Running In Circles

The case ends with zombie makeup caked across his face, a killer in custody and an ease within his chest that's grown unfamiliar over the last few weeks. A steady beat to his heart that isn't laced with pain or the echo of truth he still isn't sure he wanted to know. and a steadying calm to his breathing that eases the remnants of his anger.

A smile on her face that is small, slight but there all the same, beautiful as always, further soothe the tangled tendrils of emotions that curl within him.

She stands before him when the case is over, eyes locked on the floor and hands fisted in the hem of her jacket, a tinge to her cheeks and a defensiveness to her frame that he finds himself mirroring. Twirls of hair frame her face, her smile, when she looks up at him at last, allows him to see the pain lingering behind her eyes, the etch of false joy into her features.

"So, this is your last case?" she asks, the words flitting through the air as a shaky request for reassurance that has everything he thought was gone returning to flood his system, clog his throat.

He chokes on his response as he forces it from his chest. "Yeah, I guess so." But the words have hesitance melding with the anger that brought him here, shaking his certainty about her lies as he watches disappointment draw at her face, stain the joy he'd seen over the last week with sadness that has him refusing to leave her side just yet.

Wishing to prolong the moment, the suspension between partners and friends and almost more before it was lost to separation, to anger and misunderstandings.

"I guess this is goodbye?" he manages, his voice just as weak, just as laced with uncertainty as before.

But they light up something within her, a flicker of something bright, something good flickering across her face, something that has his heart sinking. With the knowledge that maybe she still wants this, still longs for goodbye after everything they've been through. That perhaps this last week didn't spark hope within her the way it did him.

Maybe it was easier because the knowledge he was leaving made things simpler for her.

Until the words that tumble into the weighted silence between them ring familiar in his ears, an echo of something hopeful, a reminder of a moment that was far less complicated by emotions, by love and pain and heartbreak and the mixture of so much more.

"Well, it doesn't have to be," she whispers, eyes bright with hope that shakes his resolve, already managing to erase his determination to turn away. A handful of words that seep into his chest, stutters his heart's arrhythmia, steals his breath. "We could go to dinner." She pauses, offers a quirk of her lips as she speaks, a fragment of the teasing smirk he's grown familiar with. "Debrief each other."

And it's just enough to have his doubt about her, about them, cracking under the weight of memories, of the evidence of their evolution, their growth, their dedication to each other.

Enough to have him forgetting his plan to turn away from her, leave the woman who flipped his world upside down, sneaked into his heart like no one ever had before. The women with the power to send his mind spinning and heart racing with the simple drag of her teeth over her lip, the bright genuinity of her smiles, the tragic truths behind her pain.

He steps closer to her, mirrors her hesitant smile, quiet hope, with his own. "Why, Beckett? So I can be one of your conquests?"

"Or I could be one of yours."

But the truth settles in his gut, then, the next part of the memory of one of their first days together. That this is when she leaned in, whispered in his ear a sentiment that still rings true.

And walked away. Never intending to see him again.

Just like he planned to do to her, today.

But she doesn't seem to want that to happen, is tilting her head back, angling her smile towards his. "Castle?"

He swallows, nods for her to continue because words seem feeble, trivial at this point. His greatest skill, but his weakest when it comes to her, to her witchy ability to erase every eloquent thought from his mind and replace it with this.

Passive aggressiveness and silence and subtext that always seems to go misunderstood.

It's up to her today, to worm her way into the cracks she's created with him and his desire to let her go, draw him back to her in a way that only she could.

And she doesn't disappoint.

"Would you come over?" she breathes. 'To my place, that is. For dinner?"

It's so simple, no possibility for misunderstandings, missed meaning. For him to not see the gleam in her eyes that tells him what she wants his answer to be.

The one that is echoed in the steadying races of his heart, the upturn of his lips when he answers.

"That sounds great."

She should probably have let him go home, escape to his loft so she can do the same in the privacy of her own apartment. Gather her thoughts as much as her breath, shed the weight on her shoulders and the memories swirling in her mind to be more at ease in the moment. To erase the flustered quality to her motions as she leads him across the threshold, try to ensure that today goes as planned.

Goes better than he'd planned, and doesn't end with goodbye.

But nerves are still coiled within her chest, the same ones that drove her to offer him a ride to her place instead of making him go home to clean up and take a cab over later. Fear that if she lets go of the careful balance between them, lets either of them disappear to minds running wild and anxieties strong enough to change everything, it will all fall apart around her. End the friendship they share, render her hopes to be more in vain.

