43. 44: Monday
44
She wakes him with her eagerness, the rush of his name at his neck, the fluttering of lashes at his skin.
"Castle, Castle, wake up, come on."
He grunts and wants to say no, no, let me sleep, but it's impossible to say no when her voice is this beautiful blend of breathlessness and excitement, a level of excitement, in fact, that he might never have heard from her. He rolls over, manages to unstick his lashes, peer an eye open at her.
She looks entirely too awake for whatever early hour this is, her face animated, her eyes bright, her hair in a ponytail; some strands have escaped and are now clinging to the glistening curve of her neck. Hmm. Sweaty. She went running?
She kisses him, too hasty, her mouth sliding sloppily against his, and then she's tugging him up, a hand at his neck, the other at his back even as he protests.
"Stop grumbling," she tells him with more of that beautiful, childlike enthusiasm. She sounds like - she sounds like him, actually.
She moves away, grabbing the tshirt he wore yesterday and carelessly slung onto the back of a chair, throws it back at him. "Put that on. You're wearing shorts, right?"
This is entirely too much for his level of awakeness. He yawns, pushes back the covers, looks down. Yeah, he's wearing shorts, but they're sleeping shorts and no underwear underneath-
"That'll be fine," Kate says encouragingly, as if she can read his thoughts. "Come on, Castle, it's gonna be over soon."
What's gonna be over soon? What on earth can be going on at the ungodly hour of-
His eyes find the alarm clock, and he stills in the process of sliding the tshirt over his head. Ugh, Beckett, five-thirty? Really?
"Castle," she says impatiently, coming close again, her fingers curling at his knee, tugging.
He sighs and finishes pulling on the tshirt, rubs his hand down his face, like it's going to magically wake him (of course it doesn't). Kate softens, leans in to brush her mouth to his cheek, to his lips; he puts his hand at her waist to keep her there, nuzzle his nose against hers. She'll make fun of him for his girliness later, but he does need this, the tenderness, the closeness, the simple pleasure of being together. He doesn't like being rushed-
"Where are your shoes?" she asks softly when they part, and he tries to hold his sigh back, tries to think.
"Never mind," she says after three and a half seconds. "You don't need shoes." She laces their hands together, nudges him towards the door, and he goes, he goes, he will go anywhere she takes him, without even asking questions.
Especially if she's woken him up at freaking five in the morning.
Kate leads them out of the house, through the little path that opens onto the beach. The morning air is cool and lovely, not cold, just invigorating, the smells of the grass and the surrounding trees rising up, filling his lungs. Oh, wow. Wow, this is amazing.
The sand is cold, though, and he hisses when they get to the beach, his feet curling up against the aggression. Kate turns back to look at him, laughter in her eyes, and such tenderness too; his heart races in his chest.
"Sun's rising," she says, the only explanation she offers.
And she's right; behind her, the sky is paling, night blue receding, almost gone already, overridden by the striking morning light. It makes Kate's eyes look greener than he's ever seen them, the flecks of brown shining like gold as she regards him. No one else is here; the beach is empty, silent but for the lulling ebb of the waves, the occasional squawk of a seagull.
Her fingers curl against his, trail him after her; she walks slowly, head turned upwards, like she's drinking it in, all of it, the early morning at the beach, the colours and the quiet, the world awaking for them. He's stunned, struck silly by this amazing woman who has just dragged him out of bed so he could watch the sunrise with her; he doesn't know what to say.
"Kate."
She swirls back to him, her smile beaming everywhere, in her eyes, the curl of her mouth, the arch of her eyebrows. He cannot breathe. "Gorgeous, isn't it?" she breathes, and he hears it again, this little girl pleasure that he finds absolutely irresistible, the awe and the joy that cut right through him. Damn it, and now this stupid Leona Lewis song makes sense, keep bleeding love or some equally inane lyrics, but he can feel them-
He tugs on Kate's hand and she surges up against him, presses that bright smile to his mouth, the hum of her laugh tumbling down his throat. "There's something else you have to see," she tells him, a mischievous edge to her eyes, so goddamn beautiful.
She leads him farther along the beach, closer to the wet sand that the waves are still licking; she stops first to take off her running shoes, her socks, sighs in satisfaction when she digs her toes into the sand. Ah, he wants her in bed with him, under him, above him, anything-
"Look," she says, still smiling. His chest puffs up with it, misplaced pride surely, but he can hear Jim's words in the back of his head. Kate's happy. Oh, thank you, god, thank you-
And then he follows her eyes, sees it. A message written on the sand.
