Material Witness-Picture Book (Home is Where the Heart Stops; The Third Man; Poof! You're Dead)
Title: Picture Book
WC: ~7200
Summary: "Because it's a great picture. Because he remembers that thank you every time he looks at it. Because he can hear her voice and feel her arm through his and the hills and valleys of her spine under his palm when they danced. Because he has a lot of pictures of her, but only one of them."
Spoilers: 1 x 07 (Home is Where the Heart Stops), 2 x 15 (The Third Man), 3 x 12 (Poof! You're Dead)
A/N: This totally jumped the queue. I had the second chapter of Bodies at Rest going and there's another chapter of this that I started even before Up and Away, but the brain wants what it wants.
Berkie Lynn, as you know, is diabolical. This one is for dtrekker who may be happy that I've written it or annoyed that I'm still writing this story. I am unsure which.
This is the tenth story in this series. Here's the prologue that sets up the series premise, and here's the first story and the second, the third, the fourth, the fifth, the the sixth, the the seventh, the eighth, and the ninth. They're loosely linked one-shots that can be read independently and in any order you like.
Picture book, of people with each other, to prove they love each other a long time ago.
- The Kinks
2009
He has a lot of pictures of her. She looks annoyed in most of them.
She's in the background and he knows she's annoyed because she's glaring over her shoulder or she moves at the last second to make herself part of the background, and her body is all hard, intersecting lines. He knows she's annoyed because she has her hand blocking half her face like she was just sweeping her hair behind her ear and it's 100% calculated.
He knows she's annoyed because he's the one taking the picture.
It took him a long time to get the one he uses for his phone. Not that he hadn't seen that look a hundred times before he managed to capture it. Ok, maybe not a hundred. A dozen. At least a dozen at that point.
But she has an uncanny knack for sensing the camera and packing that look away. Twisting her mouth and turning her face so that the shadows are harsh and severe. And she's still gorgeous. She's always gorgeous.
But he was proud of that one. He was proud of capturing that soft look, even if she was talking to Ryan and he caught her unawares. Even if she twisted his ear and tried to wrestle his phone away from him. Even if she did wrestle his phone away, but not until he'd emailed it to himself. Even if she twisted his ear again a few weeks later when she saw it pop up when he was texting her something else. He's proud of that one.
He has a lot of pictures of her, but only one of them and it cost him. Not just money. Well, money, too. Quite a bit of money, because apparently that photographer was someone. Even though he was covering a second-rate fundraiser red carpet that night, he was someone.
So it cost him. A donation hefty enough to stop the tide of comments about fair use and the fact that Beckett's build makes it a perfect picture for the cover their mailings and that is definitely not happening. So it costs him money and a lifetime of junk mail and phone calls from the dance theater trying to get more money. But it cost him pride, more importantly. Pride and hassle. Paula has yet to shut up about it.
She's yet to shut up about it, and she's not wrong. It's a great picture and he sort of hates himself for burying it. He hates Beckett for making him into someone who would bury it. Who'd even think of it, let alone pay money and incur the wrath of his agent to do it.
But she was so . . . gracious about the whole thing. About the dress and the limo and being on his arm. About his mother and her over-the-top gesture with the jewelry.
He expected her to . . . he doesn't really know. To show up at his door in something defiantly off the rack and throw the dress in his face? To set it on fire and him with it? He expected yelling at least. He didn't expect it. A quiet, sincere thank you. For the compliment and the dress. He didn't expect her to blush and lift her hair while his mother fastened the necklace for her. He didn't expect this new version of her. Her.
She was gracious and she didn't have to be.
And he makes her life difficult. He knows that. And it's fun. It's fun when it's just him bugging her. When he's swiping files and working his way out of cuffs and snapping pictures that make her blush and twist his ear.
When she lets a little something slip and he grabs out his pen and notebook and scribbles furiously and she wants to know. She wants to know what he's writing. What he thinks he knows about her. She wants to know and she won't ask and it drives her crazy.
