Power Play

a co-authored fic by jstar1382 and chezchuckles

It's been six weeks and Castle feels like he's waiting for the other shoe to drop. The sword to fall.

But she keeps showing up.

First was that evening, rising above him in her bed for round three, and then the next morning because he slept over at her half-unspoken request. (It was more of a slurred stay, more but he took it and ran with it.) And since then it's been Beckett sneaking into his loft or showing up early for a body drop for an entirely different kind of body drop. At Remy's, Beckett has kissed him crazy in the back hall by the bathrooms, and in Central Park, she directed him away from the crime scene to feel him up before getting down to business.

She doesn't spend the night, but when they're at her place, she asks him to stay a little longer, another hour, a little longer, and he gets the idea that the times when she finally makes him leave are more of a respect for his fatherhood than a real urge for solitude on her part.

But it can't be this easy, can it?

Sex with Detective Beckett is addictive and hot and unexpected every single time. He never wants to stop.

But he also wants things she's patently unwilling to give. He wants her to spend the night. He wants to kiss her in the precinct instead of having to check the urge. He wants to be proud of her and not care who sees it. He wants to tell people she has this cute little hitch to her voice when she's so tired she can't get out of bed in the morning and she calls his name pathetically for her coffee.

No, he wouldn't really tell anyone that. But he wants to not feel so ashamed for dwelling on that little hitch to her voice; he wants to not chastise himself for getting in too deep when his heart melts at the way she says his name in unguarded moments.

She doesn't seem to want to talk about any of it.

So tonight it is. Put up or shut up. He's asking her out on a date.

Has to be done. This can't go on.

His hands are so shaky he can barely ring her apartment, and when the buzzer goes off to let him up, he takes the stairs in some kind of superstitious hope in magical beginnings. She made him take the stairs to earn her favor (her bed), and maybe the stairs will once again prove something.

She's already at her front door, and it's wide open, when he manages the last flight and the long walk down the hall. She's half out of the door, looking for him, when he approaches with the roses behind his back.

She laughs, cocking her head. "What are you doing, Castle? Left the door open thinking you'd be right up." She lifts an eyebrow, gestures. He can see the red and black lace of her bra under the very thin white t-shirt. "Well, come on. I don't want to waste a second."

He doesn't go inside. He thrusts the flowers forward and clears his throat. "I don't either."

"Castle," she says, averting her eyes from the roses. "What's going on."

"I don't want to waste another second," he says, somehow dredging up the courage. "Kate. These are for you."

If he holds out his offering long enough, she'll have to take it.

She eyes the flowers, and then she studies him, but she does carefully unthread the bouquet of roses from his hand. Twelve long-stemmed red roses. He didn't want to overwhelm her by buying out the florist's entire stock.

That's tomorrow. If he gets tomorrow.

"Kate," he says softly. Now she's looking him up and down, using her detective skills to note his suit, the silk tie, his nervous hands. Her mouth slowly opens, but he rushes into the void. "Will you go out with me tonight?"

(...)

Kate falters, all words lost on her tongue.

Castle is standing there with this nervous look on his face, more nervous than she's ever seen him, and by now she's definitely seen a lot.

(Though the look on his face when they're lying together completely blissed out, that's her favorite. That's the side of him that she hates to see disappear when their bodies are spent for the night and he has to leave her.)

This version of Castle confuses her.

She doesn't understand this version, showing up with flowers and nerves and his heart on his sleeve. The beauty of their arrangement has always been - no feelings, just fun.

However, it's been harder to convince herself of that these days.

What started as a carefree one time thing has turned habitual. She tried to keep her heart closed off, protecting it from the playboy womanizer that he was supposed to be, but with each touch of his skin against hers, she fell for him.

But not once did she allow herself to think he was falling for her too. Maybe she tried to convince herself that he couldn't, that it didn't work like that in his world. But the man that's standing before her - it's impossible to fool herself anymore.

"Cas-Castle," she breathes, the floral notes from the roses invading her senses, reminding her that he's still standing in her hall, the color draining from his cheeks. The synapses in her brain have shut down, so she does the only thing she can.

She reaches for his tie, pulling him flush against her body, and she presses her lips to his mouth.

This kiss isn't a power play, it's not an act of dominance. It's filled simply with gratitude and hope - and edging toward love.

"Is that a no?" He chuckles, his mouth barely leaving hers, his voice trapped between them.

She shakes her head and she pulls away to flash him a shy smile, to really see him, this different man, this nervous and alluring and lovely man. And then she leans forward again to find his ear.

"No, it's I thought you'd never ask," she purrs. "Kitten."

(...)