Disclaimer: The only part of Castle that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.
When he'd said goodnight to her and gone into his room, he'd thought his heart would explode. Also, he'd admitted, other parts, so he'd thought some deflating thoughts. Then he'd picked up his laptop again and made a list of everything he loves about Kate and everything he loves about Beckett—because sometimes they're the same person, and sometimes they aren't—and at two o'clock in the morning, he'd finally gone to sleep. But every half hour, more or less, he'd woken up, so full of joy that he finally decided to get out of bed and go outside.
It's not even half-light yet, and he carefully makes his way to the pond. He drops down onto the little platform, just as he had done more than two weeks ago, but now when he splashes his feet he can leave them there. The water has warmed up a lot since then. Like a lot of other things. Other things—well, the most important thing, all-important thing—have heated up. Soon they might be sizzling. He hopes. He lies down on the platform, his feet dangling in the water, and stays there happily, immune to the buzzing mosquitoes since he'd had the foresight to spray himself with insect repellant.
His stomach is grumbling and his watch says 6:30, so he walks up to the house. He's starving and he wants coffee, but when he looks in the fridge he discovers that they're almost out of cream. This is a four-alarm emergency. He gets the pad of Post-its that sits by the phone and writes Kate a little note to let her know that he'll be out for a bit. Should he say something about their kiss, or ignore it, which until recently had been their default position? Should he begin it "Dear Kate"? Sign it "with love"? It takes him nine tries before he's satisfied with the tone, which he considers casually neutral overall, but has a whimsical romantic touch:
"Gone to the market. Back soon. xo"
He draws a castle turret on the bottom, sticks the note to the front of the coffeemaker, and leaves.
During the drive to Williams he sings sappy love songs, and when he finds that the store won't be open for another ten minutes he stands outside and hums some more. He is, of course, the first customer. After grabbing a pint of cream he goes directly to the checkout, bypassing the bright and shiny objects that he ordinarily can't resist ("Look, Beckett! Peanut-butter-and-jelly-flavored popcorn! In this cool foil bag!"), but when he reaches for his wallet his eye lands on the candy display. Oh! Ooh! It's serendipity! It's providence! It's a sign! "These, too, please," he says, handing six packages of candies to the cashier.
You're thinking in exclamation points, he tells himself when he steps out onto the sidewalk. You've got it bad. "Don't care," he says out loud. His feet may be heading to the car, but his nose is not. His olfactory receptors are almost screaming, and he pays attention. The nose wins.
"Morning Luanne, Billie Sue," he says, as he walks through the door of Land o Goshen. "I could smell those doughnuts from three blocks away."
"Good morning, Rick," Luanne says, wiping her hands on her apron. "Not surprised at that. They're still warm."
"I'll take two cinnamon and two honey-dipped, please."
"You don't want to try something else? That's what you bought last time."
"Whoa, you remember what I got?"
"Sure do. Don't get a lotta customers like you in here. How about a powdered-sugar or a Bavarian cream? They're awful good."
"I know. I tried bits from your sample bowl before. But these two?" He points to trays of his favorites, which are already on display in the glass-fronted case. "They got an incredible reception at home."
"Don't mess with success, huh?"
"You said it," he replies, hoping that Luanne mistakes the pinkness of his cheeks for sunburn.
As he turns into the driveway, he spots Kate through the window. She's moving around the kitchen with a dishtowel over her shoulder, and it's a sight of such domesticity, of such lovely ordinariness, that it almost stops his heart. He's surprised but happy that she hasn't heard the car because it lets him watch her. This is his longed-for everyday, her wandering around in a tee shirt and bare legs and no make-up, getting their coffee ready, and it feels as though it's almost within reach.
He inches the car forward and the crunch of the gravel alerts her to his arrival. "Hey, Castle," she says, opening the screen door for him. "How come you went to the market? At this hour?"
"Cream," he says as he mounts the steps, holding up the wax-paper carton in one hand while carrying the bakery bag in the other. "We were running dangerously low."
"And also dangerously low on doughnuts?"
"No wonder your closure rate is so high. You're a hell of a detective."
"You get anything else?"
"Nope."
"Nope?"
"Nothing."
"Then what's that bulge in your britches?"
"What?" He looks down at the front of his pants and she cracks up.
"Your pocket, Castle, your pocket. What have you got in there?"
"I'm not sure that I want to tell you now," he says, his nose in the air. "Not sure that you're sufficiently mature to handle it."
"Sufficiently mature? Which one of us put a whoopee cushion on Ryan's chair? And a disgustingly lifelike rubber rat in Espo's locker?"
"That's just a guy thing."
"Oh, please." She plunks down on a stool, drags the bag towards her, opens it, and inhales.
He's about to pour their coffee, but stops when he sees the rapturous expression on her face. Could it happen if she just smells the doughnut? Without her even having a tiny taste?
Her eyes are closed.
His are wide open.
She moans.
He drops the coffee pot.
"What the hell?" she says as she jumps off the stool, her hand to her chest, her eyes no longer shut.
"Sorry, sorry, sorry, it slipped out of my hand." He disappears from view when he bends to inspect the damage. "Only a little spilled. No harm done." No harm done except she was mid-moan and now the moment is ruined. He tears off a couple of paper towels and mops up the little pool of coffee from the floor. "Here," he says afterwards, pushing her mug across the counter.
Kate makes a variety of small sounds of obvious contentment when she eats her honey-dipped confection, but no moans. "Thanks, Castle. That was incredible, but I think I need something healthy now, like fruit."
"Don't move a muscle," he says, extending his arm like a traffic cop. "You've come to the right place."