When he free associates about a case. When he lets things unfold like a plot in his mind and he's talking out loud and he hits on it. He tugs on the loose thread and he's right. When he gets them to a place that would have taken them ages her way. When she gets swept up in it and starts telling stories right along with him.
That's fun. Making her life difficult like that? Yeah, that's fun.
But he wouldn't . . . he didn't realize at first that he really makes her life difficult, and he feels like an ass. When he lets his guard down, anyway. When he's not feeling defensive about his right to be there, he feels like an ass. When it's staring him in the face. Snide comments and significant looks. Conversation that grinds to a halt when she walks into a room with him on her heels. He really makes her life difficult.
And she already takes so much shit. For being young. For being a woman. For being ridiculously beautiful and, he suspects, better than pretty much anyone else in recent memory at her job.
She already takes so much shit, and she was gracious. So he weathered Paula's wrath and told her to take care of it. To talk to the event managers and make sure none of the others showed up anywhere. And to buy that one. The one that would have showed up all over the place if he hadn't.
The one he wanted anyway. Because it's a great picture. Because he remembers that thank you every time he looks at it. Because he can hear her voice and feel her arm through his and the hills and valleys of her spine under his palm when they danced.
Because he has a lot of pictures of her, but only one of them.
2010
He thinks about letting this one go. He could. There's no way he could have known there'd be someone with a camera. He's still not even sure where the guy was lurking, and he's already had words with Frankie about it.
He could let it go entirely or even ask Paula to control the spin. Let it show up a few places.
He thinks about that. Mostly because Paula still hasn't shut up about the first one. It's been almost a year and she still hasn't shut up about it. And she's still not wrong. It's good publicity. It would be good publicity.
Author and muse, romantically linked. It would be great for sales. Great for the movie deal and they're so close with that. It could be the thing that pushes the studio over the edge.
And despite all his bluster, it would be good for his "reputation," too. Because there is nothing so attractive to a certain kind of woman as the promise of a cat fight, and Paula has been all over his case about dropping off page six.
She wants to know what he does with his time, since he's not writing. It's apparently time to have "the talk" with his mother again about talking to Gina. He's writing. Just . . . slowly. And he's working, though neither Gina nor Paula see it that way. He's working a lot. Just mostly not at writing.
So he could let it go. Nothing would shut Paula up like a few days of fielding calls and hopping from drinks to drinks to drinks, insisting with a broad wink that she can neither confirm or deny.
One picture and a few veiled hints. It would make his life easier in so many ways.
But none of that is why he wants to let this one go. Every single one of those things is true, and none of them has a anything at all to do with why he wants to let that picture hit page six.
She twirled her hair. Beckett-Beckett-twirled her hair. And his name was Brad and whose name is Brad this side of a soap opera canvas?
And it's not like he's worried. Hair twirling or not, he's not worried about Brad.
Because she showed up at Drago. Actually, he showed up at Drago, but come on . . . which one of them was the dark horse for showing up at Drago, no matter who brought it up first?
He wants to make something of the fact that she showed up there. She's the one who was making the arrangements and she could have gone anywhere. But she showed up there. With Brad.
He wants to tell himself that she had a hunch. That she suspected he'd go there, or maybe she was even hoping. Maybe she was just as . . . just as whatever about Bachelorette Number Three as he was over Mr. July. As he was over the hair twirling.
He wants to make something of that and he can't help thinking that a year ago he would've gotten away with it. That before he met her, he'd have told himself it was a clear sign that she was interested. That she was keeping tabs on him and standing by to sabotage his date. He'd have told himself that and let himself get away with it.
It's another thing he could hate her for. This ruthless honesty, even with himself.
But she was on a date and he's the one who showed up. He's the one who was . . . whatever. Curious. Concerned. For her. Because, really? A hook up by way of Lanie? Like that's a good idea?
But he can't get away with that either. Apparently he's not the kind of person who can let himself get away with that. Not anymore. And, yes, he would definitely like to hate her for all this annoying personal growth.
Curious? Sure. Yes. He's curious. She's his subject. His muse. And he wants to know how she'd be on a first date. On any date. He wants to know how she'd be with Rook.
