Watershed
So I'd like you to ask yourself…is he really worth it?
Gates doesn't wait for an answer, leaving the room and Beckett's head spinning.
Before she can process any of it, her phone vibrates with a call. When she quickly fishes the device out of her pocket and checks the screen, it's a familiar photo—a candid shot of a raven-haired girl mid-laughter. Worry darts through her.
It's not unusual for the writer's daughter to call her, but her paranoia is at an all-time high in the wake of the Deputy's warning, the bubble of her perfect weekend popped by the sharp needle of reality.
What if this was the other shoe dropping? What if something happened to him?
Of course it was all too good to be true. Of course she's not going to get a 'happily ever after.'
Story of her life, right?
"Hey, Alexis—everything okay?" she asks, cautious.
"Yeah, great, actually. Dad said you had a meeting. Am I interrupting?"
"No, no. It just ended."
"Dad'll be thrilled to hear that. He's been running around like a nine year-old on a sugar rush ever since he got home."
Her elevated heart rate evens out and her teeth snag her bottom lip to quell her smile. "Oh?"
"The first thing he did was literally shout it from the rooftops. Variations of 'She loves me. I love her, etc.' Then after he lost his voice, he invented something called a S'morelette and weirdly…it tasted amazing. Chocolate, marshmallow, and eggs, who knew? And for the past twenty minutes, he's been playing on the drums like a maniac."
"I'm so sorry," she responds, partially contrite and partially amused, her heart melting. (She's never had someone love her so loudly before.)
"Oh my gosh, please don't be sorry!" Alexis gushes. "It's the happiest Gram and I have ever seen him, and we're just glad somebody finally made a move. Hell, we were on the verge of locking you two in a room."
Beckett's cheeks bloom with shades of pink.
"God, we're we really that bad?"
Alexis scoffs a laugh. "Why do you think there's a precinct pool betting on when you'll get together?"
"You know about that?"
"Dad keeps us in the loop on everything," the girl chirps. "Well, not everything. He says a gentleman doesn't kiss and tell, but we did manage to wheedle a few details from him about last night and I wanted to say on behalf of Gram and I—we love you, too."
Fuck.
He comes as a package deal and for the first time in a long time, her cup runneth over, warm and rich and oh so wonderful. Tears choke her and she huffs out a damp chuckle, "You Castles keep making me cry."
"Welcome to the Pea Pod."
She laughs again, a wet and croak-y thing.
"I also, um, had a question I wanted to ask…" Alexis hedges.
Beckett blots the saltwater from her eyes with the sleeve of her blazer. "Yeah?"
"How do you know when you're in love?"
Oh.
Something her mom used to say comes to mind.
"All the songs make sense."
"Even this one?"
Suddenly she hears a loud and terrible banging and crashing of cymbals. Alexis must be at the top of the stairs, holding her phone out to Castle's one-man band.
"Does that really qualify as a song?" Beckett chuckles.
"Whatever it is, it's giving me a headache," the young woman says dryly.
Beckett puffs a small laugh. "Need me to take him off your hands?"
"Would you? I'm trying to write a paper and Gram is reading for a possible guest star role in Temptation Lane, but we're worried he's going to hurt himself in all the excitement if he's left alone."
"Temptation Lane? Didn't her character die?"
"You're a fan?"
"I used to watch it with my mom," Beckett says. "They're really thinking of bringing Martha back?"
"She'd be playing her evil twin."
"I, for one, would love to see that."
"Gram!" Alexis shouts, presumably with her hand over the receiver to muffle her voice. "Kate says you should go for the part!"
The cacophonous clanging in the background immediately stops. "Kate? You're talking to Kate? My Kate?" she hears faintly.
"Uh oh. Incoming," Alexis mutters.
Socked footfalls bound up the stairs and then— "Hey, how are you? How was your meeting? Win any awards for Best Captain?"
Her stomach flutters with butterflies, her heart skips a beat, and her lips unpeel into a smile.
"Look who got their voice back."
"I missed you."
(It's been all of two hours.)
"I missed you, too," she admits.
"Yeah?"
She rolls her eyes.
When is it going to sink in that she's just as obsessed with him?
"How would you like to come over for dinner later? Maybe stay the night?"
"Really? You don't need some time and space?"
