Ripping Out the Pages

It's a sucker punch.

He wishes he hadn't seen it, wishes he could retrace the steps that led him around the corner of the hall – ignorance is bliss and all. But it's too late now. Too late to erase the sick feeling rolling over him in waves at the sight of Beckett kissing another man.

It's not just the fact that she's kissing Tom Demming. It's the quiet moment they've stolen in the hallway, the shy smile that blooms across her face afterward accompanied by the absentminded hand she presses to her lips. It's not a look he's used to seeing on her. She's softer somehow; beautiful in a way that guts him because he wants to see that look again but not this way. It hits him just how badly he wants to be the one responsible for the softness that's come over her, wants to kiss that shy smile. And it's enough to shake him, have him retreating, all sense of accomplishment from the case they've just closed shattered in an instant.

He can't get out of the precinct quick enough.

Except he doesn't. Instead, he's forced to duck into the break room as she approaches. He fumbles with the espresso machine, pretends like coffee isn't the last thing he needs right now with the blood rushing through his head and the sharp twist in his stomach.

"Castle?"

He recovers just enough to plaster a neutral look on his face before glancing in her direction, silently prays his eyes don't betray the depths of his feelings.

"What are you still doing here?" she asks.

"Hey," he forces himself to drawl, as nonchalant as possible. "Just about to leave here myself. Good job closing the case." He adds the last sentence because it's what he set out to tell her all along - and maybe it's pointless now, but he means it all the same.

The smallest trace of a smile flirts across her lips. "Yeah, well, we make a good team."

Under normal circumstances he'd call that a victory. He'd be overjoyed at the words she's just spoken and the look on her face. He's not though. Not today, when he gets the impression that this smile isn't for him at all, it's for someone else entirely. It burns at him, feels like a betrayal even though he knows he has no claim on her.

But as she stands there looking over at him, his only thoughts are of the man he just watched tasting the smile that should have been his. All he tastes is defeat.

So he tells her goodnight. Watches her walk away and wonders how it's possible to lose something he never had to begin with.

He tries writing it out.

He thinks that if he can just get it on paper, shape the story himself, he can fix this. Demming can become Schlemming, nothing more than a caricature to be mocked, a nuisance that can be written out of the plot. He writes because his characters are the only thing he can control.

He scrawls word after word until his wrist aches and his eyes burn, 'til he's filled half a notebook with ideas he knows in the back of his mind that he'll never actually be able to use.

It should help. It always has in the past. There's nothing quite like the feel of the pen in his hand and he's always chosen to write this way when he's frustrated over something. He needs to feel it as much as he needs to see the words – a different kind of satisfaction that comes from ink stained fingers and smudged pages.

But this time it does nothing to calm the storm inside. If anything, it only keys him up more. He can't help replaying the look on her face in the hallway. He's jealous and he knows it seems petty but it's really only a mask for what runs much deeper.

He finally lets the pen clatter to his desk and shoves the notebook aside. Nikki isn't what he wants tonight. Isn't whom he wants. And over the last few hours he's come to the realization that his biggest fear isn't some other man. It's that he may never even have the chance to become what Rook is to Kate's fictional counterpart - no matter how many pages he writes in an attempt to convince himself otherwise. The thought of that alone hurts him way more than he cares to admit.

The truth is, he's angry with himself most of all. He's spent the better part of a year shadowing her, telling himself that it's just about the books and nothing more. Denying the way he's drawn to her, the way he's become compelled to do whatever it takes just to put a smile on her face.

But damn it, it is more to him. And he before what he saw in the hallway, he'd have sworn it was more to her too. He wants to have hope because he thinks he's caught glimpses of it in her sometimes - when she doesn't think he's looking. More subtle smiles, the laughter he's been able to provoke from her with increasing frequently throughout their past year together. They truly have been a team. Before Demming showed up.

Now he's not sure what to think. Self-doubt has always been the ugliest monster inside of him. Kate Beckett is no exception where that's concerned. But it's those subtle smiles, the ones he knows were reserved for him,that have him climbing to his feet and reaching for his jacket despite the late hour.

He's tired of fighting it. Tired of fighting the pull of her.

Maybe it's selfish. Maybe she'd be better off with the robbery detective. Maybe it's the dumbest idea he's had so far; but he's not ready to give up yet. Not without being sure that she doesn't feel something too.

Because he knows all too well the pain of letting someone slip away and he never wants to repeat that mistake again.

The knock on her door jolts her.

She must have fallen asleep on the couch after she'd gotten home, relaxed from a bath and a glass of wine, the satisfaction of closing another case. The book she'd been reading still lays folded over her outstretched legs and it falls to the floor as she forces herself upright. She forces herself to blink her eyes open, runs a hand through her hair, yawning when she stands. And when she glances at her watch, she's surprised to see that it's almost midnight.