He wants to know what she's like off the clock.
He wants to know what it's like to be out with her. Really out with her.
Yes, he's curious. He's curious. But worried is a better word. Jealous is better still. And he wants to hate her for that, too.
Because he's clinging to things he shouldn't have even noticed. That he shouldn't care about at all. Like the fact that she left him more than once. She left Brad. For work, sure. But work means him, and she thinks so too. She was expecting him. Even the first time, and she had that impatient catch up, Castle look on her face. And the second time, she just held up her phone without a second thought so they both could talk to the boys.
He's clinging to all that and it doesn't even make sense. Because she walked out on Brad. She walked out with him. Brad is nothing. Nothing to be jealous of. But he's still clinging to all that. He's still assembling a case for why he's not worried.
And he's not. He's not worried about Brad. Not this Brad. He's worried about future Brads. He's worried that the stupid Ledger blurb has her running. That she's on a quest for future Brads now because she doesn't want him getting ideas. She doesn't want anyone getting ideas.
That's what he's worried about. That's why he wants to let this one go. That's why he wants it out there for all of New York to see.
It's a great picture, too. A tight close up and she's in red again. She's beautiful in red, though she hardly ever wears it. And her hair is swept back and up. Playful and severe at the same time, with nothing on her neck to really soften it. Just tiny earrings and the bare expanse of one shoulder.
It's a great picture. Better because they're the only two who know what the smile she's giving him is about. She's turning to him. She's leaning in, and the light catches the exact moment when she sees where he's going with his impromptu lecture on snakes. Anyone else would think that smile is about something else entirely.
He's starting to think it's about something else entirely. He's starting to hope it is, and he wants to let this one go. He wants to eliminate the possibility of future Brads. He wants to tell her that it's too late. That he already has ideas. He already has lots of ideas about the two of them.
He wants to let this one go. But he won't.
Because what if it does the opposite? What if the men of New York suddenly sit up and take notice? What if she's surrounded by Brads just waiting to take her away from him?
Not that they could. Not that that they would be. Because she's not his to take away and he hates this line of reasoning in all kinds of ways because it has him back to wanting to let it go.
But he won't. Because he wouldn't do that to her. He's not the kind of person who would do that to her, not matter how much easier it would make his life. Maybe he was a year ago, but he's not now.
He won't. Because it would make her life difficult and he already does that. He makes her life difficult and she wants him around anyway. She said that. She wants him around.
He won't because he wants it for himself. Because he has a lot of pictures of her and only two of them.
2011
It's the first picture she lets him take of the two of them.
He has a lot of pictures of them. By then, anyway. By then, he has a lot of pictures with both of them in it. Team shots and the two of them crowded in with half a dozen other people. Corroboration for precinct dares. Back-and-forth insults with Robbery and other divisions.
There's this stuffed mascot thing they kidnap and ransom. Back and forth and compromising pictures are a big part of it. And she rolls her eyes but comes when Ryan waves her over. She lets him pull her by the elbow into the corner of the frame.
He even has a few of just the two of them. Esposito and Ryan went through a phase where they were obsessed with snapping pictures of the two of them working. All odd angles and funny faces and unflattering light. Unflattering to him. Nothing seems to be unflattering to her. Nothing.
He has a lot of pictures of them, but this is the first one she lets him take.
"Lets" is stretching it. She suffers it. Because she feels sorry for him. Because she's being nice.
She's being nice and he pushes it. He says a woman has never given him flowers before and she calls him a liar. He owns the lie, but insists she's never given him flowers before and he needs to record it for posterity.
She blushes and says they're not real. Just silk flowers, but she's blushing and he pushes it some more, even though he knows she's just being nice. Even though he knows it makes him some kind of newly discovered lower life form. Because his last words to Gina are still buzzing in his mouth and that's why she's being nice. It's the only reason she invited him along tonight, and he's pushing it.
He can't help himself. He can't.
