Until, Chapter 1: A short TARDIS-verse WIP
Title: Until
Summary: "They're still not . . . not anything. At least not here. Not now. On a Sunday evening with her right hand in his left and The Way You Look Tonight weaving in and out of the dancers like a promise just for them."
Spoilers: Set During 'Till Death Do Us Part (4 x 11), but no real spoilers unless you literally know nothing about that episode
Series: In the TARDIS-verse, after "Calculation" and "Night Hawks" (which run concurrent with one another) and before "Unexpected Light." Other stories in the series are TARDIS: Time and Relative Dimension in Space, Maybe I'll Miss You, Stupid Mouth Shut, and Circle 'Round the Sun. Not a Dr. Who crossover, just a borrowed concept.
A/N: Oh, look! I'm so not writing that I'm not writing a multi-chapter inversion in the TARDIS-verse. I have most of the whole thing written; should be 2 or 3 chapters posted over the next week or so. Still for Docnerd89, who took the trouble to say some incredible nice things about my writing, and also for ER whose epic flails also made me not so lonely and down and DRAMA!QUEENY
It's something about the dress. It has to be. The way it clings and falls. The subtle luster of the color, simple and elegant as a jeweler's setting.
Her skin is exquisite in contrast. She's pale with the short winter days, but against the silver curve of the neckline, the abrupt grey horizontal of the sleeve, he can see the blood-the life-rushing just beneath the surface. The pale blue tracery of veins carries it back and forth, back and forth, and he wants to follow.
It has to be the dress. The alternatives are just . . . well he's not going there, because they're still not . . . not anything. At least not here. Not now. On a Sunday evening with her right hand in his left and The Way You Look Tonight weaving in and out of the dancers like a promise just for them.
It's the dress. Somehow that has to be it, even though he's seen more of her. Lower necklines on everyday blouses. Shorter skirts when they've gone undercover. Oh, God, when they've gone undercover.
"Castle!"
His name is loud, startling in his ear, on her tongue. He jerks back, but she's in his arms and it only ends up pulling her closer. He goes rigid. Braces for impact. Expects her to end the moment with a short, sharp shock.
But she's laughing. A little shy, but bright-eyed and laughing, and she just takes a half step back from him. Not even a half step. She gives him a look that says she wishes she didn't have to do even that much.
Something gives way inside him, and he is just this side of stamping his foot, because she doesn't have to. They don't have to.
It's something about the dress or the open bar or the joy and love just pouring out of Kevin and Jenny. It's something about the moment that makes him greedy.
He closes the distance. Inches his hand along her lower back, settles his palm along the inviting sweep of her spine, and rests his cheek against hers.
Everyone is studiously not watching them. They're all talking and laughing and tucking into their second pieces of cake. They're stealing their own moments. Not one of them is paying any attention whatsoever to her and Castle.
It's suspicious.
It's like there was a memo from the bride and groom. Guests will, under no circumstances, act like it is notable in any way that Kate Beckett and Richard Castle are . . . .
Are what?
This is a date. A last-minute leap into the abyss, but it's a date, and everyone is very pointedly acting like . . .
Like it's not fucking monumental that she offered and he accepted, and yes, he was eager, and she had a moment's worry that he'd break out into some ridiculous dance, but it wasn't . . . weird or anything.
It keeps not being weird. It's a problem. Because he's easy and relaxed and charming. (Good God is he charming.) And she picks up falling for him right where she left off.
If she ever left off. She didn't. She can't have, given how far gone she is. How far gone he is.
He is. Just as far gone as she is, and why aren't they doing this?
It's like time travel. Back to normal a year ago. No, not a year. Two. More than that, really.
She shakes it off, the scorekeeping. The postmortem. The litany of missed opportunities and crossed signals and cowardice. His and hers.
There's time enough for that later, when she can't feel every one of his fingers on her hip. Light and easy and firm and possessive all at once. Five certain ellipses at her waist.
She steals a glance up at him. He's thinking. There's something dangerous on his mind, and she's transfixed. She wants to know.
He's not even looking at her. He's somewhere else when his fingers find the lonesome, empty hollow, low on her hip bone, just this side of her spine. It radiates out and up and along. Electricity. Intimacy. Desire.
She gasps out his name, and he comes back from wherever he was-wherever he was about to take her-with an awkward start. She stumbles against him and heads turn.
It's remarkable, after all. The two of them stumbling. Missing a step where the other is concerned. It doesn't happen very often.
Except it happens all the time. Just not so literally.
Kate sweeps a glance around the dance floor, and one by one, heads dutifully swivel away. She laughs. Looks up to share the joke with Castle. To soften the blow when she moves away. One of the has to move away. Because . . . because . . .