The moment he steps into her apartment, she starts to regret it. Wishes he wasn't watching her shed the day as she kicks off her heels and sets her jacket aside. That she couldn't see him doing the same, falling into the comfort of familiarity even with the charged tension of new between them.

He motions to the makeup staining his face when his shoes have been set next to hers, jacket joining her own on the back of her couch, his smile crooked and happy and enough to draw one to her lips.

"Got any makeup remover I can borrow?" he asks, words ringing with laughter. "Unless you're into the whole zombie look."

She rolls her eyes at that, allowing herself to sink into the simplicity of this, of teasing banter and smiles and the chuckle he so easily draws from her chest, has tumbling into the air around them.

"I've got you covered, Castle," she promises.

He knows to follow when she turns her back to him, and it sends her heart stuttering once more. The reminder of how difficult the past few weeks have been, of the loss of this that's defined them so much, for so long. That's shaped their relationship and her trust in its permanence no matter how many times it's almost been lost to the tension of two people who love each but are too scared to admit it, who care for each other too much to let go, even if it means getting hurt in the process.

Her apologies, his dedication, have always had him returning to her life, to occupy his position and take up new ones until now.

Until these past few weeks, when he turned his back to her and forced her to follow him, for once.

But she loves him too much to let him go, no matter the painful, broken beats of her heart, the tendrils of fear that curl within her in moments such as these that seem so simple, but are charged with so much.

Her back stays turned to him as she draws her makeup remover from the cabinet, until she's holding the box of wipes out to him with a smile at the confused flick of his gaze.

And it may be stupid, but it's enough to have her setting the box aside, drawing a single wipe from within it to press it against her hand, against his cheek. Feel the warmth of his skin beneath her palm as she smears layers of black and green and brown makeup across his face, wiping it away, staring at the smudges of color because she can't bear to see the look in his eyes.

It's only when she pulls away that she looks up at him, catches the spark of amazement as he stares back at her, the flicker of desire for more that has her insides twisting, half-hearted smile lifting.

"You got this?" she asks. "And I can go order the food?"

He nods, slow and hesitant but there all the same.

She forces herself to look away, stepping from the small confines of her bathroom into the emptiness of her kitchen, where she presses her back against the counter just to feel the dig of marble against her spine. To calm herself with the steadying cool of the countertop beneath her palms.

The ground beneath her feels less shaky now than it has for the past few weeks, stability returning to the fragile relationship fostered between them. But it still quakes when they get too close, when she lets herself toe the line between them, push the boundaries of their friendship. With every touch of her skin to his, every silent whisper of sentiments between his gaze and her own.

Her voice is still shaking when she orders the Chinese, hand doing the same when she sets her phone down, turning towards the heavy weight of footsteps coming towards her.

To him, his smile crooked and brown makeup still smeared at his hairline and under his jaw.

She wants to reach for him, wipe it away with the brush of her thumbs or further smudge it with the press of her hands to his skin.

But she doesn't. Because everything remains unsteady, shaking within her, world quaking around her like it's on the cusp of something monumental.

And she's learned, with time, that when you shake something too much, it might just shatter before your very eyes.

Words between them are dangerous, a constant risk of saying the wrong thing or omitting the wrong word. Leaving implicit what should be explicit, or vice versa. Saying too little or too much or the wrong thing altogether and in all the years of knowing her, he's never been able to find the right mixture, the precarious balance of communication with Kate Beckett that keeps her from running away, keeps them both from a pattern of stagnation they know too well.

But silence is dangerous too. It's the very thing that led them here. Omissions where truth was necessary, silence where words should have been. Secrets that never should have been kept and promises that needed to be made but weren't. Their habit of erring on the side of caution when all it's done is harm them.

They should know better. He should know better than to let his reservations go unspoken, to let her sink into this state of silent messages that he can only hope he reads correctly.

And yet silence is what drags on after the food is ordered, when he's wiped the traces of makeup from his face and she's promised that the Chinese food will arrive shortly. When her gaze falls to the floor and he can't find the right words to draw it back to him, draw her to him, to close this gap between them that goes so far beyond the physical.

It lingers, heavy between them, until there's a knock on her door that draws her attention, offers an escape. A split second of movement before they're settling on the couch and letting stillness return. Weighted with implication, both promise and doubt, the knowledge that they're on the cusp of something beautiful bursting between them, or something terrible shattering the fragile pieces of their hearts and tearing them apart.

He can see that fact written across her face as much as it echoes in the pounding of his heart.

It's in the furrow of her brow, the fearful flicker of her gaze across the room, across him., the quivering of her fingers as she tries to balance her chopsticks within them. In the silence, swirling around them like a menace that things will never change, will crumble before they can spur themselves into motion.

