6. Six: Friday

Six

by Sandiane Carter

She awakes to a soft staccato sound the next morning; her still-drowsy brain first ascribes it to raindrops on the window, but when she finds the strength to slide her hand out from under the pillow, to roll onto her side, she realizes her mistake.

"Sorry," Castle winces, pausing only long enough to cast her a sideways glance.

The intensity on his face is entrancing, the blue of his eyes as brilliant as she's ever seen it; she contemplates him with a brimming heart, not knowing if her throat is dry from sleep or from finding him at her side.

Writing.

"I tried not to wake you," he apologizes again, his voice reflecting his distraction, his split focus - but oh, she loves it.

She's in Richard Castle's bed, and he's writing. Because of her.

"It's fine," she says softly, her head spinning. If he only knew.

Maybe he *should* know.

The idea leaves her a little breathless, as confused and shy as she remembers being as a little girl, when her mother would introduce her to a stranger and tell her to say 'hi'.

Ah, it's - it's too early for this. But-

"Castle?"

The trick is to not let herself think about it, because if she does, if she gives herself even a minute, she'll never tell him.

He takes a moment to answer, though, his fingers flying over the keys at a mesmerizing speed as his lips move soundlessly, like he's trying out the words on his tongue before writing them down; Kate smiles and bites her bottom lip, tries to dampen the response of her body.

"Kate, I just - let me just - finish this scene?"

He can't look away from the screen, it seems, and there it is again, that sorry note that she doesn't want to hear in his voice. Kate pushes herself up, the sheet sliding down to her waist, and she leans in to brush her lips to his ear, his cheek.

"Of course," she answers warmly, loving the smell of him, the roughness of morning stubble along his jaw. "You take as long as you need, Castle. Write. I'll shower, and make coffee, okay?"

He does tear his eyes off the laptop then, turning that intense stare to her without warning, all lovely, burning fire; she swallows, tries to be good.

He drops his gaze to her bare chest, licks his lips, looks up at her again; she can feel her determination wavering. But no - she needs Nikki, needs very badly to know what happens next, and so - so she should let him write.

Even if. Ah. Even if she wants him.

"You write, Castle," she says again, her voice thin, thready. She rests a hand on his chest to push him away, but can't quite manage it; instead she moves forward and places a light kiss against his throat. He grunts and she closes her eyes, be good, be good, Kate-

"Come find me when you're done," she whispers. "I'll be here."

And then she escapes swiftly, doesn't even look back over her shoulder.

She knows he's staring, anyway.

He types in the final period with that heightened sense of satisfaction, pride puffing up his chest, that delicious, exhilarated feeling that always comes with a scene well done. He skims through it again, fixing minor mistakes as he goes, before he closes the document and grins to himself.

It's good.

The scene's good. The novel's going good. He wouldn't have said that a week ago, but a week ago he was convinced that Kate didn't love him, or didn't love him enough to not walk - no, run - to her death.

And now?

He's swarming with ideas; his brain won't go quiet, won't leave him alone. It's Nikki this and Nikki that, and oh Rook could say this and then she would do that and...

Only with Kate, only with Kate does he get stretches of cool, lovely silence, and he adores her for it, for the stunned gasp of his mind when she lines her body with his and kisses the hollow of his neck, when she looks up at him with her eyes so dark-

And on that note. Where *is* Kate?

He closes the laptop and pushes it down on the bed, changes his mind, grabs it to slide in the drawer of his bedside table. Never know, right? Might need the bed. Without warning. He might not have time to tidy it up and put things away.

He grins, stretches as he gets up, shakes his legs to get the blood flowing. He usually knows better than to write with the laptop resting on his thighs, but this was sort of an emergency. Nikki needed him, and she wouldn't let go.

Castle yawns widely; his stomach lets out a loud rumble and he looks down with a laugh. Wow. Okay. He's hungry.

But he would also like to shower and get out of his pyjamas.

Uh. Food or shower? Tough choice.

Kate. He'll find Kate first.

The rest can wait.

She looks up from her book when he comes out of the office, heads for her; her lips curl into a smile and she sits up, tucks her feet underneath her.