She looks up at him and sees the last of it slip away. The warmth. The light, easy truth that he wants her and she wants him and someday. . . Someday.
She's jolted back into the here and now with a scar that aches and pulls and would not be hidden by a single thing she owns. With the man who doesn't know she knows he loves her.
She takes a step back. Half a step back. Because one of them has to move away.
He's about to admit defeat. She sees it in the downward arc of his chin. The way his shoulders drop into a familiar set that she hopes is patient.
He looks at her feet. Their backward course.
And then he makes a decision. He takes her back in time again. Pulls her pigtails with the wicked grin she's missed. Tugs her closer and lays his cheek against hers.
She turns to stone for a moment. Hips, shoulders, spine, all of them hard and unyielding. Their rhythm is broken again. And then his voice is in her ear.
You're lovely . . .
She's never heard him sing. Not really. Not like this. Low and warm and surprisingly tuneful and just for her. She wants more than just three syllables. She wants more.
She leans her cheek against his lapel and ignores the way the heavy scent of gardenia tickles her nose. She drinks him in.
He has to let her go. He knows that. For her sake and for his.
For her sake, because she's not ready. Not in the light of day. In the middle of the night, in middle of a dozen nights, it's different. But she's not ready.
He has to let her go. Because tonight, he could convince her. Tonight he'd hardly have to try. For his sake, he has to let her go.
She's whispering memories against his shoulder. Her memories. Their memories. And it's so obvious what they do to each other. So obvious that her skin tingles and flushes, that his breath catches with every new part of her he's allowed to see, allowed to touch.
Tonight, he'd hardly have to try, but what then?
She's not ready, and maybe it makes him a coward, but he can't risk her explaining it away. Explaining them away. Blaming it on the champagne, the music, the dress.
Maybe it makes him a coward, but he's not ready in his own way. Not for the dangerous things he's thinking. Not for the rest of their lives to be stretching out before him so clearly. So clearly. He's readier than she is, but that . . . that . . .
It's something about the dress.
He's toying with it, even though she's slapped his hand away more than once. It's fascinating, that flounce of fabric. Inviting. No job in the world but to draw the eye to where her waist dips in. To where the long curve of her hip flares out. No job but sheltering his fingertips, providing the illusion of cover. The illusion of skimming away what precious little separates her skin from his.
She's slapped his hand away, but not lately. Not since she wrinkled her nose at the heavy scent of his boutonnière and rested her head against him anyway. Lately, she's been shivering against him, arching closer, and stumbling over her words when he hits just this spot. Just underneath. Just there.
And the things she's doing with her fingers . . . It's not retaliation. Not their usual strike and counterstrike. Casual touches and innuendo and significant looks. This is something else entirely. This is warmth. Exploration. Heady contact without having to weigh the cost of every simple declaration. Every obvious outcome of wanting.
This is what it could be like if she were ready.
She's not ready, and he has to let her go, but he's seriously considering paying the band to keep on playing this song. Playing it over and over and over. Until she is. Until.
She forgets to keep looking. At some point, she abandons the periodic perimeter checks to confirm that they are all most definitely not looking. At some point her eyes drift most of the way closed and she can only be bothered to open them when a glare is required or he needs to know that she'll always catch him staring. That he's not subtle.
He's not subtle. He passed subtle sometime back when his fingers slipped under that weird faux pocket that she hates. When she slapped his hand away and his name came out far breathier than she'd intended. When she didn't slap his hand away. When it takes her a moment to realize that it's not him making that satisfied noise in the back of his throat.
He's not subtle, and she's not worried. She probably should be. Even if no one is looking, she probably should be. But it's like she's forgotten how.
She stops wondering how long this song is. How long before she has to let go. Abandons the idea that she ought to let go. That she has to. That's she's not ready for this.
He's smiling at something she's been saying. Short phrases chained together with snatches of melody. Punctuated by her body against his. They're not quite sentences and he's a little smug. She shouldn't let him get away with it, but she does. And she can't remember why this is a bad idea.
The thought tumbles through her mind that he's had a haircut. She's surprised to find her fingers rucking up the short, short hair at the base of his skull. Surprised in a lazy kind of way that her temple is brushing along his jaw. That the contrast-rough stubble and downy soft fuzz-makes her shiver.
She knows it's crazy. Dim and distantly, she knows it. That it doesn't matter who's watching and who's not because it's about her. Where she is and where she needs to be. That she's getting there, but she's not there yet.
It's crazy, but the heel of his hand, the flat of his nails, the drift of his palm are a perfect storm, and letting go is the last thing on her mind.
It sounds like thunder. Very polite thunder with a bright murmur underneath. It takes him a minute to realize that it's applause. That the couples around them are smiling and breaking apart. That he's still holding her.
