Give A Little Bit, Ch. 3---A Caskett 3-shot set just after Love Me Dead (2 x 09)---COMPLETE
Title: Give a Little Bit, Ch. 3
WC: ~3000 This chapter, ~6300 total
Summary: "She stares. They both stare, but she's a lot more together about it. She's staring with a purpose. Her eyes travel from the white square in her hand, to the bag in his, to what has to be the stupidest expression in the history of stupid expressions on his face."
A/N: Three-shot set on Beckett's 30th birthday, shortly after Love Me Dead (2 x 09).
She stares. They both stare, but she's a lot more together about it. She's staring with a purpose. Her eyes travel from the white square in her hand, to the bag in his, to what has to be the stupidest expression in the history of stupid expressions on his face.
"Castle . . ."
". . . it's your birthday . . ."
They blurt the words at the same time, and silence falls again like a blade. His shoulder jerks up. He holds his arm out, stiff before him. The bag swings jerkily between them. They're back to staring for a long painful moment when she lets out a breath that's almost a laugh.
"My birthday."
She gives him a thin, tight smile. The one he thinks of as on the case. He tips his head to the side, wondering in spite of himself what case it is she's on. What exactly she's working out and how much trouble he's in.
"Bottega Falai," she says, and the smile doesn't exactly widen, but it pulls him in anyway. This morning. She notice that it wasn't just the same old coffee and bear claw. She noticed, and he's caught. It's an interrogation now. "My birthday. That's why you went chasing all over the city this morning."
"Not . . . all over." He glances down at the bag and, of course, the logo has Spring Street in cursive right under the name. It's close to his place, but a long way from hers. Just like the bakery. Just like the coffee shop. He's kind of been chasing all over the city, and he doesn't want to talk about it. "I didn't think . . ." He drops his arm. The bag hits the side of his knee with a thunk. "Why aren't you out?"
That gets a lift of one eyebrow. It gets a Why the hell are you here if you thought I wasn't? thinks back to his crisis in the vestibule. That fleeting realization that showing up like this is kind of creepy. He's about to apologize. He's about flee or fling the bag at her and make his escape. He's about do something, but just then she leans on the doorframe like she might stay awhile. Like it's not entirely creepy, because they might not be I-was-in-the-neighborhood-and-thought-I'd-drop-by friends, but they're not nothing to each other.
He's relieved. He's so relieved that he just drinks in the sight of her for longer than she'd usually let him. It's a red flag all its own. It sets his mind to working on what it is they're not saying.
She's wary, of course. In a constant state of readiness to be annoyed by him and . . . well . . . it's fair enough. Annoyer-Anoyee. It's kind of their default. But she's not unhappy to see him. She's wondering in spite of herself, too. She's wondering about all kinds of things, but there's something else.
She's sad, he realizes. He sees it in the curl of her arm from one hip to the other and the way she rests her head against the distressed wood for just a second. She's sad, and it's so new-so unexpected that she'd actually show it-that he's suddenly way too close to reaching for her.
"Beckett?" He lets her name speak for him instead. A soft question that says he'll wait for as much of an answer as she wants to give.
"I don't really do anything for my birthday," she says finally. "Not in years."
"You what?" It comes out too loud. Annoyance flickers over her face. She cranes her neck to look down the hall, like the neighbors might come pouring out any second. He grimaces. An acknowledgment and apology both, but he's gobsmacked. He can't shut up. "You can't . . ." He adjusts his volume too far down and has to clear his throat. "You can't just . . . not do anything for your birthday. You can't . . . not."
She narrows her eyes. Her jaw goes the kind of hard that usually comes right before bodily harm. He straightens his shoulders and lifts his chin, though. He's going in.
"Not allowed, Beckett. Absolutely not allowed."
Her knee comes up and her toe kicks out at him. Her feet are bare and her toenails are a merry metallic green. He notes the incongruous detail and his heart gives a stumbling little throb, even as he steels himself for violence. She's just nudging at the bag, though, and his heart stumbles again at the gawky, teenage beauty of it.