She appreciates that he knows she likes her independence, but she's so sick and tired of playing games and pretending she doesn't want him. And who cares if it's practically their third date in a row? They've had more than enough time and space spent apart and she's not going to let Gates get into her head when she's finally following her heart.
"Who else is going to return my shoe to me?"
He gasps in delight. "So you did leave one of your stilettos behind on purpose." (She'd left The Plaza in her new sweats and neon green high tops.) "Now who's milking the fairytale bit?"
She grins widely, feeling warm and tingly all over.
"I have no idea what you're talking about."
Yeah, so, so worth it.
"You look different."
"I got some highlights."
Lanie crosses her arms, suspicious.
"That's not it." The medical examiner had demanded a visit at the morgue during her break and Beckett knew she couldn't fend her best friend off much longer. She told Castle to meet her at her apartment at six, saying she needed to run a couple errands first.
"You have a glow. I know that glow," Lanie states imperiously. Her eyes narrow in inspection. "You had sex."
When Beckett offers her a weak smile of confirmation, Lanie's eyes widen.
"Holy shit…" The M.E. 's arms fall to her side in shock. "Did you actually take my advice and have sex with Writer Boy?"
"Shhh," the captain shushes, periscoping her gaze around the autopsy room and making sure the coast is clear. (It is.) "Keep your voice down. If 1PP gets wind of this, they'll have a scandal on their hands, and—"
"A scandal, indeed. I didn't think you had it in you, girl!" Lanie squeals. "So how was it? Does he live up to the nickname?"
"What nickname?"
"You know which one. Moby D—"
"Doctor Parish," Beckett admonishes with a playful tut.
The medical examiner shoots her a look, unimpressed. "Don't I at least get a hint?
Beckett bites back a grin and shrugs coyly. "A lady doesn't kiss and tell."
"Since when?" Lanie scoffs. "C'mon. You owe me big time. Spill."
"Fine," Beckett sighs airily, as if put upon. Then she pops a mischievous eyebrow. "Call me Ishmael."
A devious grin curls at Lanie's lips.
"Oh, you need to lock him up and throw away the key."
Beckett spends the next twenty minutes recounting the highlights—their 'date' at the wedding, Remy's, and her kissing him in her doorway and him kissing her against the door. The next night and their real date…the carriage ride in the park, dinner at the boathouse, and getting caught in the rain.
"And then we got a room at The Plaza."
Lanie sighs wistfully. "It sounds so dreamy."
"It was pretty much the best night of my life."
(Definitely the best night of her life.)
Surprise flickers over the medical examiner's features. (She's not usually this effusive when it comes to her relationships.) "Yeah?"
"Yeah, he, uh, really knows how to type with his fingers and use his mouth for things other than talking."
"Oh my god. So how many times did you—?"
"I, um…" She bites her bottom lip, "...might've lost count after the third round."
"You lost…" Lanie checks her up and down. "How the hell are you still walking?"
The captain smirks and then fiddles with her fingers.
"Look, uh, it's not just mind-blowing sex." She twirls a strand of hair, nervous. "We…love each other."
Lanie rolls her eyes. "Duh. This is what I've been trying to tell you!"
Kate huffs slightly, her mouth twitching with a smile. "I'll never doubt you again."
Her best friend grins from ear to ear. "Girl, give me a hug," she says, grabbing Beckett's shoulders and pulling her in. The captain's chest fills with giddiness as she tightly squeezes the medical examiner back. They part after a moment, both of them surreptitiously pressing the ridge of their palms into damp eyes.
"I'm so happy for you, Kate. You deserve this."
Beckett's face tints rose blush while a big joyful smile spreads over her face. "Thank you."
The medical examiner nudges her shoulder. "So when's the wedding? I'd like to petition Angie for Flower Girl."
"Lanie!"
She lays a fresh bouquet of white daisies on her mother's headstone and gently feathers gloved fingers over the engraving of Qui Pro Domina Justitia Sequitur—Who for Lady Justice prosecutes.
It's a Latin phrase adopted by the Department of Justice in the 1800s as part of their official seal. They wanted to make it clear that the purpose of its institution is not to prosecute on behalf of those in power or whatever political party they happen to hail from, but rather, on behalf of justice.
This is further represented by Lady Justice, who stands guard outside the front entrance to the U.S. Supreme Court building in D.C.