It wasn't a realization. It's too late to call it that. It's been too late for a long time. It was-it is-just . . . clarity. Sudden clarity with her close enough to kiss and the air crackling between them. The case, yes. The solve, but more. There's always more than just that between them and he believes her.
Cynical and hurting-and he is hurting, even though it was well past time he ended things with Gina, he's hurting-he still believes her. He believes the bubble won't burst when he's in it with the right person.
He believes her and it's too late to call it a realization and he can't help himself. He pushes it.
She offers to take a picture of him with the flowers and he pouts into his hot chocolate. She rolls her eyes and says fine and he doesn't hesitate. He doesn't miss a beat because she might change her mind. He tugs her into the circle of streetlight and she's frowning. An overblown thing that really means that she's trying not to laugh. That she's counting off a decent interval until she gives in.
She looks up at him and he wonders for the hundredth time in the last three hours or so how much longer he can go without kissing her. How much longer he can go without telling her that he loves her and Gina was a mistake. How much longer he can go without knowing the whens and whys and wherefores of her break-up with Demming. Without knowing the worst of it. How much time they've wasted.
He wonders how much longer he go without telling her that Josh is a mistake, too. He's a mistake and this-this-is the right bubble. Right here in this circle of streetlight with silk flowers and hot chocolate on both their tongues. This is the right bubble.
He shoves the flowers into her hand. It's a defense tactic, but he undermines it right away. He slips an arm around her before she can object. He leans in and presses his cheek to hers before she can object to that, either. He stretches his other arm way out and taps the button with his thumb and he catches it.
By some miracle he catches the moment between them. This moment they keep stepping into over and over again. So long and so often that it's too late to call it realization.
He catches it. Her eyes are on him. Three quarters to the camera, but really looking at him with a question and a soft, serious almost-smile on her lips. He catches it and then she's ducking away. She's blushing and she's a little less nice and he's almost sorry. He's almost sorry he pushed it.
But the picture fills the screen as he pockets the phone and he can't quite make it there. He can't quite make it all the way to sorry.
It's the first picture she lets him take of the two of them.
2012
Kate shoves him out of bed. Literally shoves him. Literally out of bed. He's on his knees peering reproachfully over the edge.
"Go," she says. She stretches her arms overhead and settles back against the pillows. "Shower, Castle. You have a date."
"No date," he says darkly. "Raincheck."
He clambers back on to the bed and grabs her wrists. He pins them to the bed and stretches out over her. He leans in to kiss her and she plays along. She kisses him back and he's completely unprepared for it. For the sudden twist of her wrists and her calf snaking around his. For the fact that now he's the one on his back. For the fact that she's staring down at him with her scary face.
"No raincheck," she says as she throws her leg over him and straddles his waist.
Scary face or no, he grins up at her. Because she's straddling his waist, and does she really think that's a good strategy? Talk about mixed messages. He grins and shifts his hips to make his point and Oh . . . that's her really scary face.
"No. Raincheck." She's in his face and it's not an invitation. It's mostly not an invitation. He strains up and his teeth nip at her jaw, but she pulls away. She ignores him. "It's her first Christmas since she left for college. It's our . . ."
Her breath hitches and the scary face flickers and he remembers. He remembers that this is new for her. That she's taking a huge step for him. With him. He remembers that this is more complicated than he wants it to be.
"It's our first Christmas together," he says quietly and he feels the blush sweep through her. He presses his shoulders up from the bed and kisses her softly. He settles back to the bed. He tips his head to the side and considers her. "She's ok with that, you know. Alexis isn't . . . it wasn't about you. When I told her . . ."
"I know," she says, but her eyes flick away just for a second. She knows but she doesn't know. "I know, Castle, but I don't want . . ." She pulls her lip between her teeth and looks away again. "How long have you been doing this? How many years?"
His face falls. He sighs and wriggles his hands. She lets his wrists go. He snags her fingers and brings them to his mouth.
"A long time," he admits. "Since she was six."
