(no subject)
Title: Obsidian
Rating: M (language, smut)
Spoilers: Set early season 5, but no spoilers for anything beyond Always.
A/N: What can I tell you? They wanted to have angry sex.
You should see yourself
Contorting into shapes to try and re-explain yourself
We would all just laugh
If it wasn't such a shame
This time it's a matter of life and death
Come on now, Obsidian
Soften your skin
Let the change begin
----Steve Dawson, "Obsidian"
Everything about this is harder than she thought it would be. That's how she feels when she's all out of fairness and the ability to see both sides. When she's giving the middle finger to the Dr. Burke in her head, who says things like Life is small moments, Kate. Life is work. Right now, she is all out of fairness and her mental middle finger is standing proud.
What makes her angriest is that she misses him. She misses the mundane annoyances: The way he taps his pen, his fingers, whatever's available when his mind is writing in the background. And she misses the day-to-day things that make him . . . convenient to have around: Warm, solid calves, shoulders, hips, back. All of him to press her cold morning self into. Toes. The tip of her nose when it goes blue in the arctic blast of the loft. Because it's mid-October and he still insists on cranking up the A/C and burrowing under blankets.
She misses the pieces of her that he keeps with him wherever he goes. And the things she didn't know she wanted (needed) until he gave them to her.
She is lonely without him and it's hard not to hate him for it, because she has never been lonely in her adult life.
It's not just the fact of missing him that makes her angry, but its scope. She misses him comprehensively. The longing is ubiquitous. All encompassing. Even her vocabulary for it is stitched together from the kinds of words he loves. Strange words that used to live for her only on the page. In whispers so infrequent that the words never lost their exotic bite. Now they breathe them into one another. In passion. In fun. In anger.
He is annoyingly articulate. More so when he is angry, and how is that fair?
It's childish. She knows it's childish, but somehow she'd thought they were done being angry. That the last of it had been washed away in the storm and everything that followed. She still feels her eyes go wide when it happens. She snaps at him. He snaps back. One of them storms away. Big or small. Over in a minute or stretching across days, it shocks her every time, the hard reality that there can be anger between them. That there is anger between them.
It's so much harder than she thought it would be. All of it.
And he thinks it was easy for her. Showing up on his doorstep. Soaking wet, hobbling, and barely able to breathe through a mosaic of bruises. Talking her way past an understandably alarmed Eduardo when he wouldn't pick up the damned phone. He thinks that was easy.
A least she thinks he thinks that. That's how it seems, when she's like this: Angry and alone and not ok and hating him for stealing her self-sufficiency right out from under her. When her mind shouts loud enough to drown out Burke's maddeningly sensible advice: Work, Kate. Showing up, putting in the time. Grand gestures can only take you so far.
When she's not like this-when she can be still inside-she knows he doesn't think it was easy.
She knows, because he can't forget the bruises. She can tell by the way he keeps his hands careful. The way he reaches for her and draws back. Hesitates, then brushes and slides when his instinct is to drag, pull, knead, tease, mark. She can tell by the sorrow, the apology he never quite whispers. By the way he never quite asks if he hurt her when he does forget and instinct washes over them both for a while.
She can tell by the nightmares. He never wakes from them. Never comes out of it to feel her lips seeking out the tears on his cheeks. Never hears her say his name, her name, over and over, tumbling together with reassurances until he's quieter. He never wakes. She always does. She hopes she always does, whether he hears her or not.
She's never used her key before. Never let herself in when he knows she's coming over. Never stepped around him to save him the trouble of juggling grocery bags and digging in his pockets for his own set. Certainly never slipped into the darkened loft when he's three time zones away.
He'd given it to her a month to the day after the storm. Just slipped it on to her key ring without comment. She hadn't given any indication that she'd noticed. She hadn't told him that it made her heart pound and her stomach drop away and climb back up again. That she'd been waiting for it, hoping for it, and that she thought it might be too soon. That maybe he should take it back. She hadn't said anything at all.
And now it's sticking in the lock and it won't turn either way and she is all out of half-apologetic smiles for the neighbors, every last goddamned one of whom would be coming or going at this exact moment, even though it's after 1 AM. She gives a last vicious tug and the key slips free.
She stumbles back far enough that her elbow slams into the wall behind her. Her arm whites out for a moment with the impact to her ulnar nerve, then lights up like Times Square. She is less than two seconds away from kicking the fucking door in when yet another neighbor pops out of the elevator.
