Disclaimer: The only part of Castle that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.
"You made a list?"
"It's a two-part list, really. The main part is about you and then there's a part about Beckett because in some ways you're very different people."
"May I see it?"
He should have known. Why the hell had he told her? Because he couldn't resist, that's why. But there are things on that list that—. Well. "Um, it's a little sketchy, you know? It was late and my mind wasn't at its sharpest. Not that I don't know what's great about you, but I'm a writer, right? So I don't like to submit first drafts and this, this is definitely a first draft."
"Castle, it's a list. It doesn't matter if there are no complete sentences, only fragments. It doesn't need subjects and predicates and parallel construction."
"See, now there's something I love about you. You're a grammar nerd."
"Hold on, hold on. Oh, I know. I know." She growls and pinches him in the center of his bicep. Which is unyielding and hard and smooth and redirects her mind to places that it's been visiting a lot lately. "Your list has porn on it, doesn't it? That's why you don't want me to see it, you perv."
"Porn? Please. I mean, I haven't even seen you naked"—not absolutely true, he had seen one perfectly sculpted buttock and one tantalizing breast when her apartment had blown up last year—"so how could it be porn? It's things I already love about you, not imaginary things."
"Imaginary?"
"Correction, things of which I have no personal knowledge. So far. To date." If she knew what he had already imagined about her she'd be doing something a lot more extreme than pinching his arm.
"So now you're saying that you've never imagined anything about me?"
Apparently she's reading his mind again. "Not what I'm saying."
It's then that she gives him a look, the one that ordinarily separates Kate from Beckett because he's seen only at the precinct. Until now. It's aimed at him and from three inches away it's terrifying. He's bracing for her protest, but instead she gets up and leaves. Has he really ticked her off? Is she going to sulk in her room? He can hear moving things around, so she hasn't shut the door, but he doesn't know how to react. Should he go talk to her or wait? Go do something else? Lunch, he could make lunch. It's getting late. But, she's back? With her laptop? No, his laptop. Shit.
"This is yours, Castle," she says, thrusting his MacBook at him. "Let's see your list."
"You know, you mentioned having a lust list. I could demand to see that."
"Not a chance."
"What's good for the goose is good for the gander."
"It's all catalogued here," she says, tapping her temple. "I don't need to write it down. Nobody's going to get a gander at it."
"Nice word play. Which, by the way, I don't need to add to the list because it's already on it. How good you are at word play."
"Prove it," she snaps.
He's suddenly tired and sad and confused. A few minutes ago they were in this blissful little cloud and now he feels as if they're plunging into some kind of anteroom to hell. He hates that this happens and he's going to do something about it. If there were nothing between them it wouldn't happen. If she could just let herself trust herself and trust him, it wouldn't happen. If she could just let go. He knows she's trying, and things get in the way.
"I will prove it. Right now." He opens the lid of his laptop, clicks on the document he'd made not many hours ago, and points. "Read."
Some things I love about Kate:
smarter than I am
kicks ass
refuses to kiss ass
gorgeous ass
(almost) never shows off, even when she has good reason
physically brave, opposite of me
reads everything
loves my books—I will get her to admit it
banters like someone out of Jane Austen, only hot
ditto word play
Olympic-level flirter
never quits
kind, esp. to people who need kindness
would take care of my kid if I die
hates eggplant
tip of her tongue shows between her lips when she's trying not to laugh and I almost come every time I see it
speaks Russian
speaks French
doesn't speak Chinese
LEGS, which I hope to God will be around my neck and my back and my ass soon
would get me out of jail
dumped a cardiothoracic surgeon (for me)
likes quiet
the most sensual nipples I've ever felt, even through a shirt
good crier
great laugher
that moan
lets me stay
lets me love her
He can't look at her while she reads, so he just stares at the screen. When he senses that she's moved her head, that she's come to the end of the list, he closes the document, and shuts the lid. She hasn't made a sound, so he takes the laptop back to his room. He's at a loss, and he stares out the window at nothing and everything and nothing.
Later, he doesn't know when, he feels her, feels her before he sees or hears her. Her breath is warm against his back. She must be standing almost up against him. Her arm snakes around him without touching him, and he can see that she's holding a scrap of paper, folded into a square.
"I'm sorry, Castle." She talking into the space between his shoulder blades. "I'm still so bad at this. I know I get mad for no apparent reason, and I hope that you'll believe me that I won't always be like this. I'm in pieces, and I'm still trying to put myself together. Sometimes I felt as if I were hot-glued and all the parts were in the wrong places and I had to rip them off and start all over. It's so scary, and I need a little more time. Just a little."
She stops. Her breathing has changed; it's coming faster. "I'm not a writer, but yesterday when we got back from the city I wrote this. I want you to have it. Or read it, anyway. It might help you to understand." She's holding the paper against the bottom of his rib cage and he takes it from her hand. "Don't do it while I'm here, okay? Wait 'til I go out on the porch. I need the air out there. By myself." She withdraws her arm and presses her lips to the back of his neck and walks silently away.
