Disclaimer: The only part of Castle that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.
Beckett pulls back just a little, enough to worry him a bit but not send him into a panic. She blinks slowly, then very slowly again. He thinks that she looks like an owl. No, not an owl, it's just the way her lids come down—that and her wise-and-solemn expression. The only birdlike thing about her really is her weight, her bones. Who's the owl goddess? Not an owl, either, just associated with it? Athena, that's it. Who. Kate is like Athena. Except she's so gorgeous, like Venus. No, Venus is Roman and Athena is Greek, he can't mix these cultures up, it's uncivilized. Who is the Roman version of Athena, anyway? It's in his brain somewhere, walking around in the Mount Olympus section. No, no, no, that's where the Greek goddesses hang out. Hung out. Where are, were, the Roman ones? Shit. Oh, he's got it! Minerva is the Roman Athena! So Kate is Minerva and Venus, all in one, both Roman. Even though she's a hundred percent American. American Beauty. They should watch that movie together sometime, American Beauty. Do they have Netflix here?
Maybe he is panicking, after all. She's not smiling anymore. She's not frowning, but she's definitely not smiling. She just blinked again.
"Castle?"
"Yes? What? Do you need something? You look like you might need something. Tell me what you need."
"A pen."
"A pen? Sure. I can find one. I will."
"Better make it a pencil instead."
He pushes his hand through his hair, and notes in his reflection in the window behind Kate that it gives him the appearance of a cardinal, sort of. The bird, not the Prince of the Church. So he and Kate are both members of the avian world. Yes, he's panicking. "Right, pencil."
"Don't want to mark the table permanently. A pencil is better."
"Definitely." What the hell is she talking about? Does this mean the matter of the kiss is off the table? He stands up and looks around the room.
"It's in the kitchen, by the phone. In the jar."
Of course he knocks over the jar. At least he doesn't break it, though it's a Smuckers jelly jar so he could have replaced it if he'd had to. Unless it's a precious keepsake. Had it belonged to her Mom? Had she always made sandwiches with Smuckers jelly? Thank God, it's intact. No chips or anything. He's shoving everything back in and the points should all be down or Kate could hurt herself on one when she's here alone. Could be stabbed through the palm with a pencil point. No, she can't be here alone. Totally out of the question. And suppose it had been this that she dropped on the floor, not the coffee beans? She might have cut her foot and bled to death before he got here.
Put
the
pencils
in
the
jar
one
by
one
with
the
eraser
end
up.
Finally. Done. He chooses a bright yellow Number 2 Ticonderoga pencil, one of his favorites, with the least-used eraser in the bunch since he doesn't know how much she might need to erase. Clutching it tightly in his hand, he pads carefully back to the table, and puts it down next to her. "It this okay?"
"Perfect. Thank you. I'd draw on the floor, but I can't bend over that far. Yet. It's only temporary, but I have to draw now, you know? Can't wait for later."
"Mmhmm." What's he agreeing to? All he knows is that she's holding the pencil between her thumb and two fingers, just as he's seen her do countless times. Innumerable. Incalculable. She has beautiful hands. Slender, tapering fingers. And then she presses down, and does indeed draw a line from one side of the table to the other. It's amazingly straight, as if she'd used a ruler. There's barely a wiggle or a wobble in it. He might have known.
She puts the pencil down. "See that?"
"Yes."
"It's a line."
"Right. Got it."
He's standing three or four steps away from her, with his arms out to the sides, and she has to tilt her head back a little so that she can look him in the eye. "Here's the thing. If you kiss me, you cross the line. I cross it, because I'll kiss you back. And if we cross that line, there's no going back. Not for me."
His knees liquefy. He might collapse onto the floor in a heap before he can cross the line. "Me, either," he says. "I'm coming over, okay?"
She puts her hand up, palm out. "Castle?"
Oh, God, now what? He can't wait, just—. He just can't. "Yes?"
"I'm so weak still, you know? I hate it, but I won't be that way forever. But if you're going to kiss me now, um, I can't promise that it will be sexciting."
He starts to laugh. "I don't care. Don't care. Not at all. See my feet?"
She looks down. "Yup."
"My feet are going to take me over to you, I hope they do anyway, cause I have to admit I'm feeling a little unsteady here. And then I'll kiss you."
And she smiles a smile that he's never seen before, and he knows it's for him, and he's pretty sure that he's turned entirely to liquid. Until he takes her face between his hands, and then he's not liquid at all.