She knows the story. The first Christmas Meredith let Alexis down. She was supposed to come for a week. And then it was five days and then three days and then a call at 10 AM on Christmas Day. An hour before her plane was supposed to land, saying she wasn't coming at all. And then it was him going overboard, trying to make up for it. A three-day extravaganza of shopping and movies and eating themselves sick.
And this is all that's left of it. The ritual they still keep after all these years. Boxing Day morning they troll Macy's and Bloomingdale's for decorations. Ornaments and lights and table linens. And then they get a big table at the Russian Tea Room and map out their battle plan for next Christmas.
Kate knows the story. It's one of a dozen he's bombarded her with over the last few weeks. More than a dozen stories he's been rambling on about. Rambling on and completely missing the way he was running roughshod over her. The way he still is, because she's taking a step, but it's complicated.
He drops her fingers and slides his hands up her thighs. She gives him a warning look, but he's being good. "Sorry, Beckett. I've got a date."
She give shim a small smile and leans down to kiss him. His fingertips slide beneath the hem of her shorts. He's being mostly good.
"Castle," she huffs, but her heart's not entirely in it. "Date. You have a date."
"Date," he murmurs as he slides his palms around her thighs. "Date later. Shower first."
"It's nice." Alexis's chin lands on his shoulder.
He startles and almost drops it. She caught him dead to rights. He has no idea how long he's been standing there staring at it. He sets it down gently and turns to her. She has a basket over her arm and it's filled nearly to the brim. It's been a while.
"Hey!" he says brightly. He snags the edge of her basket and peers inside. "Good stuff?"
She ignores him. She tugs the basket away and reaches past him for it. "Why'd you put it back? It's pretty!"
She holds it up to the light. A perfect sphere. Crystal etched with a scattering of delicate circles. They catch the light and refract it, the faintest rainbow sheen curving over the surface. It looks for all the world like a bubble. A perfect bubble twirling on the end of a crimson velvet ribbon.
Something about it catches her attention and she sets it carefully on her palm. She studies the top and her fingernail finds the seam. She frowns and steps past him. She searches through the boxes scattered on the table and comes up with the right one.
"Oh, Dad, look! It holds pictures!" She turns the box over. "Not pictures. You send them pictures and they put them on celluloid. Like film cells. So the light comes through."
"Yeah," he says quietly and tries to draw her away. Because today is about her. About them.
But she just grins at him and sets the box in her basket. "She'll love it."
"She?" It's lame. It's pathetic and he doesn't blame her a bit when she rolls her eyes.
"She'll love it," she repeats, but then she goes a little quieter. She presses her lips together the way she always does when she's being the grown up. When she's telling him something she knows he won't want to hear. "But, Dad?"
He waits. He looks from the ornament to her and he waits.
"Next year, ok?" she says softly. "She needs a little time. But next year she'll love it."
His face falls a little. He can't help it. It's . . . he just loves when something like this falls into his lap and he loves giving her presents and he's only just gotten the chance to do it lately. He was thinking Valentine's Day, maybe. Or maybe as soon as it comes back. As soon as he gets it back. Three pictures of them and the right bubble.
As soon as he gets it back he figured they could start planning for next Christmas. Maybe she'll have a tree at her place. Maybe there won't be a her place. Maybe it'll just be their place and he assumes that'll be the loft, but maybe not . . .
His mind runs quite a ways away with him and he lands hard. He lands hard and Alexis has a hand on his shoulder and it's heavy with stern pity.
She's right. It's too soon and this is still complicated. And he knows-he knows-there'll be a next Christmas. And Alexis knows, too, and that's important. That's important to him.
Kate knows. He thinks about her on his doorstep. Kissing her by the tree. Waking up with her Christmas morning. She knows there'll be next Christmas and the Christmas after that. And someday there will be a their place. But it's complicated. For now, it's complicated.
"Next year." He nods and slides an arm around Alexis's shoulders. He kisses the top of her head and steers them toward the registers. "Next year."
2013
They compromise. It's December first and the loft feels naked, but this was their compromise and that's all about to change. He was teasing about the day after Halloween. He was mostly teasing. Because he's excited and he would have started the day after Halloween if she'd let him.
