Analemma, Ch. 2-A Caskett two-shot set on June 21, 2012
Title: Analemma, Ch. 2
WC: ~2900 this chapter, 5800 total
Summary: "It's the longest day of the year and he gets to spend it with Kate Beckett. It's better than anything." Two-shot, set June 21, 2012 (a few weeks post-Always)
A/N: A follow-up crept into my head. Sorry.
"You're having a good time, right?"
She's awake. She must be awake. Because she's making words. At least he thinks those are words.
"Good time."
He repeats what are probably words. It's all he's got. Because he's not at all awake.
He feels like he just closed his eyes. It's not far from true. Because there was a long good night kiss and it turned out neither of them was quite as tired as they thought. And then he wasn't as quiet as he'd hoped coming back from the bathroom in the middle of the night. So he kind of has just closed his eyes.
"Sorry." It's a swift whisper and a brush of lips over his shoulder. It's light, careful fingers stroking through his hair. "Sorry. It's early. Sleep."
But he reaches for her. Always, awake or not, and there's not far to go. She's draped half over his body already with her chin propped on his rib cage. There's early sun pouring in the tiny window to gild the bare skin of her back.
He sinks further down the bed, tugging. Her skin glides over his and they're sharing it all. Breath and warmth and golden light.
"Good time."
"Will you just eat?"
She demonstrates by popping a crispy brown potato into her mouth. The taste catches her off guard. She moans around the mouthful, rolling her shoulders and drawing it out.
"Is that how it's done, Beckett? Is that just eating?" He takes up his fork, but she snags the plate away. He ends up stabbing the already scarred butcher block of the counter. "Hey!"
She grins at him. Curves her arm protectively around the plate and away, digging in with her fork all over again.
"No." She dabs at the corners of her mouth with a napkin, a dainty maneuver completely at odds with the way she's tucking in. "You're right, Castle. You don't want any of this."
"Oh, but I do." He hooks the leg of her stool with his foot and drags the two of them closer.
She tries to twist away, holding the plate high, but his fingers curl over her hip. He finds bare skin just where she's ticklish. She shrieks and draws her elbows in. The plate tilts precariously. He catches the food toppling off the edge with his fork and scoops it into his own mouth.
"My God, Beckett." His eyes flutter shut, savoring. "This is amazing."
She smiles wide. Her fingers loosen and she hands over the plate.
"Told you." She props her elbows on the counter and waves off the forkful he tries to offer.
"You can't blame me for being suspicious." He peers at the plate, turning over pieces of sausage and egg and onion, dragging his fork through the rivers of cheese. "There are non-chocolate food groups represented here. Like all of the non-chocolate food groups. Not really in your wheelhouse, Beckett."
"My mom used to make it." She elbows him. She's still grinning. Still all light. It's a good memory, and his stomach does a little flip. "She'd feed me and my dad up and kick us out for the day."
"Kick you out?" He reaches for the coffee pot and tops off both their mugs.
"Mmmm." She savors a sip. "Rustic. It's really more my dad's thing. She'd wave to us from the porch and tell us not to come back until dinner time. We'd be out on the lake or hiking all day, and she'd sit on the porch in this huge floppy hat and big sunglasses. She'd have a stack of books this high." She holds her palm above the counter. "That and a pitcher of iced tea and her day was set. She'd finish one book, set it off on the other side and pick up the next. Just straight in. Sometimes she wouldn't even look up."
"So what was her poison?" He thinks about it. "Short if she was working through a stack. Not romance novels?"
He's too late to keep the appalled look off his face. He looks up quickly, ready with an apology, but she's scowling too.
"Not romance novels," she says. Her eyes flick away. It's half a second, that's all, but it makes him sit up. It makes his heart hammer when a shy smile curls up the corners of her mouth. "You, actually."
"Me?!" It's practically a shout.
"Yes, you."She laughs. "Go ahead and gloat."
"No." He sets his fork down. He leans in to kiss her. "No gloating." She pulls back, surprised, and he can't quite resist. "But I should've guessed a weakness for me would run in the family."
The sun is brutal. The sky is a cloudless, intense blue. The mirror calm of the lake bounces every last ray back up at them, and the metal sides of the canoe are hot to the touch.
"Castle!" She snaps over her shoulder as the silver nose pivots into yet another turn that carries them back toward shore. Back under the comparatively cool shade of the thick trees leaning in over the lake. "You cannot be that bad at this."
He drops his chin sharply as though he's been concentrating on his back sweep, rather than the tantalizing spot where her spine dips in at her lower back and skin gives way to denim.
"Sorry." He slaps at the water awkwardly with the paddle. "I thought you said . . . What?"
She's turning toward him suddenly. Carefully, skillfully pulling her paddle in to balance across the boat's sides and swinging her legs around to face him.
