When You Assume

He loves his city. He really does.

Even the murders, even the bombs, even the dark underbelly - he will take them because of days like this.

Walking with Kate in the park near his loft, roaming like he remembers doing when he'd come back for the summer between boarding schools, getting in trouble between matinee and evening rehearsal. No cell phone to tether him to his mother, not even loose change for the payphone, just staying out as long as possible with whoever wanted to roll.

He finishes telling her the story about the time they caught the subway out to Coney Island and quoted lines from 'The Warriors', recreating that infamous ride through gang turf.

He turns his head to look at her and she's doing that indulgent thing again, the quirk of lips and her eyes tender, amused and in love with him. He'll take it.

But 'The Warriors' is cool. So cool. "Dystopia New York, Beckett. How can you not love it?"

She just shakes her head. She has her hair pulled back the same way it was yesterday, scraped half up, a little messy, a little less severe. She's been working towards runway model lately, but he likes the softness more. He likes it all, of course he does, and he loves how good - how spectacular - she looks when they go out, but this is. . .familiar.

This is comfortable, comforting.

Taking him for granted. And he likes that; he loves it. It means good things for them. It means assuming that this is how it will be - no matter the video games or the hair or the bad movies - no matter what.

Her fingers spread out between his and she raises their joined hands, points towards the divergent path, and they alter their course as one, unspoken, taking it for granted. She's wearing the sweatshirt she wears to bed sometimes, and he thinks this is maybe the first time he's seen her be less than fantastically perfect when they've left home.

Taking him for granted. He still can't find fault in being so comfortable with her that he shows his slouchy side, his not-perfectness, his real self. He loves seeing hers. The sweatshirt and the mussed hair and the lack of appreciation for 'The Warriors' and disagreeing with him so much that she doesn't even bother to mount a defense because she feels it's beneath her to even try.

"'The Warriors'," she hums, shaking her head again.

She doesn't even say, as a cop, I have to hate that movie. She doesn't even try. She just patronizes him and moves on. And maybe in twenty years that gets really old, but heck, in twenty years and he's sixty (wow, sixty) and she's still here? What does he care if it's all patronizing pats on the head?

"Michael Beck," he says. "Come on. He's great in that movie."

She hums something, that little half smile, and he goes for crazy next.

"I always wanted to name a kid Swan."

"A girl?"

"No," he huffs. "A boy. Michael Beck's character is named Swan. I have a girl, and obviously that's not her name. Come on. Keep up."

Another little hum and her eyes are watching the way the recent rain limns the leaves, the soaked chroma of the tree trunks, the intensity of the green. He watches her watching the world, and it feels like the first - no, the second - it feels like the second case they ever worked together, when he just fell in love with her whole existence.

Everything.

Okay, a lot of lust. Healthy, healthy lust. Look at her. The hair though. . .

Despite the hair, despite the hair now, the sweatshirt or the trenchcoats (infinite beige trenchcoats), despite her annoyance of him and despite her walls, despite his lack of true moral fiber and his tendency to make everything a joke, despite it-

"Stop thinking so hard," she laughs a little. "You can make me watch it again and again, Castle, but I don't think I'm ever going to love it as much as you."

"Oh, I sincerely hope you never love a movie as much as me. "

She turns to him, an eyebrow lift.

"I mean, really, loving a movie as much as you love me? That's just-"

She's laughing again and bumping hard into him, a shoulder to his, startling the chuckle of him as well.

"That's just sad," he finishes. "No movie is that good."

"But you are?"

"That good? Yes. Yes, of course. Call me the Boy Who Stayed."

"Oh, goodness," she mutters. "Not Doctor Who again."

He huffs a little, frowning deeper at her. "Doctor Who? Really? No. I'm appropriating Harry Potter, Beckett. Jeez."

She laughs at that too, the consternation between her eyebrows smoothing out in surprise. "Oh. I should've known that one. The Boy Who Lived. But you know, Amelia Pond is the Girl Who Stayed. So."

"So, I'm a girl? You're comparing me to a girl?"

"Hush. We're all off track. No more talk about 'The Warriors'."

"But it's such-"

"Castle," she smirks, a little amusement, a little more annoyance. Beckett flavored, so it's light even though it sharpens her tone.

"Then let's move from 1979 to the early 90s," he says, lifting a finger from her hand to rub along her hip, catching at the loose pink of her sweatshirt. Pink. Go figure.

"That movie was released in 1979?"

"Well, yes. I realize that makes me older than you-"

"I had just been born-"

"A good deal older than you, thank you for that, but we already knew this. Catch up."

She snorts.

"I'm talking early 90s now," he says, and tugs a little on the sweatshirt. "This thing here. Whatever this is you got going. I know you wore this in middle school, Beckett. I've seen the pictures."

"You have not," she gapes.

"I have. Your father sends me things. Emails me."

"My father-" Here her mouth drops open and she stumbles to a halt in the middle of the path and he steps right into a muddy puddle and it splashes up.

"Look what you made me do," he sighs. "And these are my good-"

"Everything of yours is good," she says, dismissing his morose perusal of his shoes.