She pads on bare feet toward the doorway, her hand moving to her hip out of habit, reaching for a gun that's not there. It's a habit she supposes she'll never break, a cop through and through. But when she checks the peephole she breathes a sigh of relief, one that's followed immediately by confusion.

Castle.

She opens the door, startled by the way he breezes by her, stepping inside her apartment before she can even get a word out. "By all means, come in," she mutters, waving a hand through the air as he passes.

She watches with a mixture of curiosity and irritation as he paces in front of her, opening his mouth then shutting it again. She's just about to ask him if he ever plans to tell her why he seems intent on wearing a hole in her hardwood floor at 11:45 on a Wednesday night when he blurts out, "Come to the Hamptons with me, Kate."

"Excuse me?" It's so far from anything she would have expected him to say that she can't do much more than gape at him. He's staring at her with wide eyes, as though he didn't quite expect himself to say it either. But she watches, all the more intrigued, as he seems to steel himself, emboldened by the words.

"Memorial Day weekend," he says, finally abandoning his march in the entryway to approach her, eyes flashing. It makes her shiver. "Come with me to the Hamptons. We'll cook out, watch fireworks, go swimming."

She forces herself to maintain some semblance of composure, narrows her eyes at him and takes a step backward, even though this entire conversation, his presence in her apartment has thrown her completely off balance. "You want me to go away for aweekend with you?"

"Yes."

He says it so simply. As though he's stating something obvious like the sky is blue or that he's a writer. And heaven help her, there's a part of her that is actually tempted to say yes, a part of her that feels the faintest traces of excitement stirring at the way his eyes are roving over her face. He's too close now. Close enough that she can feel the electricity pulsing off of his body and it's too much. So she shakes her head, shoves all those thoughts aside quickly. He can't possibly be serious. They don't do this. They don't take vacations together or even really hang out outside of the precinct unless you count the week she stayed with him after her apartment blew up or the few times they've shared a burger or Chinese after closing a case. This is Castle though and she can't possibly say yes.

"Castle, I'm seeing someone."

He takes another step forward, shrugs. "I know."

He looks dangerous as he says the words, that cocky smile she knows so well beginning to stretch across his face in reaction to her attempt to retreat. She swallows nervously as she stumbles back, realizes she's been effectively trapped. But she refuses to give him the satisfaction of it. "Then why the-"

He silences her before she can finish with the slant of his mouth over hers, has her pinned against the doorway before she even realizes what is happening. His kiss is bruising, his fingertips fire against her cheeks when he frames her face in his hands. And it's wrong, it's so incredibly wrong because she was just kissing another man only six hours earlier. A nice, seemingly dependable man. But, in the moment, all she can think is that it was absolutely nothing compared to the taste of Castle, to the sparks of heat licking through her veins at every point of contact. If her kiss with Demming was sweet, this is anything but. If she didn't know better she'd think Castle was marking her, claiming her with every press of his lips, every trace of his tongue. And damn it if that wasn't totally, completely doing it for her.

When his hands move to her hips, pull her into him hard, her mind goes deliciously blurry until she finally stops thinking and just feels.

They both moan as she surges up to meet him stroke for stroke and she flips their positions, pushing his back to the door. Her hands wind around his neck and her body shudders as his thumbs brush against the bare skin of her sides, underneath the NYPD hoodie she'd slipped over her head after her bath. She can't remember why she ever thought this was a bad idea when it feels so amazing. So right.

Then, as soon as it begins, he's pulling back gently, leaving her breathless and wide eyed, incapable of doing anything other than staring up at him. She'd be mortified if it weren't for the look on his face, the dark shade his impossibly blue eyes have taken on, the way that even though he's holding her at bay, his hands haven't left her skin, are still tracing mindless patterns against her lower back as he fights for control.

"I'm going to kiss you again, Kate," he murmurs, lips brushing against hers softly. "I'm going to keep on kissing is you until the only name in your mouth is mine."

He speaks the words against her ear, punctuates the sentence by trailing his lips across the plane of her neck until she can't help but moan again.

"Castle," she breathes.

"Say you'll come with me. Please?"

She manages to pull back just enough to look him in the eye. Sees that despite the courage he arrived with, the determination that seems to be radiating off of him in waves, there's also vulnerability laced in his words, in every nervous flicker of his eyes as he waits her out. She knows that she'll owe Tom an apology, knows that she's probably going to hurt him. But she also knows she can't ignore what just happened. The way her heart still pounds with it, with Castle. Tom's never really had a chance compared to this. So she gives in to what she's wanted for longer than she cares to admit. Feels her pulse begin to race again with the acceptance of what she's about to say.

"Okay," she breathes, dropping her forehead against his shoulder, allowing him to hold her there for a moment while she catches her breath. "I'll come with you, Castle."

AN: Thank you so much for reading. I would love to hear your thoughts.