"I have?"
"Yes. I just happen to have an array of pocket-sized fruit, for your delectation." He reaches down, gathers in one hand all the candy he'd bought in town, and puts it down in front of her. "We have Wild Cherry, which goes nicely with your shampoo; Fruiteria; Hawaiian Fruits, and my personal favorite, the classic Five Flavors, although they updated the flavors a few years ago and I miss the lemon one. Also Wint O Green, which is not quite a fruit, and Butter Rum, which is not a fruit at all and more appropriate when the sun is over the yardarm."
She's completely still as she looks over the little rolls of candy. "Oh, Castle," she finally says, looking at him with what he recognizes as love, even if she hasn't said so. "You bought Life Savers. Life Savers. Because, because—." She can't finish her sentence because she's too choked up.
"Because you saved my life," he finishes for her. "You saved me from drowning."
She walks around the counter, and he gets to his feet. She puts her arms around him, warmly but not tight, presses her face against his chest, and cries. Not gulping sobs, but noiseless weeping. She cries so long that the entire front of his jersey is wet. "So happy, Castle," she says, pulling away from him and rubbing her hands against her eyes.
"You're so happy?"
"No, I meant your shirt. I cried all over your so happy tee shirt, the one you had on last night in the hall. Never gonna forget that shirt."
He hadn't realized that he hadn't changed yet this morning, that he'd gone to town in what amounts to his pajamas, though at least he'd had the wits to put on some jeans. "So you're not happy?"
"Oh, I am. I'm so, so happy." She smiles and swipes at her eyes again. "May I have a butter rum Life Saver, even if the sun isn't over the yardarm yet?"
"Throw caution to the winds, Kate. And why not? It's safe for you to eat since it's not actual rum. Alcohol-free. Won't interfere with your meds, though it would be nice for me if it did. I miss those buzzed-up texts, you know? Your uncensored commentary."
She picks up a roll of Life Savers, unwraps it, and pops a candy into her mouth. "Mmmmm, butter rum." She rolls it around, clicks it against her teeth, and makes close-to-obscene sucking noises. Then she walks across the living room, and when she reaches the hall stops and turns to him. "Uncensored commentary, huh? You miss that?"
"I do. That's what got me here, you may recall."
She opens her hand to reveal another butter rum Life Saver, and tosses it into her mouth. This time the sucking noise reaches obscene standards. "Castle," she says, licking her lips, "this is so fucking good I can hardly stand it." And she turns down the hall and shuts her door.
"Nice exit line!" he calls after her. He knows she's going to do her PT now, so he decides to lie down on the sofa. He's got a sleep deficit and needs a nap.
There's a bird on his foot. It has landed on the side, near his big toe, and it's beginning to attack him. He can feel it scratching away at his arch, now scrabbling upwards, probably searching for the meat of his calf. He's suddenly aware of its nails, the talons that are going to seize him and drag him off to some aerie where an entire family of voracious raptors will eat him for lunch. He's struggling to get away, but he can't. The bird is strong. And now it's singing. Do hawks sing? Do vultures? If they sing, can they sing words? Can they sing Carly Simon's "Are You Ticklish?"
He opens one eye. Kate is standing at the other end of the sofa, tickling his foot. "You're so much better looking than a buzzard," he says.
"A buzzard?"
"I dreamed that a bird of prey was lusting for my foot."
"Well, it's not your foot that's at the top of my lust list, it's—" She covers her mouth. "Never mind."
Oh, God, she has a lust list? How can he get a copy? "What were you doing?"
"Wondered if you were ticklish. It seems that you are."
"Your fingernails are nicer looking than raptor talons, too."
"Wow, thanks, Castle. There's a compliment I can take to the grave."
He draws up his knees and moves so he's sitting. "Come over here next to me."
"Only if you promise not to compare me to any other rapacious birds."
"I promise." He takes her hand and turns it over. "Did you know I took a class in palmistry?"
"You're kidding."
"You couldn't really call it a class, more like two hours of listening to a gypsy from Astoria explaining, in an unidentifiable and shifting accent, all the lines of the palm. It was for a story I was writing that I wisely abandoned."
She likes having her hand in his. It feels wonderful. It feels right. "You remember any of it?"
"A little. Like this." He touches the tip of his finger to the outer edge of her palm, about an inch below the base of her pinky, and runs it on a gradual curve to the space between her middle and index fingers. "This is your heart line. It's very deep."
"Is that good?" she asks, hoping her voice isn't cracking.
"Yes. And see the little forks at the end of it? Right here?"
He's tracing them. It's so erotic that she's having to will herself not to straddle him and tear off his shirt and rip off his pants, and. "Yeah, yeah, I see. Yeah. What does that mean?"
"It means you have a kind heart, Kate." He folds his fingers around hers and wraps them tight until her hand is completely enclosed within his.
"I guess that's today's line, then. We crossed the heart line?"
He lifts his free hand and draws an X over the left side of his chest. "We did. Cross my heart."
She drops her head onto his shoulder and leaves it there. "Good."
They stay that way for a long time until she picks her head up and looks at him. "Were you writing last night? Before, you know. I thought I saw you with your laptop."
"Yeah."
"What were you writing?"
"Then or later?"
"You were writing later?"
"Couldn't sleep."
"What were you writing at first?"
"Nikki and Rook. New chapter."
"And what about—about after?"
"I was making a list."
"A list? Of what?"
"Of everything I love about you."
TBC
A/N Thank you, everyone—and especially the wonderful, faithful guest reviewers, like Hawkie, because I can't thank you personally.