It was a mistake letting on about that. It was a mistake waking her up with a little Burl Ives on November first. He lost some ground there and yes, it's only been three days since Thanksgiving, but it's been three days of agony. And Thanksgiving night is practically traditional. It's the real start of the Christmas season. Totally normal people decorate on Thanksgiving night.
But he lost that ground and it's been agony. Three days of agony, but so worth it. Agony is a small price to pay for the memory of dancing a very sleepy Kate around the bedroom to "Holly, Jolly Christmas." A small price to pay for the day-long, mostly naked argument about when they could start decorating if the first was to early and the second was too early and the third . . .
Agony, but worth it and she'll be here soon. The fire is lit and there's wine breathing and the bins of decorations are piled high in the corner.
He thinks about pouring himself a glass of wine or something stronger. Something to take the edge off his excitement, because she'll be here soon, but it's still not easy for her.
A year later, it's still an effort and they've talked about it. They've talked about how they can meet in the middle. New traditions and old ones. Both together, and he knows this is big for her. He knows it's an effort, but he's excited.
He's been dashing around the loft doing everything one handed because the box is in his other hand. He can't make up his mind. He doesn't know if it should be the first thing or the last.
First, he thinks. Because his mother and Alexis won't be there until later and maybe it should be just between them. Maybe that's how the moment should be.
But they were all there last year. When he gave her the first one. For the first gift, they were all there, and he likes the idea of that being a tradition. Of their moments and family moments being the same thing. So last then. Maybe last.
He can't decide and the clock decides for him. Because he's standing in the middle of the loft with the dark blue box in his hand and there's her key in the door and that still gives him a thrill. This is still his place and she still has hers, but she has a key and she uses it. He covers the distance to the door in a few quick strides
She's not expecting it. She's startled when the door gives way too soon. She stumbles a little and she thought she had a little more time. He sees it. She thought she had an extra moment to set her shoulders and fix a smile on her face and he sees it.
He sees it and she knows. She knows and she's angry with herself and sorry.
He sets the box down absently and tugs her inside. He kisses her, first thing. He curves his palms around her freezing cheeks and kisses her.
"We don't have to," he whispers. He pulls back a fraction of an inch and smiles. "We don't have to do this now."
She smiles back. It's a little weary. All of her is a little weary, but the smile is lopsided and real. She lets her head drop against his shoulder and wraps her arms tight around his waist.
It's a silent thank you and he tamps down the disappointment. He tells himself they'll do this eventually. A few days. Next Christmas. That she's here and that's what really matters and they'll do this eventually.
She kisses the underside of his jaw and steps back. He lets her go and runs a hand through his hair. He's wracking his brain for what they do now. He looks to the tower of bins in the corner of room and supposes they ought to go out. Because it's silly and too much and the last thing he wants to do is build up bad associations for her here.
He turns to her and wills a suggestion to come. Something. Anything. He turns to her and stops.
She stops, too. She has her coat half off and she stops. "What?"
"You're short," he blurts. He looks down and sees she's already kicked off her heels. She's kicked them off and added them to the jumble by the hall closet that they bicker about. He grumbles and they bicker because it's the only thing that keeps him from bouncing up and down with a ridiculous grin every time he thinks about how many of her shoes live here now.
She gives him a quizzical look. "Are you ok?"
"I . . ." He lunges toward her and helps her the rest of the way off with her coat. He roots around in the closet for a hanger. He stalls for time. "You're staying? We're staying?"
She blushes. She's embarrassed and he wants to rewind the last five minutes of his life. But she looks up at him then, and it's not such a big deal. "I'm just a little tired, Castle."
"You're sure?" He hates every single thing about his voice. The quaver and the excitement and the stupid look he's absolutely sure he has on his face.
She rolls her eyes and heads for the living room. She leaves him standing there and he wonders if he should try harder to give her an out. He wonders how hard this is on her.
She throws him a look over her shoulder and it's not such a big deal and he wonders if he could be any more Martha Rodgers' son. He starts toward her, but she holds up a hand.