Fair, impartial, and final—all symbolized by the blindfold she wears, the scales of justice she holds, and the sword she wields at her side.
Her father had bought her mother a mini statuette replica of Lady Justice as a law school graduation gift and Kate had it welded onto a metal plate in front of her mother's headstone, as if standing guard for her, the strength and power she imbues so reminiscent of her mother.
She usually only visits on the anniversary of her mother's death or when she has updates in her case, but this time, she wants to share something that isn't about her grief—something she knows her mom would've loved to hear.
Her father constantly teased his Nosy Jo for being a total gossip; always nosing in on other people's business; always eager for a good old-fashioned girl talk.
What's the 4-1-1, Bug? Any new crushes lately?
A small smile buds at her mouth at the memory.
"Mom, you're not gonna believe this."
She removes her soiled garden gloves and admires her handiwork.
Her balcony hadn't seen much action since she moved in a couple years back, after the pipes burst and flooded her old place, but she wanted to go out of her way to create something special and magical for him, just like he did for her.
So she dragged a wagon her dad had given her a while ago out of her supply closet and went to The Secret Garden, the flower and plant shop down the block, selecting the brightest springtime florals to decorate the outside space. Now it's dripping in bright pink tulips, sunny daffodils, and striking lilacs. She'd artfully arranged them in various pots and planters and strung fairy lights over the two outdoor chairs and table she'd purchased last summer but never got around to setting up.
It's not fancy or anything (certainly no boathouse), but it's something…
Something straight from the heart.
When she hops out of the shower, she has a couple texts from Castle asking what the dress code is and if he can bring anything.
Comfy casual. And just bring yourself :)
(Oh, God, he's turned her into a smiley face person.)
She dries off and jumps into a pair of her favorite jeans and throws on a purple cable knit sweater that hangs off one of her shoulders, her hair air-drying as she starts prepping chicken breast cutlets and dicing onions and cloves of garlic for a red sauce. She decided to make chicken parmesan with creamed spinach and a potato salad. (A Johanna Beckett Dinner Special.)
While a couple things simmer on the stove, she tidies and sweeps and dusts, humming along to the Coltrane record playing softly on her turntable.
But when she finds herself neurotically cleaning tiny knick-knacks and organizing her junk drawer, it hits her that she's nervous.
It's been a while since she let someone in. Since she cooked for someone.
Castle and his family never let her cook at the loft, insisting she was a guest and shouldn't have to lift a finger.
But she wants to do this for him—show him just how much he means to her.
She adds some product to her hair to make her natural curls shine more and a few light touches of makeup. He's seen her in full-armor and bare-faced, so she settles for something in between, a more relaxed look but still somewhat put-together.
Her phone buzzes with a call while she's in the middle of applying her signature eyeliner. Castle had just been texting her, saying he'd be over soon, so she assumes it's him when she swipes to answer, switches the audio to speaker-mode, and continues drawing on her eyelid.
"Hey, almost here, hot stuff?"
There's a brief pause and then a tentative, "Katie?"
She startles, her hand jerking, and the eye-liner applicator slips, inking a jagged black line down the side of her jaw.
"Dad?" she gasps. "Oh my god, I didn't mean—"
(She really should've checked Caller ID.)
"I gathered," her dad chuckles lightly, unperturbed. "Look, I was, uh, in the neighborhood and thought we could grab a bite, but if you're expecting someone…" he trails off, waiting for her to fill in the blanks and she sighs ruefully as she wipes the dark squiggle staining her skin with a wet cloth.
(Her dad would never admit it, but he's just as bad as her mom when it comes to gossip.)
"Yeah, uh…" (Oh, screw it.) "I actually have a date with Rick tonight. Rain check?"
She says it casually, like she didn't just drop a major bomb and hasn't spent weeks and weeks denying that nothing's going on between her and the writer.
"A date with Rick, huh? Does this mean I can finally meet him? Ask him his intentions?"
She bites the inside of her cheek and huffs, her tone wry.
"And that's exactly why I'm keeping you far away. It's too early for cross-examinations."
Her father sighs good-naturedly, knowing not to push further. "Well, I'd love to hear how your date goes. Is lunch at Remy's tomorrow too much to ask, Your Honor?"
She shakes her head, a goofy grin springing to her lips.
"That, I think I can allow, Counselor."