"That chocolate?" She's tightening her arms around herself and pulling her lip between her teeth like it's inclined to pout and she's not inclined to let it. Like she's squirming more than a little and she hates it.
He nods. He tries to keep a sober face, but there's a grin wrapping him up. "Good chocolate. And whisky."
She chews her lip for a long moment and he wonders which way things might go. She takes a breath, and he hears it stutter. She knows it, too. She fixes him with a glare and dares him to say something. Gives a short, sharp, satisfied nod when, for once, he holds his tongue.
"You wanna come in?"
He's in her apartment. Beckett's. He keeps saying it to himself, like he needs the reminder.
His fingers itch. He wants a pen. He wants to roam and touch things and drive her crazy with it, because who knows if she'll ever left him in again? Who knows?
But it's an opportunity already lost. She gestures, and he follows. He sits quietly in one corner of the couch. He sits obediently, just there, and keeps his hands still. He doesn't even look around. Not really. He only has eyes for her as she pads into the kitchen and raises on green-painted toes to reach a high-up shelf.
She's efficient at the sink. Rinsing and drying glasses with a flour-sack towel. She's back before he has any small talk at all at the ready. All he can think as she sets out two heavy-bottomed tumblers is that she must not use them very often. It's the last thing in the world he wants to say.
"Ice?"
Her lip curls as she asks. It's an afterthought, and he's absurdly glad he can honestly shake his head.
"Neat for me."
She nods approvingly, and pours just a little for each of them. She raises her glass to his and he sees the gleam in her eye. He thinks she likes this. Getting away with something on a school night. It touches off something in him. A hundred questions about what she's like. What her life has been like before this moment.
"You really don't?" It tumbles out, terrible and clumsy as glass touches glass, and if he had any cool at all, he'd have made some devastating toast. But it's November and his cool is hibernating, apparently. "Your birthday." He rushes on, wondering how much worse it can get. Not wanting to know, and utterly unable to shut up. "Nothing?"
She shakes hear head as she downs a healthy swallow of the whisky. She does a double take at the glass and her eyes slip closed. "Good. God, Castle, that's . . ."
"It's . . ." He gestures to the unopened box on the wide ottoman she seems to use as a coffee table. "The chocolate. It's a high-rye bourbon, and they're supposed to . . . together. They're . . ." He trails off again, hiding his misery in a swallow of his own. She doesn't want to talk about it. He wants to let it go. Badly. Badly, but he just can't seem to. ""Really nothing? Not even . . ."
She doesn't answer. She doesn't say anything at first. Just sets her glass down and swings her feet from the couch cushion to the floor.
She's kicking him out.
It's his first thought, and he gathers himself up. He braces, but she's just going for the box. She's scrabbling at the bow with her short, neat fingernails. She's busying herself. Stalling, or maybe just hoping he will drop it if she waits him out. She tosses the box lid aside and peers intently at the tight-packed rows of pleated cups. She plucks out two and holds them to her chest, her palm curved protectively in front.
"One," she says, and he's lost. Dazzled by the quick, little girl movements an her narrow-eyed, wary grin. Weak with relief that somehow he hasn't ruined this fragile thing. He thought she was kicking him out, but she's not. She's extending a cautious hand toward him, like he might bite. The corner of her mouth is a wicked curve, and he can't say he isn't thinking about it.
"You get one, Castle." There's another stuttering little breath she'd rather he hadn't seen. "Because this was nice."
"Nice enough for one." He feels the heavy drop of the truffle in his palm and it gives him a little of himself back. A little bit of them. "Generous, Beckett.
"It's chocolate, Castle." She sinks her teeth into it. Her tongue laps at the oozing center and her eyes flutter shut. "You have no idea."
She pours a little more whisky and a little more when that's gone. She breaks her word and lets him taste as she works her way through the array of chocolate. A nibble from each, before she pops the rest in her mouth like it's nothing. Like this isn't something that conjures up bathrobes and a rainy night in for two lovers who know each other inside and out.