"My present?" She raises an eyebrow and tilts her head toward the hall table.
He snatches up the box and hurries after her. He's about to drop on the couch next to her, but she gives him a heavy look and makes an imperious gesture as she swings her feet up and waits for him to sit at the far end so she can drop them in his lap.
"Don't you want your wine first?" he says and it has a little edge to it.
"Oh, good idea. Very thoughtful, Castle." She grins and that's better. The cloud lifts and that's better.
He sets the box on the coffee table and pours for both of them. It's normal. It's better than normal and the excitement rises up in him again. He hands her the wine and takes up his post at the opposite end of the couch. He presses his thumbs into her arches and her head tips back. Her eyes close and she tells him about her day. She tries to tell him, but she keeps interrupting herself with satisfied little moans and sharp directions as his hands work the tension from each toe. He looks around at the firelight falling on the bare tree and the patiently waiting bins and her.
Her eyes snap open and she barks his name.
"What?" He blinks at her and follows her gaze. He's surprised to find that both his hands have worked their way well up her calf. He grins. "Oh. Oh."
"No," she says. "Not 'oh'."
"Not oh?" One fingertip slides up the wide leg of her trousers and skims the back of her knee. He pushes it, for all the good it does him.
"Not 'oh'," she repeats. "Because your mother and your daughter are going to be here soon and I am not getting up in the middle of the night to decorate when you remember that you can't wait another minute."
"Oh." His face falls. That does sound like him, doesn't it? "Oh."
She grins and drums her feet against his thigh, but he's still pouting. He's pouting. She sets her wine down and scoots across the couch. She plants a loud, wet kiss on his cheek. "Give me my present, Castle. That'll make you feel better."
It will, he realizes, and a grin breaks out all over his face.
He snags the box and presents it to her with a flourish. She takes her time with the ribbon because she knows it drives him crazy and he has only himself to blame. He can't resist doing something complicated every time he wraps one of these.
But she's working it now and he grabs for it. She pulls it back high over her head and there is a decidedly girly scream when he grabs her around the middle and hauls her toward him. She snaps the ribbon before he can get to it and elbows him in the chest as she settles herself under his arm. She ignores his exaggerated oof as she lifts the lid and digs through the tissue paper.
It suddenly occurs to him to be nervous. A little nervous about the pictures. The first two at least.
But she pulls out the ornament and holds it up and the firelight catches it just right and she gives a soft laugh and lands a haphazard kiss on his chin. It spins on its ribbon and she just watches at first. She watches and her smile is wide. The motion slows.
It twists lazily and she brings it closer. She stops it altogether with her fingertips and it's the first picture facing her.
"Castle," she breathes. "Where did you get this. I've never even seen . ."
He kisses her cheek. It's warm and there's a little splash of color on it. She's blushing and he should have thought this through better. "No one has. I mean, just me. And Paula. I had to . . . the photographer wouldn't budge until I sicced Paula on him."
She twists around to look at him and he's blushing now. He's blushing under that frank, grateful gaze of hers. The one he still feels like he doesn't deserve.
"Thank you, Castle." She kisses him and he just nods, eyes on his lap. She ducks so he has to look at her. "Thank you for saving me from a world with that hair immortalized above the fold."
"Hey," he says as he taps the crystal with a fingernail. "I loved that hair."
She snorts and turns the ornament. He wonders about this one. If it will take her a minute, but she knows right away. "Where the hell was the photographer?"
"I have no idea!"
She turns to him and there's a hard, suspicious look on her face. "You didn't know? It wasn't a stunt for that stupid list?"
"No!" he says. It's more than a little sharp. "Of course I didn't know."
She blinks and pulls back. She looks away and back at him. "Sorry. I'm . . . sorry, Castle."
"I wouldn't have." He tips his forehead against her cheek. "Even then, I wouldn't have done that."
"I know. I'm sorry," she says quietly. She touches her fingertip to the crystal and studies the picture. "God, that was a terrible date."
