Somnolescent, Ch. 2-A Season 5 Caskett 3-Shot
Title: Somnolescent, Ch. 2
Rating: T
Summary: "She's usually the one batting him away. Half asleep with the sweat still drying on her bare skin and no patience at all for the soft breathless kisses and bed time stories he loves to tell as he fits her body into the hollows of his own. She's usually the one to sprawl and grumble and hog the covers, sinking fast into dreams."
A/N: Another offering to/gift from the gods of sleeplessness. Again, no real context, other than early established relationship.
It's a rare reversal tonight. An unfamiliar foray into stereotype. She's not a fan.
She's usually the one batting him away. Half asleep with the sweat still drying on her bare skin and no patience at all for the soft breathless kisses and bed time stories he loves to tell as he fits her body into the hollows of his own. She's usually the one to sprawl and grumble and hog the covers, sinking fast into dreams.
That's how it is enough of the time that he teases her.
Such a man, Beckett. Using me for my body, then just rolling over and going to sleep
Didn't hear you complaining while the 'using' was going on, Castle.
Like you'd hear anything over your own cries of ecstasy.
Ecstasy, she mutters, but it it gets lost in her own mouth. Somewhere far short of the tip of her tongue. She's asleep already.
It usually goes like that, but tonight it's him. Tonight, he's the one, heavy limbed and breathing deep. Not quite snoring, but it seems like that when she can't stop staring at the sweep of the second hand on her dad's watch propped next to her on the night stand. When the minutes and hours on his stupid, glowing dial turn over and over and over.
It seems like that when it's the exact dead of night and her eyes are still wide open and everything's exaggerated. When the ceiling is too white and endlessly far away and the walls are too close.
The soundscape of the city changes when it's well and truly late. The street below is quieter. Objectively quieter. She knows that, but every single noise tugs at her, and it's worse for the fact that there's no regularity. None of the reliable ebb and flow of a city at work. It's erratic. Unpredictable, and every single squeal of tires and distant shout plucks her out of what she's immediately sure was so nearly sleep at last.
Then his breath sounds like snoring. Then his body is too warm or too chilled when her own cold toes skate along his shin. Then he's too heavy and unmoving. Too fidgety. Then there's an imaginary clock somewhere. Ticking, ticking, ticking, and a light she can't find that slips through the open spaces of the shelves and burns even through her eyelids.
Then she turns her body over and over and over, and it drives her insane the way the blankets are pinned beneath him. Then she elbows him and he stirs. Just enough that she can snatch at the sheet. She pulls it across her body. Tucks it tight under her shoulder and presses her face-down body hard into the mattress, determined-absolutely determined-not to move.
It doesn't last, though. The sheet is too scratchy. It's too loose, a whispering rise and fall in the breeze of the fan he insists on running all night. It's too tight, and she can't stand the way it presses her shoulders down. She's a miserable, all-over itch. She'll never sleep again, and there he is, heavy limbed and breathing deep.
Sleeping.
"Do you hate me?" she asks when he wakes.
When he's woken. She might have had something to do with it. She might have pinched him hard. She might be losing her mind a little.
"Hate you?" It's an odd combination. The smile he always has for her at war with the confusion furrowing his brow. "Never hate you." He kisses her. Rolls into her, mouth first, anyway, then pulls back, not quite frowning. "Did you pinch me?"
"You must hate me." She leapfrogs the question. It's not quite fair. Nothing about this is, really. "Night after night." She rolls on to her back, feeling bleak. Tragic and white and far away like the ceiling. "How could you not?"
"For sleeping. Do I hate you for sleeping?"
He sounds so proud of himself for connecting the dots. Like he's holding up a prize fish or knows who the murderer is, and she wants to pinch him again. He has her wrapped up, though. He has his arms around her and he's strong. Far stronger in this clumsy, unguarded state than he lets on in daylight, and somehow that infuriates her, too. It makes her struggle, kicking and trying to hit out with her fists, but he just holds her tighter.
"Never," he chants as his mouth drags over her skin. "Never hate you."
He holds her until she's quiet. Until the last ounce of inexplicable fight bleeds out of her and she's limp. Exhausted like a child, and the tears run from her eyes.
"Jealous." The word floats up out of him like a dreamy, one-word poem.
Her breath hitches once, twice, but she's too spent even to sob. To protest that it's a step along the same road. Jealousy. Hate. Companions to one another. She's too empty for anything, but he knows. Even startled out of a sound sleep, he knows.
"Not jealous of you."
He pinches her waist. Playful retaliation and the weak laugh siphons off the last of her energy. Blank, unfeeling tears wind along cool tracks on her cheeks. The product of exhaustion and nothing more.