Of course it's the one she hates: A well-preserved silvery blonde fifty-something broker who made enough during the dot com boom to retire at 40. She spent a decade shopping and now she's done shopping. Now she dabbles. Is thinking of writing a memoir or maybe a crime novel. Or becoming a chef.
"Kate!" The woman is actually advancing on her with open arms and the apparent expectation of air kisses.
"Mariel." Beckett brings her arm up in an awkward wave that doubles as a block.
It's overtly rude, but Mariel is unfazed. "Why, I thought Rick was out of town until Thursday at least?"
"He is." She's not about to elaborate.
Mariel's superficial grin is starting to look a little the worse for wear. "Oh, ok. Well, I watered the plants yesterday evening, so they should be good until tomorrow at least."
She watered the plants. Castle had asked her to water the plants. Oh.
"Thank you," Kate blurts as soon as she realizes that it's her turn to say something.
"Of course," she says brightly, then adds with a slightly puzzled look. "So, you'll let me know if I need to stop by again before Thursday? Just . . . you know . . . slip a note under my door or leave a message with Eduardo. Unless you're going to take care of it?"
"Sure. Will do. Take care of it, I mean."
She waits two beats after the door closes behind Mariel before she is back working at the lock. Embarrassment is sizzling over her skin and she has to get out of this hallway.
She gentles the key out of the lock a fraction of an inch and twists. It goes a quarter of the way around and sticks again, hard enough to grind the bones of her wrist together unpleasantly.
"Fuck," she hisses. Her forehead makes contact with the door harder than she meant it to.
She goes rigid when she feels tears gathering at the corners of her eyes and that is just it. She jerks at the key again and of course-of course-it makes a full turn and the door swings open.
She's perched on a stool in the kitchen. Spine straight, fingers hinged over the lip of the counter. It's a compromise. It's ridiculous. Worst of all, it's working.
She feels more like herself than she has since he had dropped his bag on the curb and come back to her. Peeled her fingers away from her ribs to step close and slide rough fingers around the base of her skull. To kiss her hard. "I love you, Kate. I'll call."
She hadn't said anything, just watched him pick up his bag again and slide into the back seat of the car. He hadn't looked back.
He'd called. Of course he'd called. She hadn't answered. Not the first time. Not the second.
She answered the third time. It was a disaster.
Her terse hello.
A long pause and then his voice, wary and not altogether friendly. "Kate. You answered."
Not a lot to go on. "Yeah."
Another pause. "Ok."
He can't think he's going to win this. Grudges and monosyllables are her territory.
He breaks 10 seconds later and it's awful. His voice is bright and social and meant to be charming.
She cuts into a story he's telling. Derails whatever this is. "I know. You said."
"What?" He abruptly sounds exhausted.
"About the studio guy and Paula. You told me."
"So you at least listened to the messages." His voice is flat. Not angry. Not relieved.
"I listened to the messages." She wonders what her voice sounds like to him.
There's another pause. Voices in the background and the harsh scrape of his hand covering the speaker. Syllables bleed through his fingers, muffled but sharp. Angry. Now he sounds angry.
"And I'm taking 5 fucking minutes." She hears that part clearly as his hand slides away from the speaker.
"Beckett?"
She wonders how he does that. Turns everything around in the space of a breath. It's an apology and a plea and an explanation. A promise.
"I'm here." Her voice is small. "You have to go."
"No. Not right . . ." He lets out a frustrated sigh. "Three hours. I know it's late there, but I can't get out of this. If I call in three hours, will you pick up?"
"Yeah." She's coming apart and she needs to get off the phone now. "Yeah, I'll pick up."
"Ok," he breathes.
She knows exactly the expression on his face right now. The downward slant of his head. The way his eyes go wide, then drift closed.
"I love you, Castle." The words run into each other, but she has to say it first this time. It's important, though she's not sure why.
Important or not, she's burning up with embarrassment and she can't even wait for him to say it back, though she needs it more than air right now.
"Three hours," she says and ends the call.
The marble countertop is cool and slick under her cheek. It's also wet with what can only be her own drool. Ugh. She tries to lift her head and everything from the waist up protests loudly.