He laughs against her ear. "Oh, I don't know. I thought it was pretty great. Even if you did drink half my shake."
"That was not a date," she scoffs. "That was . . . restitution. It was your fault I didn't get to eat anything."
"How was it my . . ." He shakes his head. She shivers as his cheek rasps against hers. "I'm not even going to ask how it's my fault. But it was totally a date."
She shakes her head and decides it's not worth arguing about. She turns the ornament again and goes quiet. He wonders how she knows, but it's the flowers, he supposes. He wonders if she remembers the rest and he's shy about it.
She remembers lots of things. Big and small moments.
But he's a writer and it's different for him. And he knows it overwhelms her sometimes. The way he files everything away and sometimes she feels like he's not fighting fair and he doesn't mean it like that. He just can't help it. It's important. Everything about her is important and sometimes he's so bad at realizing that he's living too much in his own head and making too much of some comment of hers that she didn't mean anything by.
And he's shy about this all of a sudden. The picture. That night. The ornament and what it means to him. He doesn't know how much he should say and then she surprises him.
"That was a date."
"What?" He turns her toward him. "How could that have been a date? You wouldn't even let me pay for your hot chocolate and you . . ."
His brain catches up with his mouth, then. She's unhappy.
She looks so unhappy, but she raises her eyes to his and doesn't flinch. "And I was with Josh. And you weren't with Gina any more and I told myself that I was just . . . that it was something friends do. That a friend would do that for a friend, but . . ."
She trails off and he kisses her before he can say anything stupid. Then he says it anyway. "I wish I'd known it was a date. I would have kissed you goodnight. I wanted to kiss you."
He doesn't realize it's stupid until she's pulling away. She pulls away and sets the ornament carefully on the coffee table and he can't believe how stupid he is.
But it's so far gone. So long ago and she's here now and it just doesn't matter. To him it doesn't matter because they've ended up here. Tangled up together on his couch waiting for his family. Waiting to decorate for Christmas and it just doesn't matter.
But she's sitting with her feet flat on the floor listening to the faint tink of crystal as it rocks back and forth. She's stumbling over her words. "I'm sorry . . . I wasn't . . . I'm sorry it took me so long and that I'm still not . . . I'm sorry . . ."
He tugs her back to him. He folds his arms around her and murmurs to her that he's not sorry and they're here now. He just holds on to her until she's quiet. Until she sags against his chest.
It's not long. It's over before very long and he wonders how much of this is really about that night. About whether it was a date or not and who was fair and who wasn't. He wonders how much of this is about Christmas and the fact that this is an effort for her.
He's about to ask. He's about to offer. To take her out. To take her somewhere. To get on a plane and take her away until the whole season is over. Until January tenth. He's about to offer her anything she wants when he feels her arms tighten around him and she's kissing him and it's sudden and fierce and he jerks back in surprise when she ends it.
"You're right." She's looking up at him and her eyes are a little bright, but she's smiling and it's . . . calm, too. Like whatever just happened bled out of her and she's calmer now. Like it's one less thing weighing her down. "You're right, Castle. We're here and it's Christmas . . ." She tips her head to the side and narrows her eyes. "Or it will be, like, weeks from now."
"Three," he says pointedly. "Three weeks, which is hardly enough time to rotate through all my train set ups."
She shakes her head and pushes up from the couch. "I guess we'd better get started again."
She reaches for the ornament and holds it up to the light. It's smudged with all the handling. She tugs her sleeve down over her palm and swipes at it, but it's knit and it just makes things worse.
"Here." He reaches for it and tugs one of his shirttails free.
She bats his hand away but tugs him closer by the fabric so she can do it herself. He grabs for her hips. He crowds against her and she twists away, polishing the delicate surface until she's satisfied.
"There." She holds it up between them and the light catches it differently. It catches it just the way it did for him almost a year ago and her lips part in a soft O. She holds it up higher.
"It's beautiful. It's like . . . I'm holding my breath like it's going to burst any second." Her voice is hushed and she can't take her eyes off it.
"It won't," he promises. "It won't."