21. TwentyOne: Saturday

Twenty-One

He's reading in bed; a couple of pillows prop him up, the gentle light of the lamp spilling over the pages of the book that rests against his knees.

The Time Traveler's Wife. It was Kate who recommended it, told him it was one of the best love stories she'd ever read. Unusual and beautiful, she said. He's heard of the book before, of course, but he's never really wanted to read it until now.

And although he's only a hundred pages in, he can already see what she means. He loves everything: the idea of involuntary time travel, the clear, distinct voices of the two characters, the humor that permeates every page.

Kate forgot to tell him how funny it is.

He's completely absorbed in the Christmas Eve dinner as Henry meets Clare's family for the first time when he feels a subtle change in the atmosphere, the tingling sensation of a gaze resting on him.

He tears his eyes away from the printed words, meets Kate's almost immediately. She's standing in the door frame, tall and slender, wearing the shorts and tank top combination that he loves, that makes her legs seem infinite. Her face is pensive, her eyes dark and soulful.

"What?" he asks curiously, vaguely uncomfortable at being scrutinized. He's suddenly aware that he's wearing a ragged old t-shirt, that he didn't have time to shave this morning, that all in all he must not look all that appealing right now.

"Kate?" he prompts when she stays silent, lost in her contemplation.

She blinks, slowly comes out of it, returning to him with a light smile. He holds out a hand for her and she comes, folds these long, gorgeous legs as she kneels on the bed next to him.

"Hey," she murmurs, leaning in to press her lips against his cheek.

His eyes flutter shut, the sensation so good, the tenderness of it all making his insides flip. He's still not completely used to doing everyday things with her; he gets ridiculous kicks out of mundane actions like brushing their teeth together, like her painting her nails next to him.

Yeah. He's so the girl in this relationship.

"Everything okay?" he asks quietly when she lingers, her nose brushing his, her breath so close and warm and good.

She will never stop surprising him; he would never have guessed that sharp, brisk Detective Beckett could take her time like this, savor the moment in a way that makes his heart squirm in his chest.

But of course, she's not Detective Beckett now. She's Kate.

His Kate.

"Uh-huh," she whispers, forehead resting to his temple. "I like you like this. In bed. Normal day. Reading the book that I recommended."

"Yeah?" Too bad, because his interest for the book just went way, way down. He flips it closed and puts it away somewhere, not really looking, his free hand threading through her hair, palming her neck, wanting.

"Yeah," she sighs, eyelids sliding shut, mouth already parted for his kiss.

Okay, so maybe he won't always be the girl after all. And that is completely fine with him.

They can take turns.

When he wakes up, she's gone.

Gone.

The bed is cold.

Castle sits up as cold panic flares, his anxiety heightened by the dream he just had (in which she went back to the 12th precinct and got shot on the very same day). He throws the covers off and gets to his feet, calls softly. "Kate?"

There's no revealing ray of light under the bathroom door; he turns away, tries to breathe, steps into his study. Empty.

He shuffles into the living room.

"Kate?"

Everything is dark, silent, unmoving.

He considers looking for her upstairs, but he can't see a reason why she would be there, and he might wake Alexis. He doesn't want Alexis awake.

Castle groans and presses the heels of his hands to his eyelids, hard enough that he sees stars, hard enough that his world will tilt back into place.

Maybe she left him a note?

He heads back for the kitchen, runs his hand over the counter, over the table: nothing. He turns to the coffee table. Bathed in moonlight and bare.

His heart is in his throat; it makes it hard to swallow.

Oh, bedroom he didn't look closely at her pillow or the bedside table-

He hurries back into his study, slamming his shoulder into the side of the door, biting his lip fiercely to keep himself from yelping in pain. He moves forward anyway, sinks to his bed; his feverish, searching hands flip the pillow, explore eagerly.

His eyes have adjusted long ago to the lack of light and they see too much, too clearly. There's no point in feeling for the bedside table when he can tell from where he is that there's nothing on it.

This is where he is, sagged on the bed with his hands in fists, tears gathering at the back of his eyes, when he hears the main door close softly.

His head jerks up; he's on his feet before he's even aware of it, racing back to the living room. He comes to a complete stop when he sees her, his body melting with relief as he takes in the way she's dressed, soaked white shirt with the sports bra underneath, the shorts.

Kate.

Running. She went running.

He steps forward because he can't help it, his arms closing around her even as she murmurs a surprised "Castle? he clutches her to his chest. She's hot and sweaty and she probably hates it, but he can't for god's sake, Kate-

"Kate," he pants, knows she must feel the crazy staccato of his heartbeat. Still, he won't step back, won't let go.

She's stiff at first, rigid against him, but she gradually softens, until her fingers come brushing at the back of his neck, curl there, an unvoiced question.

"I woke up I woke up, and you were gone," he explains breathlessly, although he shouldn't, he shouldn't, he should keep it all inside.

He can't.

"Castle," she sighs, lips hovering at his jaw now. "I woke up and couldn't go back to sleep, so I thought I would go for a run."

"At 4 am?" he moans against her temple, hates himself for it. "Running alone in New York in the middle of the night, Kate?"

"Shhh," she soothes, mouth dancing over his cheek. "I stayed on the big avenues, Castle. With all the lights, all the people I didn't go into the parks, no dark alleys, okay? I stayed safe."

Safe. A desperate laugh chokes him, but he lets this go, lets it go because it's not really why he still wants to cry like a little boy.

Her fingers are making gentle circles over the expanse of his back, calming, lulling him; he doesn't want to be calmed.

"Kate."

"I'm sorry," she says softly, kissing the corner of his mouth. "I thought you'd still be asleep when I came back. You're such a good sleeper, Castle."

Shit, shit. The tear slowly detaches itself from his eyelashes, travels down the plane of his cheek; Kate sees it, of course, gathers it with her index finger, desolation in her eyes.

He wills the others to stay put.

"Rick," she breathes, sorrowful, as she regards him.

"Just. Just leave me a note next time, yeah?" He suddenly realizes how tightly he's holding her, loosens his fingers, hoping he hasn't hurt her almost-healed ribs. "Kate. Just a note. I woke up and you weren't there-"

He stops himself just in time, stops himself before he can tell her what he thought, what he was terrified of, but she already knows. She lifts on tiptoe and presses her mouth to his, firm and promise-filled, her fingers twined at his neck.

"No, no, Castle, no-"

"I know," he murmurs back against her lips, "I know it was stupid, stupid, but Kate-"

"I'm not leaving you," she tells him, so strong, beautiful in her fierceness. "I'm never leaving you. I love you, Castle, I love you-" and then she's kissing him again, repeating the words with her tongue, her lips, the edge of her teeth, her thumb at his cheekbone.

He drinks from her, dazed, humbled, overwhelmed.

Kate Beckett loves him.