How could she have fallen asleep? After days of fitful tossing and turning in her own bed. After sullenly ignoring half a dozen sunrises from the couch, eyes skipping over the same page of text for the tenth time, how could she possibly have fallen asleep in his kitchen?
The next thought slams into her. Snaps her upright and jerks the stiffness from her muscles. What woke her up?
And there it is again: A key in the door.
She's off the stool and covering the distance to the door in angry strides. If it is that fucking neighbor about the goddamned plants, she is not above asking Lanie to help her hide a body.
She stops dead when she hears something else. Something else again. Realizes now that this is what really woke her up: Her own name on the other side of the door. Low and urgent and half lost in the sounds of clumsy movements.
"Kate, I know . . ."
The door swings open and she winces against the light tipping in from the hallway.
"Kate." He's still holding the phone to his ear.
She's in the exact middle of the loft, as far from cover as it is possible to be and every joint in her body is locked up tight. If her life depends on her moving, this is how she'll die.
Three sharp noises ring out in rapid succession. His phone clatters to the hall table. His bag hits the floor with the unmistakable sound of something inside breaking. The door slams behind him with the kind of finality she's heard once before.
He's forgotten about the bruises. He's tugging her head back. Bending her spine and towering over her. His teeth land on the sharp ridge of her shoulder and she thinks he might've broken the skin.
It galvanizes her. She hooks her fingertips over the tops of his shoulder blades and retaliates. Opens her mouth and pushes a series of curses past her lips. Presses them into his skin with her own teeth.
He answers in kind. Profanity and prayer wrapped around her name.
It weaves a spell around her. His words always do. All her blood feels like it's rushing to the surface to greet his skin and there's nothing to keep her upright. She's leaning so heavily against his arm around her waist that he might as well be carrying her.
He is carrying her now. Practically carrying her, though the tips of her toes occasionally touch down on the floor. It's urgent and entirely ungraceful.
The sharp edge of the console table scrapes at the backs of her thighs as he hauls her up on to it. Something to her left topples and crashes to the floor as they both struggle to free her arms from her sleeves.
He gives up. Jerks her bra strap down her shoulder and pulls her head back again. Arches her breast up into his waiting mouth.
"God, Castle." The words are all but lost on her sharp inhale as the other strap joins the first and thank the gods and little fishes that the idiot remembered how to work a bra clasp.And then it's all burning chaos. Teeth and tongue and fingers working without rhythm until she's weightless and disoriented and her own hands are casting about, trying to find purchase somewhere on his body.
"Fuck, Beckett!" He moans. His head is suddenly heavy against her neck and his fingers are opening and closing around her shoulders.
For a second, she can't figure out what she's done to deserve the sudden, terrible absence of his hands and mouth anywhere interesting.
Then her mind catches up with her body. His belt is wrapped around her left palm. At some point she seems to have hooked her ankles around the backs of his thighs. Her right hand is slipping past his half-open fly with some difficulty. There's so little space between their bodies that it's kind of a win-win.
She lifts her hips and her mouth falls open. He repeats his curse. Her name. Adds some colorful adjectives and a threat or two.
She drops the belt and her hand snakes up to the back of his neck. She yanks on a fistful of hair. She notes in a detached sort of way that he needs a hair cut.
"Let me down," she hisses as she disentangles their legs.
"No." He tugs fiercely on her earlobe with his teeth. "No."
"Castle, I need to take off my fucking pants now. Let me down or I will end you." She's impressed with herself. It's the longest sentence she's uttered in a week, and given that her tongue wants nothing more than to remind her how his inner thighs taste, she thinks they're handling the dialogue pretty well.
He seems to think so, too. He steps back from her with a stunned look on his face, his hands raised in surrender.
Good, she thinks. And then, Oh, when did he lose his shirt? That's a time saver.
Her feet hit the floor and the rest of her almost follows. He catches her hips and looks so damned satisfied with himself that she can't help it. Her hand shoots out and tweaks his nipple. Hard.
"Ow! OW!"His self-satisfied smile dies half-born and he slaps her hands away from the waistband of her jeans. He yanks at them and drops to his knees, following as he peels the tight fabric away from her skin. Takes her underwear along for the ride.
By unspoken agreement, she arches her hips up and back, planting herself on the table again. He pulls the jeans free of her dangling feet and pitches them away. His mouth lands on her hip and travels low across her belly, sucking and scraping.