"You're not that bad at this." She leans as far toward him as she can without adding too much of her weight to his end. As it is, the nose lifts a little as he sinks. "You've been kicked out of every boarding school and prep school and boys school in the state. There is no way . . ."
"Guilty." He pulls his own paddle in to lay across his knees. He ducks hid head in mock contrition, it's no good. He's grinning hard. "I can paddle, row, scull, punt, or sail pretty much any kind of boat with reasonable facility."
"Then what the hell, Castle?" Her hand darts out into the water. A quick move that rocks the canoe sharply. She cups her palm and scoops a huge wave toward him.
"It's hot in the sun." He peers up at her, shaking off the water and still hiding beneath the brim of the fishing hat she's been rolling her eyes at all morning. "And the other side of the lake is, like, way over there. And . . . "
He shuts up abruptly, but it's too late.
"And what?"
"And I'm worried about sunburn," he says quickly. "I'm not sure you were thorough with the sunscreen. And you wouldn't let me check and . . ." She folds her arms and lets him ramble. She stares him down, her face is absolute stone. "And I hate canoes," he finishes with a stubborn flick at the water. "There is, like, zero possibility for making out in a canoe."
She smiles, of all things. Something slow and dangerous that unfurls. He jerks toward her, immediate and unthinking, because he needs to wipe that look right off her face as soon as possible, but they're in a damned canoe. His paddle skids forward and the boat rocks alarmingly.
She's unfazed. Her foot arcs up, timed perfectly to stop the slide of his paddle and shove it back his way. In the same motion, she takes up her own paddle and swings back around to face the front of the boat.
"Castle, there was zero possibility of making out once you put on that hat."
"So. Not quite zero," he murmurs against her cheek.
"Shut up." She swats at him. "I made you take it off."
"Among other things." He nips at her shoulder.
"Still fully clothed here, Castle." She arches her back, splaying her arms wide against the faded plaid of the blanket. She turns the pale skin of her wrists up to the sun and lets her eyes drift shut.
He runs a lazy hand down her side, and it's technically true. Other than his hat which he suspects he won't find, no matter how hard he searches, the last little while has been more about frantic groping and strategic rearrangement, rather than removal of clothing.
"Only literally," he says as his hand creeps under her shirt. "And only because of you and your weird rules."
"My weird rules about public nudity and sex in cemeteries." She rolls toward him abruptly, not exactly discouraging his wandering fingers.
"First of all . . ." He curls an arm around her waist and hauls her higher on his chest. "We're next to the cemetery." He nods behind them to the rusted out iron fence. "Second of all, it's a super old-and by the way very cool-cemetery here on the other side of your lake, so I'm pretty sure there's nobody alive to be offended. And third of all . . ." The hand at her waist dips to trace its way up the inside of her thigh. "Third of all . . . you're kind of all about the technicalities right now, Detective."
She shivers and rolls against him. Her mouth lands hard at the base of his throat. She sucks at the skin and pulls away with a wet sound that's absolutely profane. "Technicality is nine-tenths of the law, Castle."
"I don't think . . ." His breath skips and his words trail off as her hands travel swiftly down his sides. "I don't think that's the saying."
"Don't think, Castle." She tugs at his belt. "It only gets you in trouble."
"Stars," she reminds him when he gives her a look for pulling out the big pot for coffee. "You're not dozing off on me tonight."
"Yes. Dozing off. I definitely won't do that again." He smiles down into the sink full of soapy water as she presses a kiss to his shoulder blade in passing.
He finishes up the dinner dishes and heads outside to get the fire started.
"No cheating," she calls after him. She taps the can of lighter fluid on the counter behind her.
"My fires are free of accelerants and other carcinogens, Beckett."
It feels like cheating anyway. Her dad has a ridiculous stock of neatly stacked wood under a heavy tarp that's secured within an inch of its life. There's a lidded tin pail next to the pile with dry, scrubby plants, pine needles, and paper sealed in a plastic bag for tinder. The weather has held up for them, but the days earlier in the week were windy enough that the ground is littered with smaller branches.
They lingered over a late dinner, and the sun is low, if slow to set. It's a little hard to see in the heavy shade around the house. She's just stepping through the door, mugs in hand, when he touches the match to the loose pile of needles and paper underneath.
It catches immediately, but sputters and snaps. Some of the branches must still be damp. He moves quickly to shelter the small flame from the light breeze. He pokes a few more pine needles nearer and fans gently, coaxing until a critical mass of kindling catches.
"What?" He turns to find her standing a few feet off, watching.
"Nothing." She crosses to him and hands off one of the mugs. "Just . . ." She gestures to the fire as it pops. One flame leaps merrily to the next piece of wood. "Cool. There's a lot more swearing when my dad insists on doing it the old fashioned way."