"Jealous of sleep. Because it gets to have you like that."
He rocks one shoulder rearranging her. Staring off into the dark, mostly, but once in a while down at her face, like he's sketching her from life and only needs a now and then glance to know he's got the lines right.
"You laugh sometimes, you know." He plants a no arguments kiss on her forehead as if she's denying it. "And sometimes you scrunch your face up into this epic frown like a little kid and I wonder who you're arguing with. If it's me or your dad or some stupid boyfriend from a million years ago." He traces the lines down and out. Away from her lips and along her jaw. "I wonder what makes you laugh like that and sigh and wrinkle your nose."
He arrives back at the corner of her mouth and she feels it turn up. The tang of salt as a tear slips in. The silence opens her eyes. The hesitation, though her lids are swollen and the light that slips through feels heavy enough to hurt. He's waiting. A steady, blue gaze and a light-up smile.
"I love watching you in the light of day." There's an intensity underneath the words. Seriousness that's almost pleading. Willing her to understand that he means this. Willing her to believe it. To know it. "I love how in control you are. Poised and elegant, and so . . ." He breaks off on a groan. A hot, hungry kiss that takes him as much by surprise as it does her. "So fucking articulate." He breaks the kiss just as suddenly. He strokes her hair like she's the one who needs quieting. "I love watching what you've made of yourself."
He shifts again. He turns her like a doll in his arms and fits her body to his. He whispers over her shoulder, the words cool against her drying cheeks.
"But when you sleep, you surrender, and you fall so beautifully into all these different moments and moods and versions of you." His arms tighten. His voice is low and thrumming and eager. Blissful and lulling. "You fall so beautifully and sleep catches you and I'm jealous. I'm jealous, Kate."
The sibilants coil their way down her spine. The words collapse until they're just sounds. Accompaniment to her falling. She's not asleep. Not quite. But she's closer and closer and closer. Always halfway there until she falls.
A/N: I once spent the night at a friend's. I was convinced the ticking clock was the ONE THING keeping me awake, but also convinced that unplugging the clock would be unspeakably rude. But finally, I was desperate enough to yank the cord out. And the clock kept ticking, because who has a wall clock that plugs in? I went through the same agonies about the rudeness of taking out batteries and by some leap of insomniac logic, eventually threw the clock off the balcony.
Thanks for reading.
Rating: T
Summary: "She's usually the one batting him away. Half asleep with the sweat still drying on her bare skin and no patience at all for the soft breathless kisses and bed time stories he loves to tell as he fits her body into the hollows of his own. She's usually the one to sprawl and grumble and hog the covers, sinking fast into dreams."
A/N: Another offering to/gift from the gods of sleeplessness. Again, no real context, other than early established relationship.
It's a rare reversal tonight. An unfamiliar foray into stereotype. She's not a fan.
She's usually the one batting him away. Half asleep with the sweat still drying on her bare skin and no patience at all for the soft breathless kisses and bed time stories he loves to tell as he fits her body into the hollows of his own. She's usually the one to sprawl and grumble and hog the covers, sinking fast into dreams.
That's how it is enough of the time that he teases her.
Such a man, Beckett. Using me for my body, then just rolling over and going to sleep
Didn't hear you complaining while the 'using' was going on, Castle.
Like you'd hear anything over your own cries of ecstasy.
Ecstasy, she mutters, but it it gets lost in her own mouth. Somewhere far short of the tip of her tongue. She's asleep already.
It usually goes like that, but tonight it's him. Tonight, he's the one, heavy limbed and breathing deep. Not quite snoring, but it seems like that when she can't stop staring at the sweep of the second hand on her dad's watch propped next to her on the night stand. When the minutes and hours on his stupid, glowing dial turn over and over and over.
It seems like that when it's the exact dead of night and her eyes are still wide open and everything's exaggerated. When the ceiling is too white and endlessly far away and the walls are too close.
The soundscape of the city changes when it's well and truly late. The street below is quieter. Objectively quieter. She knows that, but every single noise tugs at her, and it's worse for the fact that there's no regularity. None of the reliable ebb and flow of a city at work. It's erratic. Unpredictable, and every single squeal of tires and distant shout plucks her out of what she's immediately sure was so nearly sleep at last.
Then his breath sounds like snoring. Then his body is too warm or too chilled when her own cold toes skate along his shin. Then he's too heavy and unmoving. Too fidgety. Then there's an imaginary clock somewhere. Ticking, ticking, ticking, and a light she can't find that slips through the open spaces of the shelves and burns even through her eyelids.