She talks. They talk and it's easy. It's low light and warmth wrapping around them, even though the wind is rattling the glass arcing over the kitchen It's comfort, and it's not just the alcohol, though even the little bit loosens his own tongue after the miseries of the day. It's one moment and another. Something they've decided on- arrived at-on a Tuesday night. It's all a little unreal, and at the same time he feels surer of it. Surer of them than he has been since that terrible moment in the hospital.
It
'
s about your mother.
The memory falls into a silence between them. He looks up, about to say something that will probably be stupid, but she's watching him. She's making up her mind.
"Nothing," she says. Her eyes drop. She focuses on peeling paper from another chocolate, like it needs all of her attention. "Not even . . . big ones."
He blinks at first. He knows right away that it's an answer at last. Like they've been talking about it all this time, and maybe they have. He knows and it keeps him quiet.
He's . . . honored. The usual things crowd up in him. More questions. The instinct to push. To ask if it's just since her mother. If her dad had already started drinking by the last time she crossed the threshold of decade and that's why. But he downs the last of the drink and nods, nothing more. He's honored that she's told him this much.
"What did you do for yours?" She steals a look at him out of the corner of her eye. There's gratitude in the way her shoulders sink and the breath flows out of her. She knows. She knows he wants to push and pry and needle, and she's grateful that he isn't. "Thirty's a ways behind you."
"Oh, thanks for that." He slaps at the couch cushion where her toes are curled up. "A ways."
She laughs into her knees. He loves it. The ease and the smile and the soft lamplight on her. He loves this moment, and he wants it to go on. He thinks about the question. He calls it up the date and tries not to wince. It's not all good. Not in retrospect.
"New York," he says. "I wanted to go to Disneyworld, but it was a Sunday." His nose wrinkles at the realization. Sunday might just be stupider than Tuesday for something like that.
"Alexis wouldn't let you?"
"School night." He nods and flicks his gaze at the whisky bottle. She hesitates, then shrugs. She pours a little more. "So we did New York. Touristy things."
"Statue of Liberty?" She rolls her eyes, but she's smiling underneath. She likes the idea.
He nods. He means to go on, but the answer is hard. She seems to realize it a moment after he does. The way the math works out.
"The towers?" she asks softly.
"Observation deck and everything." His hands shake a little. "Alexis was scared. It was windy and cold." His gaze drifts up to the rain pelting the curving glass over the kitchen. "A lot like today. November in April." He smiles at her, sees his own bleak expression reflected back. "We spent maybe a minute out there. Her little fingers were so white from holding on." He inhales against it. The force of the memory. "I told her we'd come back next year. That she'd be bigger and it wouldn't be so scary."
"But there was no next year. That's . . ." She shakes her head. "I hadn't been in years. Grade school field trip or something."
"Native. It's not something you do." He grimaces. "Did."
"Did," she echoes.
They fall quiet, then. It's not awkward, exactly, but he wonders if he should go.
"It wasn't my mom." She blurts it out suddenly. He was just on the verge of offering to leave her in peace, and he wonders if she knows. He wonders if that's behind her sudden confession. If she wants the moment to go on, too.
"Please don't tell me you've never done anything." It's his turn to blurt. He's flustered. He blushes, hard and hot. She might want the moment to go on, and he might have just killed it.
"No," she says quickly. Almost like she's just as worried. "Not never. I just . . . I was seventeen and too cool and I'd barely tolerate a meal with my parents and . . . it's terrible now." She sets her glass down. Firm and far away, like it might be to blame, but the words don't stop. "My dad sends a card, but early. A week or so early. And we have lunch, but never too close to the day. Just lunch, and we both pretend it's got nothing to do with my birthday. And it's . . . terrible."
"Beckett, I'm . . ." Sorry. It's the word he's about to say, but something else slips out. "No one since then? Your dad . . . I mean . . . that's . . . but your friends. Lanie . . ."
He looks up at her, appalled at the way he's going on, but she's smiling, more or less.
"Lanie. She tried. A few years ago, I . . . " A blush creeps into her cheeks. "I shut her down pretty hard."
He looks at the litter of candy cups on the ottoman. The cork at a jaunty angle in the bottle and one couch cushion the short distance from him to her. He looks up, sharp and curious. Defiant, but willing to apologize if that's what she wants.