After covering the spinach and salad bowls with tinfoil, she puts the several pieces of sautéed breaded chicken topped with red sauce and parmesan cheese into the oven and sets a fifteen minute timer.
Just as she finishes turning the dial, there's a cheerful knock on her door.
Her pulse races.
(He's early again.)
She inhales a quick breath, primps her hair, and adjusts her sweater before swinging the door open, only to immediately burst out laughing at the sight of what must be ten heart-shaped balloons.
"What's all this?" she chuckles.
Castle pokes his head through the helium melee with a sheepish grin.
"Happy Valentine's Day…three weeks late?"
She lifts an eyebrow. "Or forty-nine weeks early?"
"They were on sale," he explains, grimacing in apology. "Too much?"
She shakes her head. (Sure it's a little over-the-top, but it's from him.) Her palm fits to his jaw.
"Never too much," she murmurs as she rises on her toes to kiss him.
She's been craving his touch all afternoon, and oh, God, his lips are like nectar and she drinks deeply from him, hands curling around his ears. Fuck, she needs him closer. So much closer. But when she reaches for him, something hard and pointy pokes her in the stomach. She yanks back to discover the culprit—a white pizza box.
She plucks it from his grasp. "What's this?"
"Oh, uh—can I?" he motions inside and she nods while giving him room to enter. He squishes through the doorway, balloons banging against each other as she places the box on the island table countertop.
"Have you no faith in my cooking?"
"No, no." A balloon collides into his face. "Hold on, I mean—yes, I do have faith." He ties the balloons off on a counter stool leg. "It smells fantastic, by the way." He shoves his hands into his pockets. "I just, uh, figured we might need a second meal later on…" A deep blush overtakes his face. "And well, these are for you, too."
He turns around and reveals a sleek Tumi backpack with a bouquet of flowers tucked into the side pocket sleeve. Her heart flutters. She takes the array of roses, a lush rainbow of pastel pinks, pale yellows, and soft oranges, and the cellophane wrapping crinkles as she buries her nose in them.
Damn.
He's just so sweet and thoughtful and fucking perfect.
"Thank you," she murmurs softly. "They're stunning."
He faces her again and winks. "Just like you."
She rolls her eyes and huffs a breath, pink dusting her cheekbones. "You really didn't have to bring anything." His sunflowers and daisies from the night before are on proud display in the middle of her coffee table.
"It's my first official visit, of course I wasn't going to show up empty-handed!" he protests, wrestling his backpack from his shoulders. She tamps down a grin until a familiar yellow, green, and red logo on the pizza box pops out at her.
"Wait, this is Stefano's?" Her grin grows wide. "You went across the bridge?"
(Stupid romantic.)
His bag thumps to the ground. "And it's fresh tomato and basil. One of your favorites," he says, puffing out his chest.
It's so cute and endearing that he takes pride in remembering all her favorite things. She kisses his cheek in gratitude.
"Make yourself at home," she directs. "Food still needs a little bit." She grabs a vase from one of her cabinets and fills it with water from the kitchen sink while he shucks his coat and ventures into the living room, examining the space with wide-eyed wonder.
"Wow, I feel like Alfred in the Batcave for the first time. Except this is a lot more boho-chic. I didn't exactly peg you for someone with such an eccentric style."
"Don't you know by now?" she calls out, her back turned as she fluffs some of the rose petals and admires the variety of colors. "I have a taste for the weird and freaky."
He comes up behind her, his hands settling on her hips and his chin on her shoulder.
"Does that make me Beckett-flavored?"
A stupid grin crooks at her mouth and she turns in his arms, hers looping around his neck.
"Lemme double-check."
She kisses him, a proper one this time, hot and hungry and moaning into him. Mhhm. Yup. That's the stuff. Her eager tongue swipes along the seam of his mouth, seeking access. He grants it to her and ups the ante by hiking her onto the counter and nudging her thighs open.
"How long 'til everything's ready?" he murmurs into the column of her neck, his hands gliding under her sweater and up her sides, goosebumps erupting on her skin.
When he discovers she's not wearing a bra and his thumbs graze the underside of her breasts, she arches into him with a gasp, her legs hooking around his waist and clutching him to her. God, he feels amazing. (Why haven't they been doing this the whole time?)
