Meraki, Ch. 3-A plotless Caskett WIP set shortly after Murder He Wrote (5x04)
Title: Meraki
WC: ~1200 this chapter, 3600 so far
Rating: T
Summary: "She wants that. The sweetness of settling next to him, words and sounds and satisfaction rolling over them both. The quiet pleasure of feeding him. Of making this her place, too. Their place." A story of indeterminate length about nothing at all. Set some time not too long after "Murder, He Wrote" (5 x 04)
He leaves her undone. Weak kneed and wanting with her fingers curled hard over the edge of the counter, just when she needs to be moving. When she needs to be doing.
His footsteps retreat, slow and deliberate. Heavy as they rise higher and higher. She knows what he's doing. She knows he's tempting her. Going and going. Making a production of it. He knows she's on the verge of dashing after him.
But the table is beautiful. The progress she's made, anyway. The scents filling the kitchen after the rain and the whole scene. It's beautiful.
She lingers on the kitchen threshold, her arms spread wide like she's being pulled this way and that. His footsteps save her though. Firm and swift overhead, now rushing high above, back the way they came until they're directly overhead. They patter quickly back and forth in their bedroom. It draws her back into the kitchen, laughing.
He feels closer like this. Overlapping rhythm, his steps and hers, as if they're dancing all over again. It's enough for now.
She races for the broom. For streamers of paper towels to clean up the wet, sandy mess on the floor. It's all taken up precious time. Dithering and day dreaming and wanting him. Their impromptu dance in the rain. Still, she takes a moment at the glass. She presses her palm to it and feels the percussion of the rain. She feels the cold shock of his lips on her skin and breathes a silent thank you to the storm for the memory.
Just a moment, though, and then she's moving. Still and grateful, then frantic. She had everything timed down to the minute, and she's behind now. The knife flashes and bottles clank together on the counter. She dashes from plate to plate and bowl to bowl. Table to counter to cupboard.
She snaps linens taut and smoothes them into place. She rolls napkins tight and enjoys the chime of brilliant, jewel-toned beach glass as she slides them into rings. The the scene fills in with scent and color and weight. The tableaux she'd imagined coaxed to life.
It's perfect. It's getting there.
The tomatoes and fresh mozzarella need dressing. Vinegar and oil with chiffonade basil and finely minced garlic. She has it all staged, but the platter is chilling and the rest of it got pushed off to the side for last-minute assembly, a drizzle of green and purple to accent bright red and cream nestled together.
She reaches for something to mix the dressing in. Something clean that's on hand. It's too small, really, and she's violent with the whisk in her eagerness. It goes everywhere. Everywhere.
She curses under her breath and hikes up the tails of her shirt, trying to keep the fabric clear of most of the mess.
"Oh, it's that kind of dinner." One arm comes around her middle, palming her shirt higher on her ribs. "If I'd known, I wouldn't have bothered getting dressed."
The fingers of his free hand swipe across her belly, coming away slick with oil. He brings his fingers to his lips. He freezes. She feels the moment he shifts gears.
"Oh, God, Beckett. That's good." His voice rumbles in her ear, low and laced with all kinds of hunger.
A laugh bubbles up in her. Pleasure and pride. She wipes her hands clean as she pivots. She tucks her hips back and holds the mess of her own clothes clear of him as she turns to hand him the towel. She looks him up and down, a flutter of appreciation rising in her.
"Mmmm. Glad you bothered." She runs a palm down the front of his shirt, enjoying the delicate texture of embroidery and the casual fall of the untucked hem over his hips. The contrast of colors. Deep blue against her skin. Against his, toasted brown and freckled with the sun.
A smile lights him up. Muscles flutter under her touch. It's deliberately a little too light. He's ticklish sometimes, but it's more than that. The smile and the faintest blush, because it means something to him. Knowing that she loves to look at him. For all his over-the-top vanity, it lights him up to know he makes her heart race.
"Figured you'd approve." He straightens his shoulders, preening for her and making a show of licking his fingers clean. "Since you laid it out on the bed. Subtle, Beckett."
"I needed you to go with my table." She drops back on her heels. Remembers her ruined clothes at the last second. Remembers that she's so behind. "My table. Castle. Shoot. I'm . . . shoot. Nothing's ready and I'm not dressed . . ."
"I don't mind." He cuts in. Gives chase as she edges away from him. "Not dressed is not a problem."
"Castle."
She's exasperated. Disappointed all out of proportion until his hands come to rest on her shoulders. Until he steals one taste of the curve of her neck and herds her toward the stairs. "Go. Change."
"Castle, I have to . . ." She tries to twist away, but he's corralling her with his body. Skating her bare feet across the floor. "There's . . ."
"Kate." He nips at her ear. Dirty pool. He knows exactly what it does to her. She comes to a stop. She shivers against him. "Let me. It's amazing already. Let me do the rest."
She casts a panicked look over her shoulder. There's the dressing and the candles to light. There's the music and where she wants the bread to go. There's the wine to open and half a dozen other little details so it's perfect. She wants this to be perfect.
"But I . . ." She pops up on her toes to see over him.
"But you . . ." he mimics as he dodges to block her view. "You are slippery and taste delicious and if you don't want the rest of this deliciousness to go to waste, you need to go."
He holds her at arm's length like it might help. It doesn't. He falters. He looks her up and down and one hand falls to the denim line that dips below her navel. The rough surface of the button and the brass glimmer of her zipper. His tongue flicks over his lips and it's almost all over then. For both of them.
His skin is still cool from the rain and light catches the drops still clinging to his hair because he was too impatient to really dry it. He's gorgeous in that color. Gorgeous with wanting her.
She forgets what she wants. She's suddenly willing to forget the table and the music and everything.
But he squeezes his eyes shut. He whirls her around. She feels the push and pull in him as he marches her a few steps closer to the stairs.
"Go. Beckett. Now."
She laughs. Her toes curl with it and she wants to race. There and back. She wants the table to be theirs. A moment more perfect for his hands at work there, too.
She goes.
A/N: I think just one chapter after this. Thanks for reading something about nothing much.