She smiles, though. It's sad and soft and more than a little bit of an effort, but she smiles.
"This was nice, Castle."
He doesn't stay long after that. It's late, and he's silly with warmth and whisky and a long day that didn't end up at all where he thought it would.
He's the one to push up from the couch. To sweep wrappers into one of the empty tumblers and gather things up to tidy. She's relieved, but reluctant, too. A little wistful as she shows him the trick to the dishwasher latch.
They linger by the door, her fingers toying with the safety chain as they compare notes on the chocolate.
"I can take the scotch truffles off your hands, Beckett. Save you from that coconut, because I'm a giver."
"Try it, Castle," she laughs. "And know that I'm armed 99% of the time."
He thinks of something he wants to know, and the question slips out. "How long will it last?" Her eyes go wide and his follow. He nods toward the kitchen. "The chocolate," he adds quickly. He tries to recover with a salacious lift of his eyebrows, but its clumsy. His hands are clammy and he wonders if he was ever any good at this kind of thing. "Are you a binger?"
"A savorer," she says with a grin too wide and too cute for it to weaken his knees the way it does. It's impossible. She's impossible with the serious, sober eyes she raises to his the next second.
"Thank you, Castle."
There's a sincerity to it that moves him. That makes him feel like he's made a difference, and he stands taller.
"My pleasure."
She eases the door open, finally, and he backs into the hall. They both hold their breath. It's the end of the moment, and there are so many ways it could go.
He leans in toward her, slow and deliberate, more than close enough to hear her breath catch. He could kiss her- really kiss her. Right now, he knows she'd let him.
She'd kiss him back. He's sure of it, but when his fingers come up to brush her hair back, they curve behind her ear and it's her cheek they tip up to meet his lips. It's so much less than he wants, and so much more than he thought he could have when he stumbled here in the rain. It feels right for now.
Her own hand comes up to cover his. To hold them both in place a moment longer, and that feels right, too.
"Night, Castle."
He hears the smile through the whisper. He's too dazed to see a thing, but he hears it.
"Happy birthday, Kate."
AN: Thanks for reading.
WC: ~3000 This chapter, ~6300 total
Summary: "She stares. They both stare, but she's a lot more together about it. She's staring with a purpose. Her eyes travel from the white square in her hand, to the bag in his, to what has to be the stupidest expression in the history of stupid expressions on his face."
A/N: Three-shot set on Beckett's 30th birthday, shortly after Love Me Dead (2 x 09).
She stares. They both stare, but she's a lot more together about it. She's staring with a purpose. Her eyes travel from the white square in her hand, to the bag in his, to what has to be the stupidest expression in the history of stupid expressions on his face.
"Castle . . ."
". . . it's your birthday . . ."
They blurt the words at the same time, and silence falls again like a blade. His shoulder jerks up. He holds his arm out, stiff before him. The bag swings jerkily between them. They're back to staring for a long painful moment when she lets out a breath that's almost a laugh.
"My birthday."
She gives him a thin, tight smile. The one he thinks of as on the case. He tips his head to the side, wondering in spite of himself what case it is she's on. What exactly she's working out and how much trouble he's in.
"Bottega Falai," she says, and the smile doesn't exactly widen, but it pulls him in anyway. This morning. She notice that it wasn't just the same old coffee and bear claw. She noticed, and he's caught. It's an interrogation now. "My birthday. That's why you went chasing all over the city this morning."
"Not . . . all over." He glances down at the bag and, of course, the logo has Spring Street in cursive right under the name. It's close to his place, but a long way from hers. Just like the bakery. Just like the coffee shop. He's kind of been chasing all over the city, and he doesn't want to talk about it. "I didn't think . . ." He drops his arm. The bag hits the side of his knee with a thunk. "Why aren't you out?"
That gets a lift of one eyebrow. It gets a Why the hell are you here if you thought I wasn't? thinks back to his crisis in the vestibule. That fleeting realization that showing up like this is kind of creepy. He's about to apologize. He's about flee or fling the bag at her and make his escape. He's about do something, but just then she leans on the doorframe like she might stay awhile. Like it's not entirely creepy, because they might not be I-was-in-the-neighborhood-and-thought-I'd-drop-by friends, but they're not nothing to each other.