"Uh, fourteen minutes," she gets out in between breaths, her core tightening and arousal rushing through her bloodstream, heat licking everywhere.
He picks her up without warning and heads toward the couch, carrying her like she weighs nothing.
Oh, fuck.
As he lowers her onto the cushions and his fingers slip past the barrier of her jeans, he husks,
"I can work with that."
The warm evening breeze ruffles the ends of her hair, now scooped into a low messy bun by a claw clip.
When she'd led him out onto the balcony, he'd marveled at the set-up, saying it was magical and enchanting and really fucking cool. He'd also raved about the food, telling her how delicious it was and how much he appreciated the effort she put into everything. Especially since no one's done something like this for him before.
"Well, it's your first official visit, of course I had to do something special," she jokes.
"Kate, I mean it." He gathers her hand in his and brushes his thumb over her knuckles. "These past five years or so and…maybe even before that, most of the people in my life, well, they never really wanted me for me." He tightens his grip around hers with a light squeeze. "But with you—" his voice cracks, "God, Kate—you make me feel so wanted and loved."
Tears crowd the corner of her eyes.
(Damn it, Castle.)
She squeezes his hand back, a lump forming in her throat. "Least I can do, right?" she manages.
He chokes on a laugh and uses his free hand to wipe at his own tears.
"I…I finally feel like I have a true friend and partner. And it's like there's this huge weight off my chest and I can actually breathe properly for the first time in forever."
She ducks her head shyly, her teeth scraping her lower lip.
"It's the same for me."
"Yeah?"
She nods.
"Except I can breathe even better. You know, because I have full lung capacity."
He gasps in faux-offense.
"Why Katherine Beckett, I never."
She grins like a fool.
"Richard Castle, One Lobe Short."
"I take it all back," he says, eyes sparkling with mirth. "You're a monster."
She giggles and kisses the ridge of his knuckles.
"Would a monster have gotten you the Raspberry Supreme Cheesecake from Junior's for dessert?"
This time, he gasps in excitement.
"You went across the bridge?"
(She picked it up on her way back from visiting her mom at the Cypress Hills Cemetery on the westside of Brooklyn.)
She wiggles her eyebrows enticingly.
"And it has extra whipped cream."
"What precinct is this Schlemington at?" he growls.
"Why?" She sets her glass of Chianti next to her emptied plate and crosses her arms. "Gonna go defend my honor?"
He bristles. "No."
She raises an eyebrow, as if to say Oh, really?
He pierces a stray raspberry with his fork tine. "A fist to to the face might do him some good."
(Sweet idiot.)
"Don't think that'll help with the whole 'they-think-we're sleeping-together' thing."
He deflates with a sullen sigh.
"I'm sorry. I never wanted people to question your integrity because of me. Or put your job in jeopardy." His fork clatters onto his plate as his head falls into his hands. "God, Kate, wouldn't you be better off without me?"
Amusement tugs at the corner of her mouth. "You really are your mother's son."
His head lifts.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
She rises from her seat and clears their plates from the table.
"You don't have to be so melodramatic," she says. "I've dealt with sexist crap my entire career and this is just par for the course." She bumps her hip to keep the balcony door open as he gathers their wine glasses and follows her inside.
"I just…I hate that you have to deal with it at all," he mopes.
They tread carefully down the white-painted brick steps that lead into her kitchen. (She really should get a railing.)
"Maybe I should take a step back," he suggests. "Stop shadowing you for a bit and let the rumor mill die out. I still have final edits to work on for Frostbite. We can say I need to focus on my writing."
She pauses in front of the sink, releasing the dirty dishes into the ceramic basin. Step back? She doesn't want him to leave. He can't. They're a team. He's her partner. God, doesn't he know he makes everything better by just being there?
She opens her mouth to tell him, to make sure he knows, but—
"There's also all this book promo stuff Gina and Paula want me to do," he rambles on, "which reminds me—they called about the Cosmo article earlier."
She turns to him.
"Oh?"
"Apparently Cosmo's cover story dropped out last-minute and we're on the top of their shortlist to replace them. But maybe…" he sighs, rubbing his forehead. "Maybe I should just call it off altogether."
She tenses.
"Call it off? Why?"
"I don't want to drag you down by association."
She frowns. She hates that he thinks so little of himself. He was so determined the other night to prove himself to everyone, to re-establish himself and now…
"What happened to telling them Richard Castle, Mystery Novelist is back?" she argues fiercely.