And that helps. He lifts his head with a flash of that healthy, healthy lust and gives her a smirk. "Everything of mine is good. Nice of you to admit it."

She rolls her eyes. "Back to the matter at hand. My father emails you? Pictures of me."

"Well, there was just one batch. I might have asked what you looked like as a baby - just, you know, for research purposes - and he sent me a school photo from every grade. I swear you were wearing this exact outfit - and hair - in 8th grade."

"I am going to. . .what's wrong with my outfit? My hair?"

He opens his mouth, closes it. Opens it. "Nothing wrong. I was just commenting on the style. The 90s are coming back. Have come back. I do think we're on to the 80s now, though. So if you want to - you know - glam it up, break out the cool lots in neon yellow and black plaid-"

"Wait. Disregarding the insult going on here about my clothes - which, by the way, I'm only wearing because I spend ninety percent of my time at your loft and someone said he would do laundry, oh, don't stop and get clothes, Kate, please, just come home, you have plenty, I can keep you in style - and then you did not-"

He winces. "Meant to. I meant to. You got that really good case on Monday and then I wrote that chapter and then that fantastic sex and I forgot. You drive me to distraction."

"So ignoring all that," she growls. "What is my father doing - no, more importantly. What research?"

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Closes it.

She lifts an eyebrow. The path is deserted because it's just this little park about five blocks from his loft and no one ever comes and the rain has made the day a little cooler than they all want it to be (and just last week she was standing on a bomb, it was a bomb, and he wanted to just wander around with her but-); he can't believe there's nothing and no one to save him from himself.

Stupid.

"Research. Castle. What research?"

He opens his mouth but still there are no words. "It was - kinda dumb. Just. No. Mostly dumb." Embarrassing. He's the one going on and on in his head about being comfortable and easy and taking this thing for granted and how nice that was to assume so much and yet he won't - he can't.

Not yet.

"Castle," she hisses. "You are not making Nikki Heat into a children's book."

"What?" he yelps. But actually-

"No. Promise me. Nikki Heat in no way, shape, or form belongs in a book for children. Never."

He sighs. "Never? Really? Because-"

"Never. Promise me."

He bobs his head, the idea here and gone, just that quickly. "Never," he sighs out.

She lets out a breath of relief and nods back, then she turns and heads them farther up the path, her walk a little more measured, purposeful, and he's just glad she's let it go without seeing what lay behind it.

Nikki Heat children's book? No way. Didn't even occur to him.

"Wait," she says slowly. She turns back to him, her fingers flexing over his. "You asked for baby pictures? And my Dad sent you. . .every grade. Every year?"

"I did not ask for baby pictures."

"No," she says thoughtfully. "You asked what I looked like as a baby. For research."

"I. . .yes."

"Why?" she says, and it's quiet, it's thoughtful - too thoughtful - and it's the look she's had for the last six months every time the truth starts to get a little uncomfortable, a little embarrassing for him. "Why, Castle?"

And he'll find himself telling her everything. He always does. He just - he's not sure they're at a place where she wants to hear it or even where it should be said aloud.

How his writer's imagination just. . .fills out their story.

"I wanted to know."

"Because?"

"Because. . .I have a picture in my head." Of what we look like.

She's still quiet. Detective quiet. Staring at the murder board quiet. Not good for him quiet.

"A picture of what?" she says softly. "And. . .who?"

He sucks in a breath and masks it with a little shrug and crooked smile, tries for charming and maybe kind of stupid. Always used to work.

Doesn't anymore.

Something to be said for not being so comfortable, not knowing each other so well.

"Castle," she says slowly, drawing his name out. "What are you picturing in your head? That you wanted visual confirmation of. That you wanted baby pictures for."

"I didn't ask for baby pictures," he huffs out, like that will defend him, distract her.

It doesn't. "Rick."

Arg - he tilts his head back to the sky - using his first name on him. So not fair.

Suddenly she's sliding her hands up his chest and cupping the back of his neck, angling him down to look at her, her hips pressing flush to his. Her eyes are kind. She has such compassion, and right at this moment she's giving it all to him. Letting him off the hook but still asking for answers.

"Are you picturing," she murmurs, raising up on her toes and pulling his head to hers. Their foreheads meet, their breath mingling, her words falling lightly. "Rick Castle, are you picturing what our kids will look like?"

"Maybe."

"Maybe?"

"Yes." He sighs, a shaky thing, and closes his eyes.

She kisses his mouth lightly, a touch of her tongue to the seam of his lips but moving on, the corner, the jut of his chin, the scruff at his jaw, little barely there kisses as she strokes her fingers in the hair at his nape, soothing.

"You can do that, Castle," she murmurs, a smile against his skin, nuzzling under his jaw.

He realizes his hands are wrapped at her elbows, bracing them both maybe, and he flattens his palms out and embraces her, drawing her close and in and tighter.

"I can?" he murmurs, his words falling to the top of her head now.

She sways with him. "I do it too."

He lets out a long, long breath.

There's something to be said for taking it all for granted. For assuming that, in the end, this is how it will be.

No matter what.