And he can't allow that to happen, feels that certainty suddenly ricocheting within him, spurring him into action because she looks too scared to do anything.

So he reaches over, spears a piece of her sweet and sour pork with a single chopstick just to hear her affronted hey replace the quiet around them.

But he doesn't hesitate to bring the piece of pork to his mouth, shoving the whole thing past his lips as she watches him, eyes wide, hand frozen in midair. It's only when he swallows, finds himself licking lingering sauce from the corners of his mouth, that she blinks, turns her gaze from where it was locked with his to–

Oh.

To his mouth, the trace of his tongue across his lips and no, this isn't what he wanted. They need to talk, lift weights of unspoken secrets, silent promises from their chests rather than burying them behind brushes of lips in kisses they'll never speak of. They need to talk. He needs to talk. Say something. Say–

"Actually planning on making me one of your conquests, Beckett?"

She starts, dropping her chopsticks into her food carton, gaze lifting from his lips to catch his once more. Her swallow ripples visibly down her throat, breath heaving at her chest, the long second of hesitance spurring the beat of his heart to uncertain stuttering against the cage of his ribs.

Only for her response to have his whole world skidding to a stop around him.

"You could never be just a conquest, Castle."

He's silent. His mouth is clamped shut and eyes are wide and he's silent, so much so it sends her mind into a spiral of regret and her heart into a pounding race against reality, her world tilting on its axis as she waits for it to crumble apart around her. Waits to be reminded that he doesn't love her anymore, that he doesn't want her. That she made him wait too long and–

And he's still not speaking. But he is reaching over to set his food on the coffee table, leaning towards her to do the same with her own. To reach for her shaking fingers and wrap them in the secure warmth of his, offer a squeeze that has the tense muscles of her back relaxing enough for her to breathe again.

The frail wings of hopeful truth spreading within her, fluttering against the cage of her chest in attempts to escape as promises, as confessions, to draw her forward and smear her love across his lips with her own.

She bites her lip to hold it back, to keep herself from rambling off all the things she's kept from him, the reality of this last year, of the wall that's stood between them for far too long, of the affection for him that echoes in every beat of her battered heart, a mantra, a reminder of what she's fighting for. Who she's fighting for.

His thumb traces the ridges of her knuckles, the bumps of bones in her hand, eyes remaining locked on hers. "We need to talk," he tells her, his speaking of the obvious loosening the tight knot of restraint within her. "About a lot."

Her responding nod is slow, hesitant, held back by the sudden spinning blur of thoughts in her mind, all the things they need to talk about that cannot be expressed in a single response, cannot be covered in a single conversation. So she blurts the one that catches the forefront of her mind the moment her lips part, tumbles into the space between them as a stutter of a question, half truths and build up to something more.

A reflection of the last year, the very conversation that set them on this path, trapped them in a stalemate of not moving while basking in the beauty of the tentative relationship budding between them.

"Do you remember that wall I told you about?"

He smiles, a bittersweet curl of his lips that soothes the stillness in her chest. "Of course."

She mirrors the upturn of his lips with a tentative smile of her own, reciprocates the touch of his hands by tightening her grip on them, digging her fingers into his palm to keep him close. "I think it's coming down." she confesses, the honesty of the statement lifting a weight from her shoulders, sending more bricks tumbling to the floor.

A quiet reminder that she should have opened up to him sooner, that this slow, shy progression in their relationship is what has her wall crumbling around her, leaving her heart unprotected despite its fragility. And she finds that what she once feared, fingers clutched tight around the chains of a swing, now has her inching forward.

Her hands lift from his grasp to trace the bones of his wrists, the strong lines of his forearms, draw patterns on his skin like letters of another language. Like foreign messages that have been misunderstood for far too long, lost in translation, fading out into silence, leaving them in a dark stillness of confessions that meant unheard, promises that died on their lips.

They're not good at words. She's not good at words, communicating with them, catching those he leaves unspoken as he masterfully crafts epistles she fails to comprehend.

But she's good with actions, when she lets her desire to hold back drown in the depth of her love for him, allows herself to lift onto her knees, frame his cheeks with her hands. Smudge that smear of lingering makeup with her hands like she's wanted to since he came out of the bathroom into this still frame of their story that needs to move.

She's not good at words, but he depends on them, speaks what he can as a careful request, a hesitant desire. "Well, I would like to be there when it does."

It's so unbridled, so true. Has relief unfurling within her as tangible as the stuttered beat of life where it jumps in her throat, the smile that blooms across her face, uncontrollable and bright and met with a stain of warmth to her cheeks, a dip of her head to hide the bubbling joy inspired by it all.