Surprise flickers across his features.
"I…"
She curls a hand around his bicep and smooths the other over his chest. He's wearing her favorite navy blue cashmere sweater. (It brings out his eyes and it's sinfully soft.)
"Look, maybe this is a good thing."
"What?"
She folds the sleeve material between her fingers.
"We can't stop people from speculating. I mean, they're going to speculate no matter what, right?"
He regards her with caution, not sure where she's heading with this.
"Right."
She glances up at him.
"So maybe we use this Cosmo cover to our advantage. You know, push the narrative that we're co-workers and nothing more. It'll make the suits at 1PP happy—it's hard for the NYPD to get good press in a magazine that people actually read. And it'll get Gates off my back for now. Two birds. One stone."
He processes her pitch.
"So what you're saying is…the cover will give us some cover."
"Yeah," she smiles. "And before we make it official to the wider public, we just tell the people who matter to us. Keep it need-to know."
His eyes brighten.
"Need-to-know. I like it. Like we're classified."
She grins teasingly. "Top Secret."
But then his smile falters and doubt furrows his brow.
"You're really okay with this? You know denying that we're in a relationship will only make them think it's true, right?"
"Well, since it is true, it wouldn't be the worst thing to have people think you're romantically involved. And I've had stuff written about me before."
"Yeah, but this isn't the crime blotter, Kate. Cosmo's digital circulation is in the tens of millions." He gently tucks a section of her hair behind her ear. "Sure you want to subject yourself to that kind of scrutiny?"
She arches an eyebrow. "Think I can't handle the big leagues?"
She puts killers behind bars. What's a little press attention?
"No, I—"
She palms his cheek. "Whatever happens, it's worth it, 'kay?"
His gawks at her, awestruck.
She winds her arms around his neck. "Besides, won't the whole 'will-they, won't-they' thing help sell more books?"
He pulls her waist to his, a huge and silly grin stretching over his mouth.
"You are positively diabolical. I didn't take you for such a schemer and trickster."
She scoffs in faux-offense. "Scheming and trickery are foundational tenets of the Beckett household. My mom was exceptional at pranks. Passed down from her dad—my grandfather. He was an amateur magician. You would've liked him." She plays with some unruly strands of his hair. "In fact, you remind me of him a little."
"I'm flattered," he smiles. "Know any good tricks?"
"I do this one thing," she says, a wicked gleam in her eye as she hooks a finger over the lip of his jeans and tugs him toward her bedroom.
"With ice cubes."
He presses soft kisses down her spine, giving each vertebrae special attention. She shivers from the tenderness.
"Cold?"
She shakes her head.
He smirks and traces his nose upward into the valley between her shoulder blades, slow and tortuous and oo, that tickles!, before his breath washes over her neck and he's whispering in her ear, "Sure you don't need me to warm you up, Captain? I've been told I'm pretty hot stuff."
She groans a laugh and pushes him away.
"What? Too cheesy?"
She shakes her head again. "I need to tell you something, but you have to promise not to laugh."
"Yeah, sure. Promise," he says hurriedly, concern rippling in his gaze. "What is it?"
She recounts the mishap with her dad on the phone.
The writer immediately dissolves into laughter.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry," he says, trying to catch his breath. "I owe you a soda or something. Oh, man, I wish I could've seen the look on your face."
She huffs, reddening with embarrassment.
"Imagine if Alexis called you that by accident."
The smile slides off his face. "And now you've ruined it." He narrows his eyes at her. "So not fair."
She parses out a 'that's-what-you-get' smile, smug and triumphant.
"I prefer Sprite or Diet Coke."
He chuckles and kisses her. "But wait—" he pulls back. "Does this mean I can finally meet your dad?"
He's been begging to have him over at the loft, but she knew that if he'd met her dad earlier, she'd have to face her feelings for him one way or another and she just hadn't been ready yet.
"I want you to," she says, "But maybe we let the dust settle first? Give it a couple days, at least."
He nods, thinking.
"Hey, you know what? Alexis is bringing her new beau, George, over on Friday. Why doesn't your dad join? It can be like a 'meet-the-parents' double-date."
"Alexis has a new beau?"
"She's been very secretive about it," he says, miffed.