His eyes flick upward and he almost laughs. Her face is white with the effort of trying not to squirm and it's all for nothing. She's vibrating from head to toe. She gives it up when he touches his tongue between her legs and stops.
"Castle." Her head falls back and stretches his name out into a long moan that takes forever to escape entirely from her throat. She spreads her thighs, presses her hips toward him.
She's moving so wildly now that, honestly, it doesn't leave him much to do but slip his fingers behind her knees and hold on until she's rigid and still and far from silent for a long, long moment.
If he'd thought an orgasm would take the edge off the furious energy driving them both, he was wrong. She's rubber limbed and panting and this interferes not at all with her ability to haul him up her body and keep him upright while she finishes the job she started on his pants.
He kicks his way free of them and catches her under the arms before she can follow through on her plans for payback. She lets her knees go. Makes herself dead weight. When that doesn't work, she struggles. He stills her. Wraps her in a bear hug and side steps her away from the table and against the back of the couch.
"No," he growls in her ear. "Beckett, stop."
Whatever sounds she's making, they're not words. They are however, unmistakably furious and fuck if he isn't confused as usual. She's twisting against him. Struggling with feeling, but there's no question she could get away from him if she really wanted to and they both know it. So what the actual fuck?
The thought is barely formed when suddenly it's mission accomplished for Beckett. She slams one hip into his. He rocks back just enough for her to do a 180 and . . . Oh.
She plants her hands flat on the back of the couch sets her feet a little wider. He falls over her and every inch of her skin against his chest is like a gift. He grabs her wrists and slams into her and he doesn't know which of them is screaming. Whoever it is, she has a filthy mouth and she's pretty into this.
Not that he isn't. He's a little too into it, in fact, and it's over for him in an embarrassingly short amount of time. He's just on the verge of a broken, breathless apology when she reverses his hold. She grabs one wrist and shoves his hand between her legs. He stands her up against him while she, once again, does most of the work. His free hand skims its way up her chest and skips from nipple to nipple. Never let it be said he makes no contribution to the effort.
If she has any complaints on that front, they're lost in a continuing stream of profanity and his name and, not too long after, a wordless howl. She half turns into him and slithers to something like a sitting position against the back of the couch.
He cradles her head against his chest and leans down to kiss her. Guilt flares bright and sick-making in him as he realizes it's the first time he's kissed her since he walked in the door.
She feels him tense and panics.
"Couch. No talking." She pushes her way free of him. Tugs him along by the hand as she steps around to the front of the couch.
She stops short. Frowns down at the single blanket. The leather is cold and the air in the loft is freezing because he won't even turn down the goddamned air conditioning when no one is there.
He sees the goosebumps crawling over her shoulders and realizes he's freezing, too. He dips his chin to her shoulder and whispers in her ear, "Bed, Kate."
"No," she shouts and whirls around to face him. "I'm pissed at you."
He opens his mouth and he's not sure whether he's going to laugh or cry. It turns out to be a sigh and he thinks that's probably best for his long-term survival. "Yeah, Beckett, I'm pissed at you, too."
She gapes at him. "What the hell are you pissed at me for?"
He laughs this time. There's really nothing for it. He laughs. "Would you like a numbered list? A series of haikus? A dozen villanelles end to end?"
She thinks about hitting him, but Burke would probably have a lot to say about solving her relationship problems with violence and she doesn't need the hassle. Unfortunately the alternative to violence seems to be tearing up.
"Jesus, Kate." He has her wrapped up again, and if he's not crying he's close. "Please. Please just come to bed. I love you and I am angry and I am so fucking exhausted that I just can't do this right now."
"How did you even get here?" She asks suddenly.
He doesn't miss a beat. "Wormhole."
She huffs a laugh into the hollow of his throat. "Jerk."
"That I am," he agrees. "Pissed Paula off royally by spending most of the event getting myself on the next flight out of LA and finding a driver willing to break land speed records to get to the airport in time."
They stand there in the dark for a moment, wrapped around each other. She's shivering and he's about to take another stab at coaxing her between his sheets-from purely altruistic motives for once-when she speaks. "Just give me number one, Castle. And then we can go to bed."
He hesitates. Not because he's unsure. He's so sure that the prospect of giving voice to it frightens him. But she'll know if he lies and what happens then frightens him even more.
"Number one." He rests his forehead against her temple and whispers, "You hold your breath like you're waiting for us to fail."