"Swearing?" He shifts back to sit in the low camp chair beside her. He grabs a marshmallow and spears it with one of the pair of long sticks he's laid by. He leans forward and keeps it turning, carefully browning it on all sides. "Your dad?" He glances back at the well-ordered supplies. "Seriously?"
"Yeah. He's . . . not very flexible when the hypothetical doesn't work the way it's supposed to." She laughs and sets her mug down carefully. She rifles through the bag of marshmallows at length and he knows she'll insist the three she picks are somehow better than the other, superficially identical marshmallows. She threads them on to a stick and plunges them into the fire, grinning as the outsides bubble and char. "He wouldn't have had the patience to wait for that to catch."
"Oh, I'm very patient."
He gives her a sideways leer as he tugs the marshmallow from the stick with his teeth, but she's smiling. Eyes on the fire and a little pink in the cheeks as she works at the black and white mess oozing over her fingers.
"I know."
"You're lucky this is worth it," he grumbles as he watches her pull on another layer.
The temperature's been dropping steadily and the grass in the clearing behind the house is already damp. After the heat of the day and her appealingly scanty clothing, it feels like they're gearing up for an arctic expedition.
"Totally worth it."
She shoves a rolled blanket at him and gives him a smile that's all teeth. She's practically bouncing with excitement. She darts out the back door and he's hardly had time to spread the double layer of blankets when she drops the thermos and everything and flops on to her back, arms flung wide.
"Come on!" She pats the blanket at her side impatiently. "Look!"
He tugs the corners of the blanket a little straighter, then settles down beside her. She pulls at him roughly, raising his arm to duck beneath it and pulling one of his legs between her own.
She's shivering a little. Burrowing into him and folding her fingers underneath his body. He makes an awkward reach beyond her to peel the top blanket up and over her. She sweeps her lips over his jaw in thanks and nudges his chin up with her nose.
"Look," she says again. "Worth it.
It is. It's totally worth it. It's blacker than black at ground level with even the cabin lights out. But when he turns his face up, he has to blink against the brilliance.
The sky isn't quite as clear as the night before, but it's better for it, somehow. The ragged scraps of cloud scudding across the crescent moon and the wind stirring the trees and falling silent add something eerie and yearning. Even the bulky press of clothes and the fact that she's pressing the frigid tip of her nose into his neck feels right. They point out constellations-real and imagined. They make up stories. Sad and funny and outlandish as parts of the sky appear and disappear. Each thing feels more perfect than the last.
He tightens his arm around her and lets his eyes open wide. It's a heady sensation, all of it. Like he can see the world spinning, and the stars are fixed in place. Constant.
"Worth it," he whispers.
"You could put on socks." He's being patient. He doesn't point it out until the third time her hopping from foot to foot sends her crashing into him in the cramped bathroom.
"It's summer," she says like he's a little dim. "I'm not wearing socks."
He stops in the act of reaching for the door of the medicine cabinet to stare. "You were just wearing like four pairs of socks and hiking boots. And how is that your feet are absolutely ice cold already, by the way?"
"I'm not wearing socks to bed." She shoves in front of him.
He drops his hands to set his toothbrush on the edge of the sink. He catches her around the waist and toys with the drawstring of her oversized flannel pans. "Newsflash. You're not wearing anything to bed. But we're not in bed yet."
"But we're . . ." She tugs open the medicine cabinet too quickly. A handful of things tumble out. "Going."
Her hand shoots out, snatching at the pile in the sink. Her fingers close around an amber prescription bottle. Full, by the sound of it. She presses it to her middle with both hands. She goes still. Quiet, like someone's flipped a switch.
"Kate?" His hands hover just shy of her body. It's sudden. It's so sudden that he's worried, though he has no idea about what. It feels like the world is pressing down on them both.
But it's over then. In an instant. She lets out a breath. She turns and holds the bottle out to him. She's smiling. It's a little shaky, but she's smiling.
He takes the bottle from her and turns to read the label. Her name. A date a little more than a year back.
"Pain meds?" He shakes it. "You didn't take them."
"Not much," she admits. "Not for long." She shrugs. Looks a little sick at the memory. "Not a fan."
"It was bad?" He makes it into a question, then feels stupid. "Of course it was bad, I'm sorry, that's . . ."
"It's ok. It's not like . . ." She looks up at him. Meets his eye with a determined kind of steadiness. ". . . not like you'd know how it was."
"But this is good." He sets the bottle down. He curves his palms around her shoulders and sweeps his thumbs over her collarbones, just barely brushes the edges of the scar. He kisses her. Telling her, not asking. "Yesterday. Today. This is good."
She smiles. He feels it. The amazing lift at the corners of her mouth as she kisses him back. She winds her arms around his neck.
"This is good," she says softly. "Food and stars and being out on the lake." She raises up on her toes. Presses closer and closer. "Everything I wanted last year but couldn't have. Everything I missed. But this is good."