She's pulled an armchair up closer to the couch so she can get the morning light. His armchairs are ridiculously comfy; it actually takes considerable effort to wrench her body from the inviting cove made by the black leather, sit up straight so she can talk to him.

"How's Nikki?" she says, taking in the happy look in his eyes, the relaxed way he sinks into the couch across from her.

"She's good," he answers lightly. "Much better, thanks to you."

She laughs, can't help it, the stupid, irrational delight that swamps her. "Not sure how I had anything to do with it, but good. I'm glad."

He gives a narrow-eyed, you're crazy kind of look, and he hooks a hand behind her knee, yanks her to him. She yelps as she tumbles forward, the book jerked off her lap and onto the floor before she catches herself on the arm of the seat, her other hand splayed on his knee.

"Castle," she hisses, suspended between the armchair and the couch in a position that cannot be graceful. He smiles shamelessly, tugs her forward with his hand; she gives up and slides down next to him on the couch, but keeps feeding him dark looks all the while.

He seems pretty much unaffected.

"So what're you reading?" he asks happily. She bites her cheek to keep her grin from escaping, keeps a stubborn silence. She's not telling him.

He lifts an amused eyebrow at her, then leans forward with a hand on her thigh, craning his neck to get a better view of the paperback that landed on the rug.

"In... In A Hail Of Bullets?" He stops, looks at her, perplexed. "In A Hail Of Bullets. Really? You've got all my books lined up on the shelves, and you choose that one to read?"

Kate shrugs, feels the smile floating on her lips. Ah, well. "I like this one," she offers, nothing more.

Castle stares at her inquisitively. She stares back.

"O-kay," he draws out slowly. "You like this one. Any...particular reasons? Apart from the poor grammar, the overuse of alliteration and the lack of believable motive for our schizophrenic killer-"

She hits him square in the chest, lets her hand linger there.

"Shut up," she says. "It's really not that bad."

He looks at her in disbelief.

"Oh, come on, Castle. It was the first novel you ever got published - no one expects it to be your best work. But the grammar's fine, and I like the alliterations, and-"

She presses her lips together, tries to put words to it. "There's just. Something so genuine about your characters, about the way they think, the way they are around each other... I - I believed it. I still do. And that's why it's so easy to get lost inside your novels, forget about the rest of the world, because... They ring true. As cliché as that might sound," she adds dryly, a little self-conscious now.

But he's obviously not noticed; he's regarding her with something like awe, his mouth hanging open, blue eyes so wide. Her hand moves up from his chest, caressing his neck, settling at his jaw; she can't quite believe how - surprised - he looks.

"Castle," she breathes laughingly, her cheeks warm. She must be blushing. Damn.

"I'm sorry - I - it's just..." He closes his eyes, half-chuckle, half-sigh, then opens them again.

"It's not like you didn't know that I love your books," she points out curiously, her fingers curling at the back of his neck.

"Ah - I - yes?"

She's confused, and he probably sees it on her face, because he rolls his head back against the couch with a frustrated sigh.

"I know it from external sources. Ryan and Esposito have told me things, and then your square-jawed, FBI ex-boyfriend hinted at it, but-"

"Castle. You caught me in the women's bathroom looking for page 105."

And she never thought she'd be bringing that up ever again, but, seriously. Where's that huge ego of his?

He laughs, a flare of heat in his eyes before he runs his hand down his face. "Yeah, but see - that could be explained away. You were worried about how that sex scene made you look, and took the first chance you got to make sure I hadn't gone overboard or..."

His voice trails as he shrugs; she gapes at him. "I let you follow me around for four years! I let you put your hands all over my crime scenes-"

"My hands all over something-"

"-and spin nonsensical theories-"

"Hey now," he opposes with a pout. "They're not always inside-the-box theories, I'll give you that, but they make sense. Every one of them."

"Castle. You're missing the point here."

He looks at her, a slow smile dawning on his face. "I'm not. I promise. I know what you mean, but I'm a writer. I live and die by the critic. I don't think I'll ever stop feeling insecure about my writing, no matter how much money I make, how many people come to my book signings and gush over it."