She thinks of the girl asking her about love and almost mentions it to him but ultimately decides against it, not wanting to betray the young woman's confidence.
"Guess we'll find out on Friday then."
"Really?"
She likes the idea of not having the focus entirely on her or her dad. It'll be less pressure. And she doesn't care if it's too fast or too soon. This is the diving in part, right?
She rakes a hand through his hair, smiling fondly.
"Yes, really." And then she shifts and easily straddles him, sheets falling away. "Now where were we?"
He claps a hand over his mouth to stop himself mid-squeal.
"What?" she says, walking out of the bathroom in a silk lingerie pajama set, her teeth freshly brushed.
He's sitting on the edge of the bed in a soft cotton gray shirt and a pair of black drawstring shorts and flips his phone toward her, showing her an image on the screen.
"You used to model?" he squeaks.
Her mouth drops as she stares at a glossy photo of herself in a preppy sports outfit flaunting a tennis racket at an awkward angle.
"How the hell do you have that?"
"The Cosmo people. They were doing background research on you and sent it to Paula."
Panic sets in and her eyes widen. (Oh my god, oh my god.) "They're not going to feature it, are they?"
"No, no, not at all," he assures her. He looks at it again, smiling with affection. (God, she's never going to live this down.) "But they totally should. You're adorable."
She narrows her eyes at him.
"I was seventeen and I thought modeling for the summer would be an easier way to make money than waitressing, okay?"
"I just can't believe I'm dating a model." He sets his phone on the nightstand and reaches for her, tugging her between the vee of his legs and taking in her lingerie. "A really, really hot model."
She smirks.
"Damn straight."
Just as she's about to kiss him, his phone pings with an alert.
The writer sighs.
"I should probably get that. One second."
He quickly retrieves his cell and rapidly skims through his email.
"Okay so Paula's asking if you want them to source some outfits for you. Or if you have something you'd like to wear. And crap—they want to do it tomorrow. In a block of two hours." He looks up at her, wary. "Does that work?"
She's been sporadically in touch with Ry and Espo throughout the day since they've been running point for her. Things have been slow and they've mostly been dealing with paperwork from their last case and trial prep for another.
"It should," she replies, scooping her own phone from the nightstand and checking her calendar. "Let's say ten to twelve? That'll give me time to catch up in the morning and brief everyone."
"Do you need approval from 1PP or anything?"
She shakes her head. "My precinct. My purview."
"Nice."
"But forward me the confirmation details when you get them? I'll loop in Montgomery and Gates. Keep them apprised." She drops her phone back down. "And tell Paula I'll wear something of my own."
He drafts a reply and sends it off with a whoosh. Then he silences his device and puts it aside, eyes traveling over her.
"Oh, yeah? What kind of outfit do you have in mind?"
"What do you think of this one?"
She poses for him in a sheer floral blouse and slim charcoal slacks.
"Mmm…sexy."
"Sexy? What do you mean by sexy?"
"I mean…well, I mean sexy. Yeah. What's wrong with sexy?"
"My bosses are gonna see this. I'm supposed to look normal," she huffs in frustration, removing the blouse and selecting another top from her armoire. A black turtleneck.
"What about this one?" she asks, adjusting the garment around her throat.
He studies closely, contemplating with a hand under his chin.
"Mmm…no."
"What? Too conservative?"
"It's just not saying 'Captain,' you know? No pizzazz."
No pizzazz?
She sighs in annoyance and turns to change, only to stop mid-turn. Something feels off…she peers at him, suspect.
"You just want me to take my shirt off again, don't you?"
He confesses straightaway.
"And your pants. I love watching you do that little shimmy."
She bites down on a smile.
"Like this?"
She unbuttons her slacks and wiggles her hips as they slope down her legs.
He stares unabashedly, completely captivated. "Uh huh," he says dumbly.
She scoffs a chuckle of disbelief just before launching the pants smack dab into his face. "Perv."
"Hey!" he cries out, getting tangled in the material.
"Turnabout's fair play," she teases, grabbing another ensemble off a hangar and retreating to the bathroom. When she emerges a couple minutes later in her powder blue pencil dress and matching blazer, his boyish pout instantly vanishes and desire darkens his eyes into an inky black.
"Oh, you definitely can't wear that."
"What? It's perfect. Professional with some pizazz and it's a little sexy."