He's relieved. He's so relieved that he just drinks in the sight of her for longer than she'd usually let him. It's a red flag all its own. It sets his mind to working on what it is they're not saying.
She's wary, of course. In a constant state of readiness to be annoyed by him and . . . well . . . it's fair enough. Annoyer-Anoyee. It's kind of their default. But she's not unhappy to see him. She's wondering in spite of herself, too. She's wondering about all kinds of things, but there's something else.
She's sad, he realizes. He sees it in the curl of her arm from one hip to the other and the way she rests her head against the distressed wood for just a second. She's sad, and it's so new-so unexpected that she'd actually show it-that he's suddenly way too close to reaching for her.
"Beckett?" He lets her name speak for him instead. A soft question that says he'll wait for as much of an answer as she wants to give.
"I don't really do anything for my birthday," she says finally. "Not in years."
"You what?" It comes out too loud. Annoyance flickers over her face. She cranes her neck to look down the hall, like the neighbors might come pouring out any second. He grimaces. An acknowledgment and apology both, but he's gobsmacked. He can't shut up. "You can't . . ." He adjusts his volume too far down and has to clear his throat. "You can't just . . . not do anything for your birthday. You can't . . . not."
She narrows her eyes. Her jaw goes the kind of hard that usually comes right before bodily harm. He straightens his shoulders and lifts his chin, though. He's going in.
"Not allowed, Beckett. Absolutely not allowed."
Her knee comes up and her toe kicks out at him. Her feet are bare and her toenails are a merry metallic green. He notes the incongruous detail and his heart gives a stumbling little throb, even as he steels himself for violence. She's just nudging at the bag, though, and his heart stumbles again at the gawky, teenage beauty of it.
"That chocolate?" She's tightening her arms around herself and pulling her lip between her teeth like it's inclined to pout and she's not inclined to let it. Like she's squirming more than a little and she hates it.
He nods. He tries to keep a sober face, but there's a grin wrapping him up. "Good chocolate. And whisky."
She chews her lip for a long moment and he wonders which way things might go. She takes a breath, and he hears it stutter. She knows it, too. She fixes him with a glare and dares him to say something. Gives a short, sharp, satisfied nod when, for once, he holds his tongue.
"You wanna come in?"
He's in her apartment. Beckett's. He keeps saying it to himself, like he needs the reminder.
His fingers itch. He wants a pen. He wants to roam and touch things and drive her crazy with it, because who knows if she'll ever left him in again? Who knows?
But it's an opportunity already lost. She gestures, and he follows. He sits quietly in one corner of the couch. He sits obediently, just there, and keeps his hands still. He doesn't even look around. Not really. He only has eyes for her as she pads into the kitchen and raises on green-painted toes to reach a high-up shelf.
She's efficient at the sink. Rinsing and drying glasses with a flour-sack towel. She's back before he has any small talk at all at the ready. All he can think as she sets out two heavy-bottomed tumblers is that she must not use them very often. It's the last thing in the world he wants to say.
"Ice?"
Her lip curls as she asks. It's an afterthought, and he's absurdly glad he can honestly shake his head.
"Neat for me."
She nods approvingly, and pours just a little for each of them. She raises her glass to his and he sees the gleam in her eye. He thinks she likes this. Getting away with something on a school night. It touches off something in him. A hundred questions about what she's like. What her life has been like before this moment.
"You really don't?" It tumbles out, terrible and clumsy as glass touches glass, and if he had any cool at all, he'd have made some devastating toast. But it's November and his cool is hibernating, apparently. "Your birthday." He rushes on, wondering how much worse it can get. Not wanting to know, and utterly unable to shut up. "Nothing?"
She shakes hear head as she downs a healthy swallow of the whisky. She does a double take at the glass and her eyes slip closed. "Good. God, Castle, that's . . ."