"That's crazy. You're good. Clearly. Twenty-something bestsellers can't be wrong."

He studies her, shrugging a little. "But it's you, Kate... You're important to me; what you think is important to me. I have trouble believing that you could ever...well, love my books. And talk about them like you just did. With such feeling, such passion."

He's watching her with a mixture of shyness and adoration, and she's just - she's breathless. No words.

She means so much that he can't believe she would love his books?

Oh jeez, Castle.

She pushes herself off the couch and slides her right leg over his thighs, settles on his lap as she finds his lips, kisses him fiercely, her tongue stroking the inside of his mouth, her eyelids shut tight to keep the tears from shedding.

His arms close around her, warm and strong and good, so good, and she breaks away because she has to tell him, tell him-

"Castle, your books," she manages to say before he claims her mouth again, demanding and ruthless, nipping at her bottom lip with his teeth before he rushes inside, takes her breath away, takes everything.

"Enough talking," he murmurs against her chin before he moves on to worship her neck, and oh, oh, that's good.

She doesn't want to talk anymore.

The water cascades down her neck, separates into a dozen entrancing little rivulets that lick the curve of her shoulder, the line of her back, before they come crashing to the white and blue tile.

He watches, mesmerized, so very pleased with himself for convincing her.

She should always shower with him.

Her hand comes up and gathers the dark mass of her hair, rolling it and resting it over her left shoulder; she shifts a little, gives him a look, drops of water like tiny diamonds hanging from her fine eyelashes.

She looks - she looks like she did that night when she knocked at his door, when he thought they were over and he had just thrown away his file on her mother's case, and it chokes him up, strangles him, the wound as fresh and raw as if they'd never spent this almost week together.

And just like that night, he pushes her back, against the cold tile, devours her lips in a vain attempt to reassure himself that she's here, she's here, she's going to stay.

She's not going to leave him.

Kate must know, must have an inkling of what's going on in his mind, because she gentles him, her tongue soothing, her hands soft as she runs them along his sides. When he finally heaves a trembling sigh, she lets go of his mouth completely, drawing him into a tight embrace, her face at his neck and her lithe body so good against him.

"Castle," she breathes, and in that single word he hears how sorry she is, how desolate. He doesn't want that. He doesn't want his fit of grief to prompt her confession of lo-

But her next words are not what he expects.

"Your books," she says, lips moving against his skin.

His books? He can't help tensing a little, because, yeah, it's good, she loves his books, but still he feels that it would only take one word, one small, disapproving word from her to make him brood for days.

Her fingers swirl at his back, light and smooth.

"You know what I said about the badge? How it propped me up, helped me breathe until I could do it on my own?"

He's not... He's not following her.

"Huh?" he manages to get out past the delicious numbness caused by her hands.

"Your books did that for me, Castle. Before the badge could, before I was even in the Academy. Your books held me up when I was drowning."

Wha- what?

He tries to move back, needing to see her face, but she won't let him; her hold on him is strong, unwavering, and her nose stays buried at his collarbone. He pushes a wet, curling lock of hair off her shoulder, has to have something of her to touch, to kiss; she shivers against him when his mouth presses to her skin.

"Kate," he murmurs, can't say anything else, can't get anything past the awe and gratitude clogging his throat. What she's giving, what she's giving him-

"That's why I love In A Hail Of Bullets," she says quickly, breathlessly, as if she might be about to cry. "Because - because that book and I are old friends, Castle. Because it's seen me at my worst, and it took - took care of me-"

She swallows, her jaw clenching against him, and she finally pushes back on his shoulders, lifts her dark, shimmering eyes to him.

"Your books took care of me, Castle. They took care of me-" she sucks in a deep breath, manages a quivering thing that might pass as a smile, "-until you could do it yourself."

He stares at her, speechless, his heart pounding in his ears. This is Kate Beckett, naked and soaked and vulnerable in his arms, telling him-

Oh. Oh.

"That," he says slowly, his voice so soft that he's not even sure she can hear. "That's the most beautiful thing anyone has ever said about my writing, Kate."

She looks at him from under her eyelashes, so tender, so happy, all the light in the world displayed on her face, and god. God.

She's so beautiful.