"A little?" he chokes. "I won't be able to keep my hands off you. God, the first time you wore that...what was it, like a month ago? Anyway, I had to leave early. I could barely control myself."
"That's why you left early?"
His gaze travels over her, rich with lust, his voice hoarse with it. "All I wanted to do was tear it off your body."
She cocks an eyebrow and a mischievous grin.
"Well, what are you waiting for?" she says, low and smoky, arousal pooling in her belly; a pleasant heat sparking in her veins.
"No time like the present."
The soft rush of water wakes her in the middle of the night.
At first, she thinks Castle must've gone to the bathroom to grab a drink from the faucet, but as she swims to full consciousness, she hears a familiar creak of pipes and realizes the shower's running.
She slips from the bed and unhooks her black silk robe from the back of the bathroom door and belts it on before cracking the door open.
Steam billows over her, the air damp and muggy with it, water droplets clinging to her face like fresh morning dew. It takes a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dim light, but when they do, she spots the writer hunched over in her clawfoot tub, his head between his knees as a viscous stream of scalding hot water barrels from the shower head and onto his back, his skin all shiny and red and raw from the assault.
Immediate concern and confusion clench her gut and she instinctively lurches toward him, quickly turning the spigot off. Without the noise, she hears the sobs tearing from his throat and wracking his frame.
She has no idea why he's in so much pain, but she wants to make it stop; make it better.
She nimbly snags a towel from the nearby rack, climbs into the tub in front of him, and gingerly wraps it around his shoulders.
He doesn't react and she's not sure he's noticed her yet.
"Rick?" she prompts gently.
His head snaps up, his face bleary with tears.
"What happened? What's wrong?" she interrogates anxiously.
His voice splinters. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
"Sorry for what?"
"You - you got shot," he hiccups. "Too mu - much blood. Could - couldn't save you."
Oh, Rick.
Her heart fractures and she surges into him, her body folding into the empty spaces around him as she envelopes him in her arms. "Hey, no. I'm here. 'M here, love." He buries his face in the hollow of her neck and clings to her tightly. "It was just a bad dream. I'm okay and I love you. So so much," she soothes.
Another sob rattles through him. But there's relief in it. A last gasp of sorts.
He eventually calms, his heartbeat slowing and syncing up with hers. Once he quiets completely, she whispers, "Why didn't you wake me?"
"Didn't want to scare you," he murmurs into her skin. "Thought I could deal with it on my own. Thought the hot water would remind me that I'm here. That this is real."
"This is real." She strokes the baby hairs at his nape. "And you don't have to do it on your own anymore." His head rises and she meets his red-rimmed gaze with a soft expression. "Don't you know by now?" Her palms bracket his jaw and her forehead falls into his. "We're better off together."
He offers her a weak smile and brushes his thumb over her chin. "I love you, too. So so much."
Her chest spills with warmth and she kisses the tip of his thumb. He sighs, eyes fluttering shut.
"I think I'm terrified that this is all too good to be true, like it's all one big beautiful illusion that can shatter like glass at any moment. What if something bad happens? What if I lose you?" he rasps.
She puffs a wry chuckle.
His eyes open. "What's so funny?"
"I had pretty much all those same thoughts earlier," she says with a huff of irony. "God, Rick, I'm just as terrified." She skates her fingertips over his lips. "But maybe we don't let the fear rule us. Maybe we just…"
"Figure it out together?" he supplies.
"Yeah," she says with a slow grin. "Figure it out together."
He smiles at her, warm and familiar and lopsided.
"And a smile. Good," she murmurs.
He wipes his nose, sniffling. "Tonight was so perfect and I totally ruined it."
"Didn't ruin anything," she insists, caressing tear-tracks from his face with the pads of her thumbs. "Just glad you're okay."
His stomach grumbles then, loud and gnawing.
"As it just so happens, I have some pizza in the fridge," she says, hiking an eyebrow in challenge. "Feel like a slice?"
He beams at her, wide and bright, washed clean of any shadow of doubt.
"I could eat."
xxx
A/N: I stumbled across all these behind-the-scene articles on Beckett's apartment (S3+) and one of them said the door at the top of her kitchen stairs leads to a rooftop/balcony garden, so I thought it would be fun to play with that! Looking forward to your thoughts.
Up Next—Limelight