"It's . . ." He gestures to the unopened box on the wide ottoman she seems to use as a coffee table. "The chocolate. It's a high-rye bourbon, and they're supposed to . . . together. They're . . ." He trails off again, hiding his misery in a swallow of his own. She doesn't want to talk about it. He wants to let it go. Badly. Badly, but he just can't seem to. ""Really nothing? Not even . . ."
She doesn't answer. She doesn't say anything at first. Just sets her glass down and swings her feet from the couch cushion to the floor.
She's kicking him out.
It's his first thought, and he gathers himself up. He braces, but she's just going for the box. She's scrabbling at the bow with her short, neat fingernails. She's busying herself. Stalling, or maybe just hoping he will drop it if she waits him out. She tosses the box lid aside and peers intently at the tight-packed rows of pleated cups. She plucks out two and holds them to her chest, her palm curved protectively in front.
"One," she says, and he's lost. Dazzled by the quick, little girl movements an her narrow-eyed, wary grin. Weak with relief that somehow he hasn't ruined this fragile thing. He thought she was kicking him out, but she's not. She's extending a cautious hand toward him, like he might bite. The corner of her mouth is a wicked curve, and he can't say he isn't thinking about it.
"You get one, Castle." There's another stuttering little breath she'd rather he hadn't seen. "Because this was nice."
"Nice enough for one." He feels the heavy drop of the truffle in his palm and it gives him a little of himself back. A little bit of them. "Generous, Beckett.
"It's chocolate, Castle." She sinks her teeth into it. Her tongue laps at the oozing center and her eyes flutter shut. "You have no idea."
She pours a little more whisky and a little more when that's gone. She breaks her word and lets him taste as she works her way through the array of chocolate. A nibble from each, before she pops the rest in her mouth like it's nothing. Like this isn't something that conjures up bathrobes and a rainy night in for two lovers who know each other inside and out.
She talks. They talk and it's easy. It's low light and warmth wrapping around them, even though the wind is rattling the glass arcing over the kitchen It's comfort, and it's not just the alcohol, though even the little bit loosens his own tongue after the miseries of the day. It's one moment and another. Something they've decided on- arrived at-on a Tuesday night. It's all a little unreal, and at the same time he feels surer of it. Surer of them than he has been since that terrible moment in the hospital.
It
'
s about your mother.
The memory falls into a silence between them. He looks up, about to say something that will probably be stupid, but she's watching him. She's making up her mind.
"Nothing," she says. Her eyes drop. She focuses on peeling paper from another chocolate, like it needs all of her attention. "Not even . . . big ones."
He blinks at first. He knows right away that it's an answer at last. Like they've been talking about it all this time, and maybe they have. He knows and it keeps him quiet.
He's . . . honored. The usual things crowd up in him. More questions. The instinct to push. To ask if it's just since her mother. If her dad had already started drinking by the last time she crossed the threshold of decade and that's why. But he downs the last of the drink and nods, nothing more. He's honored that she's told him this much.
"What did you do for yours?" She steals a look at him out of the corner of her eye. There's gratitude in the way her shoulders sink and the breath flows out of her. She knows. She knows he wants to push and pry and needle, and she's grateful that he isn't. "Thirty's a ways behind you."
"Oh, thanks for that." He slaps at the couch cushion where her toes are curled up. "A ways."
She laughs into her knees. He loves it. The ease and the smile and the soft lamplight on her. He loves this moment, and he wants it to go on. He thinks about the question. He calls it up the date and tries not to wince. It's not all good. Not in retrospect.
"New York," he says. "I wanted to go to Disneyworld, but it was a Sunday." His nose wrinkles at the realization. Sunday might just be stupider than Tuesday for something like that.
"Alexis wouldn't let you?"
"School night." He nods and flicks his gaze at the whisky bottle. She hesitates, then shrugs. She pours a little more. "So we did New York. Touristy things."
"Statue of Liberty?" She rolls her eyes, but she's smiling underneath. She likes the idea.
He nods. He means to go on, but the answer is hard. She seems to realize it a moment after he does. The way the math works out.
"The towers?" she asks softly.