He should let go, but he can't quite make himself. He pulls back a little. It's a spectacularly bad idea, because she doesn't, and there are any number of places his lips might wind up the next time either one of them takes a breath.
It's not an immediate problem. She's not breathing, and he can't remember how.
He tries to think of something to say, but his mind is crowded with what he wants to say, and just out of memory's reach are a hundred reasons why he can't. Shouldn't. Why now is not the time, even though he'd swear she's waiting. She's waiting.
Her hand tightens around his. It's not sudden, but it feels like it, after that. The long moment stripped of pretenses. It feels sudden, and her hand is falling away from his shoulder.
No. He wants to shout it. Almost does, but then she reverses course. Curves her palm around his neck and gives him this smile. This incredible smile.
It's enough to make it bearable-almost bearable-when she steps away. Says something to him. To someone else.
The music starts again and there's an unfamiliar hand in his. Tiny, unfamiliar fingers that barely reach his shoulder. His feet are moving and he's somehow making small talk.
He hears his name and manages to wrench his eyes away from Kate. Looks down to find Jenny looking up at him.
She's absolutely radiant, and he can't help grinning at first. But then he sees it. Then he notices. The slightest furrow between her brows.
His grin falters, and she pats his shoulder.
"Oh, Rick. You have to be careful." Her tone is warm. Kind and sympathetic, but also . . . stern?
There's a warning just beneath the surface. She repeats it. Makes sure he hears. "You have to be careful."
Ryan turns out to be a really good dancer. Light on his feet and utterly unconcerned that she towers over him.
But conversation isn't his strong suit at the moment. He can't keep his eyes off Jenny, and he keeps trailing off. Doesn't even notice when they glide by Lanie and Esposito and the three of them gang up just a little.
"How bad?" Esposito nods toward the groom.
"Pretty bad," Kate confides. "Can't string more than three words together."
"That is bad," Lanie says with a shake of her head. "I like a man who can keep up his end of the conversation and my dance is next, Mr. Newlywed."
"Huh?" Ryan looks startled, but it's gone in a second. He smiles wide over Kate's shoulder. "Isn't she . . . ?"
"Beautiful," they answer in chorus. Rolling their eyes a little, but just a little. And it doesn't last. The three of them are grinning like idiots.
And then the two of them are grinning like idiots and Kate is on the outside looking in. Lanie whispers something in his ear. Esposito leans in. Tightens his arm around her waist as the music carries them off to another part of the dance floor.
She doesn't blame them. The happiness is coming off Kevin in waves, and who wouldn't want to catch a little for themselves?
It hits her then: She has. Today, it's more than a little. It's like it's pouring into her and she can't think where to put it all.
"I'm really so happy for you," she blurts it out suddenly. She blushes but stumbles on. "Both of you."
Ryan is startled enough to haul his attention away from Jenny. "Thanks," he says quietly. "I'm a lucky guy all the way around."
They smile at each other a minute. It's smaller, more reserved. More the two of them and how they are. And Kate thinks she's lucky too. That's she's caught more than a little bit of happiness over the years and only just noticed.
Ryan's gaze drifts to follow the swirl of white to Kate's left. She's determined not to look. Trying not to look.
She looks, and of course he's looking back. He tips his head toward Jenny. She and Kevin can't take their eyes off each other and it's just ridiculous.
She bites her lip to keep from laughing. Looks up again. Castle is watching her intently. Not quite smiling. She raises her eyebrows. A question, but he shakes it off. His smile is back. Almost back.
There's something on his mind and it's not like before. It's not the good old days before there was anything much behind pushing one another's buttons. She thinks it might be what happens next.
Another couple steps in between them. Jenny all but disappears, just a slip of train sweeping the parquet.
Castle is looking over his shoulder, his eyes on her until the very last second. Her eyes on him even after the music puts his back to her.
"He's a good guy," Ryan says quietly.
"Castle?" It's too loud. She was going for a joke. Something light. But it's too loud and she feels hot and uncomfortable all along the neckline of that stupid dress. She notches it down. The volume and the trying too hard. "He's all right."
"No, I mean it." His voice is eager, fast. The tips of his ears go red and he rushes on. "He's a good guy."
Kate thinks she should say something, but there's that feeling again. Like there's too much happiness-a little serious, a little solemn now-and too much. She doesn't know what to do with it and it spills out. Messy and not like her.
She ducks her head and nods. Ryan nods back.
Castle thinks about joking. Laughing it off. A sidelong glance and a promise that he's always careful. But he looks down her, so small and earnest and well meaning, and all he can come up with is, "Ok."
It seems to be the right answer or close enough, because Jenny gives him another radiant smile, and they're quiet for a while.