His lips are so soft. They're even softer than they were in January, when they were outdoors and had their fake kiss. The fake kiss that wasn't fake at all, even if she'd refused to admit it. This is real. This is the real deal, and he's so gentle, so gentle, but there's a little more pressure and she's letting him in and here's his tongue, it's tongue meeting tongue and oh, God.
Oh, God, her mouth. It's like an invitation, come in, come in, stay. I want you to stay. Stay, I'm staying. He can feel her nipples hardening under her thin tee shirt, brushing against him, but he mustn't touch her breasts, keeps his hands from straying there, she is still wounded. He gathers up her hair in his fists, takes out the elastic so the waves tumble over his fingers, engulf them with a whole other kind of sensuality. Touch, touch is so underrated.
He buries his face in her hair and she moves her head beneath his hands, trying to press her lips against his neck. She doesn't want to stop but she has to catch her breath, and she feels him kiss the hollow between her collarbones, his tongue slick against her skin. Ow. Ow. "Careful, Castle, Rick. Careful."
With a snap, he pulls his head back. He's terrified, and his breathing is ragged. "I hurt you. Jesus, I hurt you, Kate. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. What can I do? I'm sorry. I'm—"
"No, no you didn't. You didn't hurt me. It's fine, will be. I'm, it's just tender. I'm sorry." She puts her hand on his cheek, flips it over and runs her knuckles over his jawline. "Your skin is so soft. You shaved? How did you shave?"
Castle sinks to his knees next to her. "Found a disposable razor. Back of the medicine cabinet, in the bathroom. You know, the place where you realized my state of almost undress." That was a mistake. He shouldn't have said that, not while he's trying to ignore his nascent, definitely unwanted-at-the-moment erection.
"Don't mention undress, Castle. This is hard enough as it is."
"Oh, you have no idea." Shouldn't have said that, either.
"Turning my words back on me, huh?"
"You remember that?" He's stunned. He'd have bet a hundred to one that she didn't.
"Of course I do."
"Why, Katherine Beckett, you had a thing for me even then. Our very first case. Admit it!"
"Oh, please."
His eyes are sparkling, and so are hers. "You're nothing but a softy. You're Detective Softy."
She puts a finger on his lips. "Shhh. Don't tell. You'll ruin my kick-ass reputation. I've worked on it for years, you know."
Before she can stop him, he pulls her finger into his mouth, gives her a wicked look as he sucks noisily on it, and then releases it. "Couldn't help myself," he says, wiping his chin.
"Castle?"
"Beckett?"
"I think you'd better get back over that line. You know, temporarily. Like for the next three weeks or so."
He stands up, looking remarkably cheerful under the circumstances. "I need some paper. You have paper?"
"Why?"
"To make a chart."
"Of what?"
"Days."
"Days?"
"Yeah, how many days until I get to cross the line again. Three weeks, you said. So twenty-one days. I can stand it if you can."
She looks suspiciously like a plotter, like she has something up that skimpy little sleeve of hers. "You know how you could spend a little time right now?"
"Making the chart?"
"I was thinking more along the lines of a shower. You could take a cold shower." Her eyes find a new target: his bulging pants. "Looks like you could use one." She has the grace to cover her face when she laughs.
"You know, that's something of a line crosser, what you just said. But I'll have you know that I have no need for a cold shower. I'm the master of self control. I'll just think of punching out Josh Davidson. Or for that matter that little Feeb twerp, Sorenson, eating those doughnuts. The memory of that is enough to put me off doughnuts forever, which is tough if you work in a police station, right?" He sits down in his chair again and looks smugly at her. "You hungry?"
"Not really."
"Not even for balls? Oh, I forgot, there are none available. Just chunks. Of melon." He peers into the bowl, circles his index finger several times over the fruit, and finally picks out a piece which he pops into his mouth. He slurps, and licks his lips.
"You're not going to drive me crazy with that lascivious bit of behavior, you know. I'm a self-control expert myself."
No kidding, he's smart enough not to say. "That wasn't lascivious."
"It was."
"Wasn't. Lascivious usually implies offensive sexual desire. Nothing offensive about what I did. I dare you to deny it."
She chuckles. "Is this what it's going to be like for three weeks? Because I don't think I could stand that. I'd make you go home."
"Can't go home. I'd get lost in the woods and have to survive on nuts and berries." He takes another bit of melon and chews on it. "I don't know the way home."
And just like that, a light goes on in her recently de-fogged mind. She sits up as straight as her wounds allow, her eyes like heat-seeking missiles locked in on him. "Don't know the way? What do you mean? How did you get here?"
TBC
A/N Thank you all. I think one more chapter will do it.