Then she turns her body over and over and over, and it drives her insane the way the blankets are pinned beneath him. Then she elbows him and he stirs. Just enough that she can snatch at the sheet. She pulls it across her body. Tucks it tight under her shoulder and presses her face-down body hard into the mattress, determined-absolutely determined-not to move.
It doesn't last, though. The sheet is too scratchy. It's too loose, a whispering rise and fall in the breeze of the fan he insists on running all night. It's too tight, and she can't stand the way it presses her shoulders down. She's a miserable, all-over itch. She'll never sleep again, and there he is, heavy limbed and breathing deep.
Sleeping.
"Do you hate me?" she asks when he wakes.
When he's woken. She might have had something to do with it. She might have pinched him hard. She might be losing her mind a little.
"Hate you?" It's an odd combination. The smile he always has for her at war with the confusion furrowing his brow. "Never hate you." He kisses her. Rolls into her, mouth first, anyway, then pulls back, not quite frowning. "Did you pinch me?"
"You must hate me." She leapfrogs the question. It's not quite fair. Nothing about this is, really. "Night after night." She rolls on to her back, feeling bleak. Tragic and white and far away like the ceiling. "How could you not?"
"For sleeping. Do I hate you for sleeping?"
He sounds so proud of himself for connecting the dots. Like he's holding up a prize fish or knows who the murderer is, and she wants to pinch him again. He has her wrapped up, though. He has his arms around her and he's strong. Far stronger in this clumsy, unguarded state than he lets on in daylight, and somehow that infuriates her, too. It makes her struggle, kicking and trying to hit out with her fists, but he just holds her tighter.
"Never," he chants as his mouth drags over her skin. "Never hate you."
He holds her until she's quiet. Until the last ounce of inexplicable fight bleeds out of her and she's limp. Exhausted like a child, and the tears run from her eyes.
"Jealous." The word floats up out of him like a dreamy, one-word poem.
Her breath hitches once, twice, but she's too spent even to sob. To protest that it's a step along the same road. Jealousy. Hate. Companions to one another. She's too empty for anything, but he knows. Even startled out of a sound sleep, he knows.
"Not jealous of you."
He pinches her waist. Playful retaliation and the weak laugh siphons off the last of her energy. Blank, unfeeling tears wind along cool tracks on her cheeks. The product of exhaustion and nothing more.
"Jealous of sleep. Because it gets to have you like that."
He rocks one shoulder rearranging her. Staring off into the dark, mostly, but once in a while down at her face, like he's sketching her from life and only needs a now and then glance to know he's got the lines right.
"You laugh sometimes, you know." He plants a no arguments kiss on her forehead as if she's denying it. "And sometimes you scrunch your face up into this epic frown like a little kid and I wonder who you're arguing with. If it's me or your dad or some stupid boyfriend from a million years ago." He traces the lines down and out. Away from her lips and along her jaw. "I wonder what makes you laugh like that and sigh and wrinkle your nose."
He arrives back at the corner of her mouth and she feels it turn up. The tang of salt as a tear slips in. The silence opens her eyes. The hesitation, though her lids are swollen and the light that slips through feels heavy enough to hurt. He's waiting. A steady, blue gaze and a light-up smile.
"I love watching you in the light of day." There's an intensity underneath the words. Seriousness that's almost pleading. Willing her to understand that he means this. Willing her to believe it. To know it. "I love how in control you are. Poised and elegant, and so . . ." He breaks off on a groan. A hot, hungry kiss that takes him as much by surprise as it does her. "So fucking articulate." He breaks the kiss just as suddenly. He strokes her hair like she's the one who needs quieting. "I love watching what you've made of yourself."
He shifts again. He turns her like a doll in his arms and fits her body to his. He whispers over her shoulder, the words cool against her drying cheeks.
"But when you sleep, you surrender, and you fall so beautifully into all these different moments and moods and versions of you." His arms tighten. His voice is low and thrumming and eager. Blissful and lulling. "You fall so beautifully and sleep catches you and I'm jealous. I'm jealous, Kate."
The sibilants coil their way down her spine. The words collapse until they're just sounds. Accompaniment to her falling. She's not asleep. Not quite. But she's closer and closer and closer. Always halfway there until she falls.
A/N: I once spent the night at a friend's. I was convinced the ticking clock was the ONE THING keeping me awake, but also convinced that unplugging the clock would be unspeakably rude. But finally, I was desperate enough to yank the cord out. And the clock kept ticking, because who has a wall clock that plugs in? I went through the same agonies about the rudeness of taking out batteries and by some leap of insomniac logic, eventually threw the clock off the balcony.
Thanks for reading.