"Observation deck and everything." His hands shake a little. "Alexis was scared. It was windy and cold." His gaze drifts up to the rain pelting the curving glass over the kitchen. "A lot like today. November in April." He smiles at her, sees his own bleak expression reflected back. "We spent maybe a minute out there. Her little fingers were so white from holding on." He inhales against it. The force of the memory. "I told her we'd come back next year. That she'd be bigger and it wouldn't be so scary."
"But there was no next year. That's . . ." She shakes her head. "I hadn't been in years. Grade school field trip or something."
"Native. It's not something you do." He grimaces. "Did."
"Did," she echoes.
They fall quiet, then. It's not awkward, exactly, but he wonders if he should go.
"It wasn't my mom." She blurts it out suddenly. He was just on the verge of offering to leave her in peace, and he wonders if she knows. He wonders if that's behind her sudden confession. If she wants the moment to go on, too.
"Please don't tell me you've never done anything." It's his turn to blurt. He's flustered. He blushes, hard and hot. She might want the moment to go on, and he might have just killed it.
"No," she says quickly. Almost like she's just as worried. "Not never. I just . . . I was seventeen and too cool and I'd barely tolerate a meal with my parents and . . . it's terrible now." She sets her glass down. Firm and far away, like it might be to blame, but the words don't stop. "My dad sends a card, but early. A week or so early. And we have lunch, but never too close to the day. Just lunch, and we both pretend it's got nothing to do with my birthday. And it's . . . terrible."
"Beckett, I'm . . ." Sorry. It's the word he's about to say, but something else slips out. "No one since then? Your dad . . . I mean . . . that's . . . but your friends. Lanie . . ."
He looks up at her, appalled at the way he's going on, but she's smiling, more or less.
"Lanie. She tried. A few years ago, I . . . " A blush creeps into her cheeks. "I shut her down pretty hard."
He looks at the litter of candy cups on the ottoman. The cork at a jaunty angle in the bottle and one couch cushion the short distance from him to her. He looks up, sharp and curious. Defiant, but willing to apologize if that's what she wants.
She smiles, though. It's sad and soft and more than a little bit of an effort, but she smiles.
"This was nice, Castle."
He doesn't stay long after that. It's late, and he's silly with warmth and whisky and a long day that didn't end up at all where he thought it would.
He's the one to push up from the couch. To sweep wrappers into one of the empty tumblers and gather things up to tidy. She's relieved, but reluctant, too. A little wistful as she shows him the trick to the dishwasher latch.
They linger by the door, her fingers toying with the safety chain as they compare notes on the chocolate.
"I can take the scotch truffles off your hands, Beckett. Save you from that coconut, because I'm a giver."
"Try it, Castle," she laughs. "And know that I'm armed 99% of the time."
He thinks of something he wants to know, and the question slips out. "How long will it last?" Her eyes go wide and his follow. He nods toward the kitchen. "The chocolate," he adds quickly. He tries to recover with a salacious lift of his eyebrows, but its clumsy. His hands are clammy and he wonders if he was ever any good at this kind of thing. "Are you a binger?"
"A savorer," she says with a grin too wide and too cute for it to weaken his knees the way it does. It's impossible. She's impossible with the serious, sober eyes she raises to his the next second.
"Thank you, Castle."
There's a sincerity to it that moves him. That makes him feel like he's made a difference, and he stands taller.
"My pleasure."
She eases the door open, finally, and he backs into the hall. They both hold their breath. It's the end of the moment, and there are so many ways it could go.
He leans in toward her, slow and deliberate, more than close enough to hear her breath catch. He could kiss her- really kiss her. Right now, he knows she'd let him.
She'd kiss him back. He's sure of it, but when his fingers come up to brush her hair back, they curve behind her ear and it's her cheek they tip up to meet his lips. It's so much less than he wants, and so much more than he thought he could have when he stumbled here in the rain. It feels right for now.
Her own hand comes up to cover his. To hold them both in place a moment longer, and that feels right, too.
"Night, Castle."
He hears the smile through the whisper. He's too dazed to see a thing, but he hears it.
"Happy birthday, Kate."
AN: Thanks for reading.