Her thumb smooths along his jaw when she looks back up, traces the line of budding stumble beneath her touch, the angle of his beaming smile as it draws at his cheeks.

"Castle," she breathes, quiet, shaky like the breath she sucks in, the wall that had stood between them for so long, that lingers only as a pile of rubble when he's staring at her like she's the brightest star, unparalleled by gleam of sunlight or glow of New York CIty, "you already are."

And her head dips once more. Not to hide the happiness that burns within her, the affection sparking, beautiful in her heart.

Not to hide anymore.

Not now.

But so she can lean down, send the last few bricks of her wall falling around her as she presses her lips to his.

The touch of her mouth to his is breathtaking, a beautiful brush of lips, show of love as her arms curl tight around his neck and his lock around her waist. As he holds her close, molds his mouth to hers, letting her breathe her promise past his lips, stain them with the unspoken words caught on her tongue and she slicks it against his, steals his breath with this moment.

It's delectable, having her so close after so long, feeling the warmth of once forbidden skin beneath his palms, the touch of drugging kisses beneath his lips.

But it's the exact opposite of what they're supposed to be doing, a feeble replacement for the conversations left to be had. Far from the openness, the honesty, that will allow them to buoy each other, drift together along the struggles of starting a new relationship rather than drowning upon diving into this.

His hands curl tighter at her waist, pushing her away as he draws back, parts his lips from hers. She clutches at his shoulders in response, hands curled tight there as her forehead knocks against his.

He wants to remind her that need to talk, whisper the words into the space between them, but she's shifting against him, tilting her head so her smile can smear a kiss to his cheek, reassure him of her happiness. Her bubbling relief he can feel expanding with every breath against his palms, the flutter of her heart that thrums against his body.

And the words that fall from his lips aren't at all those he intended.

"I'm so sorry, Kate."

She pulls back at that, her hands staying clutched in the fabric of his shirt, her warmth a lingering presence against his chest. Her smile twists to a frown, etches her features with the confusion of a furrowed brow and creases of regret on her forehead. "For what?" she breathes, the question a quiet search for reassurance that he feels catch in his breath and slap him across the face for his failure to communicate effectively.

How is it that he uses words for living, shapes them into stories that people love, but Kate Beckett can break his abilities to speak eloquently, to find the right words for a moment with making pain hitch at her chest?

"Not for this," he promises. "Never for this." His hands skim along her spine, caress the dip at the base of her back, the flare of her hips as he lets his palms drift across them, hold her close so she can feel the sincerity in the statement. "For these past few weeks," he clarifies. "Pulling away instead of talking to you."

Her head dips so she can press her forehead to his again, to he can feel the dust of her exhale across his face, warm and stammering with emotion. Sending a pang of regret through his chest again, as though the press of her body to his, the phantom feeling of her smile dusting kisses to her lips, isn't enough to remind him of his idiocy. Of their terrible habit of running when things are too much, getting lost in a spiral of not communication and expecting understanding only to clash in a fight that almost shatters them both.

Only to come back together with a tentative new side to their relationship, unable to stay apart for long.

"Not your fault, Castle," she huffs, though, the words tensing his shoulders, straightening his spine in shock only for her to soothe the strain with the dust of her fingertips along his body. "I shouldn't have lied. Should have been more clear on the swings." She lifts, tilts her head back to catch his gaze with hers, allows him to see the gleam of sincerity in her eyes. "Shouldn't have made you wait so long. It wasn't worth it."

But that has his hands gripping her even tighter, holding her hips against the cradle of his as his spine arcs and body lifts to catch her lips once more. To steal her breath and words of regret with the press of his mouth and the brush of his tongue over hers, the drift of his hands along her sides as he draws her down to him.

She's breathing hard when she pulls away, chest heaving against his, eyes open, crinkled at the corners with joy as her nose dusis against his in an eskimo kiss.

"This was worth it," he tells her. "All worth it."

Her smile widens, so beautiful it has him tilting up once more, kissing her again because he can now. Because regrets have been spoken and promises made, confessions ringing in his mind as he holds her close, feels the press of her body so long awaited and the warmth of her love radiating, however unspoken.

Can feel his own breaking through his chest, so hopelessly obvious, escaping him a breath of words, far too sappy.

All too real.

"All of it, since the day we met. All worth it."

For Andrea, on her birthday, and Castle Fanfic Monday/Tuesday this election day. A huge thank you goes to Andrea for the incredible prompt that inspired this story, and to Lindsey for her fabulous beta work.