She's easy to dance with. Easy to be with. He feels lucky. Strangely proud to be here like this. Not just Kate's tag-a-long. But here as himself.
He feels himself smiling and knows he's caught. Expects Jenny to tease him. To match his grin, but she's looking thoughtful again. Over his shoulder. Or around him, really-his shoulder is about a mile above her head.
He turns her a little. Assumes she's looking for Ryan-for her husband, he thinks and grins to himself again-and tries to make it easier for her.
"She's so good to him," she says quietly. "Right from the beginning she let him be one of the guys."
He laughs, "She never lets me be one of the guys."
"No." She gives him a sly smile. "She doesn't."
Castle swallows. Feels caught, but he's not sure how it happened. Not sure what happened.
She lets him squirm a minute, then goes on. "They were hard on him at first. Even Javier."
He thinks about it. Young Ryan-even younger-walking into that. Beckett and Esposito and a wall of stoic silence. Stoic on a good day.
He's interested. His embarrassment bleeds away. Even the pull toward Kate ebbs a little. A little. He's interested and guiltily wishes he had his notebook.
"He's sweet." Jenny smiles softly. "Kevin's sweet. And sometimes he feels too much for someone who does what they do. It was hard for him, but Kate helped."
"How?" He wonders, a second too late, if he should have asked it. Wonders what he's really asking.
"She . . ." Jenny falters. "I don't know if I'll say this right."
Castle waits. Nods encouragement.
"There. On the job. She never once treated him like a kid. Never gave him a break. Never acted like he needed it."
"Not on the job," he says. Jenny nods back like she's having a hard time with it. "But?"
"Their first bad case . . . really bad. A little boy . . . they went over to Kevin's place. Kate and Javier," she glances up at him like she's not sure she should be telling him this.
"Cheap beer and war stories?" He says it with a quiet smile. Tries to hide how much he wants to hear this. He needs to hear this.
She laughs a little. Thank God, she laughs a little and goes on. "And not a word about the case. Stayed up 'till all hours and the whole time-the whole time, Kevin said-he just wanted them to go so he could fall apart. I mean he wanted them there. He wanted to be . . . he wants to be like them."
She trails off, and Castle doesn't know what to say this time so he waits. She's peering over at them again-Beckett and Ryan-but his back is to them and he can't find a polite way to turn them so that he can see what's keeping her from going on. What's so damned interesting.
"Kate came back," she says, and it sounds like she's made a decision. Like she's gathered her thoughts and knows exactly what she's going to say. "She put Javier in a cab and turned around and knocked on his door again and just sat with him. He was a mess by then, of course."
She sounds fond. Proud. In love.
He smiles. "Of course."
She smiles back at him, and he tries to wait. He can't quite manage. "What happened?"
"She waited. He said he cried himself out, but it took awhile, and she just waited. And when he could laugh at himself a little bit, he asked her how she did it. How she managed."
She stops again and as adorable as she is-as impossible as it is to even be annoyed in her presence-Castle thinks about pinching her. His collar feels tight, and the dance floor feels too crowded, and he just wants to know.
"What did she say?" He blurts out before too long.
"She said she didn't. She doesn't." She looks up at him. Serious for the first time. No hint of a smile. "Kevin didn't know what to say, and then she just went on. Calmly went on and told him exactly what every case does to her, what it costs to just . . . not let yourself feel it. And then she told him not to change. That he'd be a better cop and a better man if he stayed just the way he was."
Castle feels something twist inside, pain and pride. He's proud of her. Amazed at all the ways her job-her life-is hell bent on breaking her and she's still this . . . force to be reckoned with. Burning bright.
He scans the dance floor. Feels like he has to see her, and there they are-Beckett and Ryan-off to the side. She's smiling at Lanie and Esposito as they dance away, caught up in each other.
He looks for a long time. Sees her smiling at Ryan and Ryan smiling at her and realizes that they know each other in a way that he'll never know her. That Jenny will never know Kevin. He thinks it should bother him. At least as a writer it should bother him. But he can't feel anything but glad they have one another.
Kate looks up suddenly. She always does know when he's staring. Always catches him. She's smiling at first, then questioning. He shakes his head-just barely-and gives her a grin.
They're turning. He and Jenny are turning with the music, and he just wants to keep looking at her, but the music won't wait. He turns again and she's out of sight.
He gives a guilty start when he realizes that Jenny's peering up at him thoughtfully. Considering him. Sizing him up.
He feels naked all of a sudden.
"She's more like Kevin than you think," Jenny says suddenly. Boldly. "She's more like him than she thinks. And you have to promise me you'll be careful."
"I promise," he says, even though it hurts. Even though he knows what it means. What it will cost tonight. What it might cost for a long time yet to come. Because she's not ready. "I promise."