hint, Castle."
Very gently, he moves his hand across the top of the table until the tip of his little finger grazes her wrist. If she pulls away after he tells her, he'll grab her hand to keep her here. "She said I was going to carry her across the threshold when we get married, and go on a moneyhoon. Great word, right? Very cool."
She doesn't pull away, but she does freeze in place. If he's going to keep this going, he needs to calm her down a little. "She was under the influence at the time, so I'm not holding her to anything. But I have to say, I loved it."
Except to turn her head away, she still hasn't moved. For a long time. He's going to wait her out, but he's still prepared to take her hand. He's waited three years for her, and how long can this last? She's not as much of a talker as he is. Okay, almost no one is as much of a talker as he is. But the non talking so far has been long enough that the milk on the top of his mug is turning a little nasty. Long enough that his right foot is falling asleep, even though the rest of him has probably never been this alert. He's risking keeping his eyes on her, because she can't see him properly. Oh, movement, he senses movement.
"Do you think it's true about anesthesia?"
Huh? She's lost him on this one, but at least she's saying something and doesn't appear to be mad. "Anesthesia? I'm not sure, what about it?"
"That it's truth serum."
"Nah, that's an old wive's tale. An anesthesiologist told me and I believe her. I'd better, she charged me a fortune when I had my appendix out."
"You had your appendix out?"
"Eight years ago." She looks so serious; he needs to jolly her along. "Surprised you didn't see the scar with those X-ray eyes of yours."
Her X-ray eyes just sank again. Shit, he'd taken the wrong tactic. He's still going to wait. It's less than a minute, he thinks—though his judgment does seem to have flown to the window, right through the screen—when she speaks again.
"How about truth serum in pain killers?"
Oh, that's where she's headed. "That may be a different story." He smiles, and decides to press two fingers to the inside of her wrist. Lightly as he does it, he can feel her pulse. "Hope so, anyway."
Out of nowhere she picks up her mug and holds it towards him. "Could I have some more coffee, please?"
No Olympian has sprung into action as fast as he. Grabbing his own mug, too, he dashes to the kitchen, pours two refills, and dashes back. He's sweating a little, for all kinds of reasons.
She takes a sip, and then another, followed by a gulp. The woman must have an asbestos mouth. He hopes he'll find out. First hand. First tongue. Shut up, he thinks.
"Thanks, Castle."
"My pleasure."
"Since we're talking about truth, I have to tell you something."
He wants to say, have you been lying to me? Hedging? Prevaricating? Does she even want him to respond? Maybe. Probably. "Okay."
"It took me a day. Two days, it was the second day I was in the hospital that I remembered. Was positive that I remembered, that I heard you say you love me."
Can she see the hairs standing up on his arms?
"I remembered pretty soon after, but I couldn't trust myself that it had been real. And then when you came to see me, and I saw your expression when I told you that I didn't remember much of anything that had happened at the cemetery, I was all but sure. My dad told me a few hours after you left that you and Josh had really gotten into it in the waiting room, when I was in recovery. Said he shoved you against a wall and you tried to deck him."
"Not my finest moment."
"I dunno, I wish you'd taken him out."
"You do?"
"Yeah, the guy's a jerk. I'd have loved to see you give him a bloody nose. Specially it you'd broken it. He's so vain he'd have run screaming for the nearest plastic surgeon to restore it to its original beauty. I dumped him when he came to see me on rounds that night."
"You did?"
"Yeah. It was one of my finest moments, actually."
She grins and so does he. "May I ask you something?"
"Of course. Hope I can answer."
"Why'd you do it, Kate? Break up with him."
"Oh, I think you know."
"Then may I ask you something else?"
"Good thing I had breakfast if this is turning into Twenty Questions, Castle. Looks like I'll need my strength."
"You feeling sober? Drug-free? Clear-headed?"
"As I've ever been."
"Then here comes the next question, because I would never take advantage of a drugged-up you. You know that, right?"
She looks abashed. "I know. I'm sorry about what I said before, Castle."
"That's all right." He leans across the table until he's very close to her face. "I'd really, really like to kiss you. So, may I kiss you?"
She hasn't moved away and she's still smiling, but she scrunches up her nose. "You don't want to kiss me. I'm all gross and mediciney."
"Mediciney isn't a word."
"Ish, then. Medicineish."
"Not a word, either."
"You didn't seem to mind moneyhoon."
"Damn right. And I don't care if you're mediciney or medicineish. I still want to kiss you."
TBC