Waiting. Waiting and waiting for the click of the latch on the screen door before he reads her testimonial, or whatever it is. His hand is trembling so violently that the paper falls to the floor, and he's so afraid that it will blow away that he puts his foot on top of it, then bends over and picks it up. He reads it. And reads it again. And again. And again until he remembers every syllable, every loop and downstroke of every letter that she wrote. It is the saddest and most beautiful thing he's ever read. She had to give herself permission to do what she's done. To fall in love. And he has a powerful conviction that she hasn't done this before. Not just the permission part, but the falling in love. That he is the first person to whom she has given her whole heart. No wonder she's scared. No wonder she needs time.
"Me?" he asks himself, in astonishment, sitting down hard on the edge of the bed. "She chose me?" He unfolds the paper and smoothes it out on the top of the bed. Folds it up again. Opens it. Closes it. Reaches for his wallet, fits the note into a small inside pocket, and puts the wallet in the drawer of the nightstand.
Tomato soup? He smells tomato soup. How can that be? How long has he been in here, anyway? Judging from the angle of the sun, a long time. It must be 5:00, at least. Is Kate still outside? Is she all right? And what's with the soup?
There she is, sitting at the little dining table. The light is behind her, so he can't see her face clearly. She has set two places: mats, napkins, bowls, spoons, glasses of water. There is a bud vase in the middle of the table with one half-open, dark pink rose, and a basket of something, wrapped up in another napkin.
"I made soup. Well, I opened a can and heated it up. Other than breakfast, I can't really cook. You know that, I guess. Of course you do. Is it okay if we have tomato soup? It was here. It's always here because it was my favorite when I was a kid. So we always have it in the cupboard. Even when Dad was falling-down drunk he remembered that I loved tomato soup. You know how on your birthday you get to pick whatever you want for dinner? I always chose that. Campbell's. Nothing homemade. It's been keeping warm on the stove."
She gets up in a way he can describe only as elegant. All the tentativeness, physical and psychological, of the last few weeks appears to have melted. She seems anxious but calm. As if she's let go of a burden but she's not used to having if off her back. Not sure if it's all right that she's not still carrying it around. When she returns from the kitchen she's carrying a saucepan and a ladle, which she uses to fill the bowls, and sets the pot on a wooden trivet at the end of the table. "I found that in the back of a drawer just now," she says. "I made it at day camp when I was seven. It's Popsicle sticks. Still works fine."
When he sits down it strikes him that he hasn't said a word. Not one since he told her to read the list on his laptop. She's run out of words, maybe, and she's looking at the creamy soup in the bowl. He moves his hand on top of hers. "Hey. Did you see 'four-star chef' on the list of reasons I love you?"
"No." She shakes her head, but she doesn't look up.
"Then Campbell's tomato soup from a can is fine." He picks up his spoon and takes a soup. "Really good, as a matter of fact. You're a great heater-upper."
"God, I hope so. You'll find out pretty soon."
The soup doesn't come out of his nose, but it does run down his chin. When he recovers he nods his head at the basket. "What's in there?"
"Doughnuts," she says. "It's the course before the Planter's peanuts. You know, dinner, soup to nuts."
He takes a few more sips of soup and rests his spoon against the rim of the bowl. "May I keep your permission slip? For a while?"
"Yeah. You can."
"I can give it back whenever you want. I memorized it."
"I think I'd like you to keep it, Castle. I know it's safe with you."
"You are, too, Kate. Safe with me."
They don't say anything for the rest of the meal. It's a wonderfully comfortable silence, and when they're doing the dishes together afterwards he says, "That might be the best dinner I ever had. Or lunch. Dinner. Whatever it was."
They don't talk about it, but this not-talking-about-it is not like the events in their shared past, the ones they shoved into the back of a sock drawer and never acknowledged. This is one that's settling into their bones. They'll talk about it soon, and that's good. They have a very quiet, very happy weekend.
On Sunday night he's in bed and has just turned off the light when he hears Kate tapping on the door.
"Castle? Are you awake?"
He's even quicker than he had been a few nights earlier, when she'd stood outside his room. "I'm awake!" He opens the door and finds her in the same thing she'd been wearing that first morning, when he was sweeping up the coffee beans. Not the fuzzy sock, but the Rosie the Riveter shirt and the panties. "What's up, Kate?"
"It's one minute past midnight."
"It is? Okay. So, um, happy Monday?"
"It's the Fourth of July."
"Wow, right. I'd forgotten. So, happy Fourth."
"Big day for me, Castle."
What's she talking about? It's really hard not to look at that almost transparent shirt of hers. "Oh. Not your birthday, that's November. I'm sorry, I didn't know the Fourth meant so much to you."
"It doesn't, usually," she says. At that moment her face is transformed as if it were lit by a handful of sparklers. "But this year?" She pulls her tee shirt over her head, drops it on the floor, and smiles. "It's my own personal Independence Day. I'm free."
TBC