You're not the only one that do not get everything right, it reads, and because Castle has a big soft heart, because it's five in the morning and he's still not awake all the way, he finds himself melting a little. Although-
"Should be who," he can't help noticing out loud. And then he sees Kate grinning at him.
"Should be does," she shoots back, and crap, she's right, and how can he have missed that?
"I think it makes it more real," she adds with a light shrug, her eyes traveling over the words again. "None of us are doing things exactly right, even when we're trying to reach out to each other. But we keep trying."
His chest is full, and his words are all muddled, so he does the next best thing. He goes to her, wraps himself around her, waiting for the moment when she lifts her head, meets his eyes.
And he kisses her.
She's laughing at something Castle said, something silly no doubt, as she turns the key inside the lock of her apartment, her bag over her shoulder, but the moment she pushes the door open, before she's even gotten a glimpse inside, Kate can tell something's off, something's wrong.
The feeling spreads like wildfire, licks in her guts, and then she's yanking Castle behind her, forceful, not even flinching when his back slams into the corridor wall.
Her hand instinctively searches for her gun, but she doesn't have it, not anymore, and her chest is immediately flooded with both anger and helplessness.
Fuck, fuck.
"Castle, stay back," she whispers fiercely.
He opens his mouth to argue but she presses her palm to his lips, refusing his objections, begging him with her eyes.
The moment she releases him, he's speaking anyway, voice quiet but intense, pleading. "Kate, don't go in there. Let's call the cops and go back to the lobby."
Call the cops.
Oh, that slices right through her, re-opens a wound that she doesn't remember getting in the first place. She grits her teeth, forces herself to look at it through Castle's eyes; she doesn't have a gun; she doesn't know who might be in there; normal people - civilians - do not walk right into their apartments when it's obvious they've been broken into.
Right. Right.
She looks at him, the blue eyes that she loves and that are beseeching her, imploring her not to be careless with her own life - she has a life now - and she relents.
"Let's take the stairs," she says, the words abrasive against her throat, but the look in his eyes, the gratitude, the dizzying relief - it's almost worth it.
They wait at the bottom of the staircase. Kate is jittery, pacing, but she's safe; it's everything Castle wants, needs, and he drops his phone back into his pocket after texting Alexis and his mother to go on home without him.
He leans back against the wall, watches Kate, the long, graceful line of her body reminding him of a caged animal; in the end she stops moving and settles right next to him, not touching, only close enough that he can feel the heat radiating off her body.
Heat.
Such an appropriate name he came up with.
The lobby door opens then, pushed by the Robbery detectives from the 12th, two guys that Castle's not familiar with; but Kate knows their names and, from the look they exchange, the men know her too. She explains the situation, meeting their doubt with her cool efficiency, and they all go up again.
Only this time they both stay back, Kate turned civilian and waiting with him in the hall.
The detectives clear her apartment quickly enough; Castle can feel Kate vibrating next to him, all that frustration at having to wait outside. He takes her hand, and she lets him.
They're finally allowed inside. The oldest of the two cops, a forty-something man with silver hair and grave brown eyes, gives Kate a sorry look.
Her place is trashed. It's like a tornado has struck, devastated the whole space; wherever the writer looks, there doesn't seem to be one thing intact. Only - only the painting is untouched, he realizes after a moment.
The painting with the bombs raining on the woman.
Shit, shit.
This isn't a break-in. This is warning.
He meets Kate's eyes and he finds the same terrible knowledge there, the same incomprehension, the same fear. A warning.
A warning for what?
She's dropped the case; she's quit her job. They haven't done anything, nothing that comes even close to investigating, and hell they were just in the Hamptons for Father's Day-
"Castle," she breathes, and there's so much resignation, so much desolation in these two syllables.
Oh, no. She doesn't get to give up. She doesn't get to look at him like she's breaking up with him.
He's at her side in the next second, enveloping her with himself, arms at her waist and at her neck and you don't get to do this, Kate. "It's fine," he tells her fiercely, almost believes it. "It's just a mistake. This is nothing, Kate. We'll be fine."
She says nothing, but her hold on him is a little too tight, her breathing a little too fast at his neck. She doesn't believe him.