milliways_bar | (no subject)

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Beckett is running.

To work out, mostly, but also to clear her head.

(There's a lot in there that needs clearing.)

She's outside, dressed just enough to stay warm and trying to make her way back to the bar before it gets too dark and she's forced to dodge demon bunnies or whatever else lurks out in the shadows. By the time she returns, she's made good time, and stops to do a few finishing stretches, hoisting her foot up onto the railing and trying to touch her nose to her leg.

She's got headphones in, so she may not hear you if you approach quietly. And we don't advise sneaking up on her, either.

[ tiny tag: rick castle ]

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That's an insult and it stings Castle to the core, upsetting him enough that he drops his arms (and his jaw) for a couple of seconds, opening himself up for a Beckett-style offense.

"Oh, come on. Your nose is perfectly normal-shaped."

She even pokes the end of it, gently, with a dripping finger and an accompanying grin.

He scrubs at the end of the offending nose, wrinkling his upper lip. "You're just trying to make me feel better." Which is characteristically unlike Beckett, which charms Castle -- which makes him able to push her shoulders underwater without too much guilt attached.

He doesn't get her completely underwater, but he still comes fairly close - the surprise of it is really what gets her, and she surfaces with a charged look in her eyes.

"Oh, Castle, you don't even know what you've gotten yourself into."

She uses her footing in the sand to spring forward, hands landing on his shoulders to bear her weight and (hopefully) knock him back under the water.

She's light but effective and he goes under, bubbling the entire way. 'Gets to the surface looking like a drowned penthouse rat, his hands maneuvering from her shoulders to her ribcage. He pulls her backward with him, a good three feet, his grin wide and salt-rimmed.

"Is that the best you've got?"

She's too busy laughing to answer, and even if he does drag her under with him, the look on his face now was totally worth it.

"Hold on. I'm taking a mental picture."

His hand mashes his face to clear the water and he finds that he's laughing -- in between choking up salt water, of course -- with his hands in a very comfortable ten and two on Beckett's ribs. She's smaller than he anticipated, but there's muscle beneath his hands. He can feel her coil and tense beneath his fingers, ready to give, but only just.

He pushes down, spinning her underwater like an alligator with prey, and they both fade into a storm of bubbles before resurfacing, Castle breaking the waterline with a rough, reedy gasp. His eyes are still squinted closed against the salt. His hands on her body are his only guideline.

The only reason she's out of breath, she finds, is that trying to remember to breathe when you're too busy laughing is somewhat difficult a task. She steadies herself with the grip she still holds on his shoulders, sliding one hand over her face to clear the water from her eyes.

"I'll - have to give you credit - for that one," she pants, barely managing a laugh while the water ripples and settles around them. The sun's completely disappeared behind the horizon, but everything's still bathed in a rosy glow, and her gaze finds Castle's in the dimmer light.

"I wish my diary was waterproof," he says, settling his hands on her hips at at forty-five degree angle so that they can both find the bottom, the water lapping at her chin more than his. The heat's gone, but there's still a residual warmth from where her hands press down on his shoulders and Castle is dimly aware that they're they only living souls for miles.

"With that memory of yours? You'll never let me forget I said it to begin with."

She lets her feet settle again, her palms moving to the edges of his shoulders.

"We'll have to dry off before we head back through the woods unless we want to catch cold," she points out, discreetly clearing her throat.

He looks disappointed. "You want to go in?"

"Not yet," she answers quickly, and for some reason, she can't figure out why she sounds like she's trying to reassure him.

"Soon."

He drops his hands from her sides and pushes back off the sandbar, doing an exaggerating, slow flip underwater. He surfaces some feet away from her, puffing his hair back from his brow and scanning the waterline for her familiar shape.

"So who'd you kiss?" he asks. "At summer camp."

She's lazily drifting on her back, her arms fanning out to her sides, the black tank she'd worn to exercise clinging to her slender frame as she briefly raises her head to catch his words.

Beckett scoffs, quietly, but answers: "His name was Daniel. I don't remember much, except that it was dark - and kind of sloppy, actually. Not great."

That begs the question. "So who was the best kiss you ever had?"

"How did I know that was coming?"

She straightens again, tilting her head to make sure she doesn't have any water in her ears.

"For your information, Will was always very good."

"Will?" he sounds equal parts disgusted and incredulous. "Sure, if you like perfect and vapid."

"What's so wrong about that? He's a good man, Castle."

Beckett bites her lip.

"Why? You think you can do better?"

His foot scuffs the sandbar.

"You're asking me to 'best' the best." Slim shades of moonlight have begun to cling to the horizon. "I think, in the name of scientific inquiry, I can do that."

She does her best not to look too disbelieving, ducking her head to spin a wet strand of hair around her finger.

"Research purposes. Obviously."

"Obviously," he returns, with exactly the same dismissive headshake.

There is no no part of Richard Castle that is obedient to objectivity right now, not when honour -- and manliness -- is on the line. While the moon slides closer to the shore, Castle slides closer to his partner, trenching his feet in a bed of sand. His hands fill a pressure around her hips, drifting, before they settle in place against her bones. She has perfectly sculpted hips, he notes, his thumbs fitting nicely against her bare skin.

"Obviously," she echoes, her finger stopping mid-spin and almost locking in place, the word elicited in a near-whisper.

This isn't the first time they've been this close; far from it, in fact, but the intent behind earlier proximity was always less-than-clear. This couldn't be more focused, and Beckett draws in a breath when Castle's hands settle on her hips, her toes wiggling into the sand.

She doesn't move. She's almost afraid to.

And now Castle has a chance to be brave where she doesn't want to be, thrusting his feet into the murky sand bar while hers wiggle for purchase beside him. He feels the pressure of her presence pushing against him, the wave form Beckett, and he draws some courage from the fact that she hasn't swum for shore yet.

Her finger has frozen, suspended in a damp brunette curl, and Castle passes his hand over her cheek, drawing her lips toward his. First kisses? Aren't invasive. They're exploratory. Beckett's upper lip submits freely, but her bottom is still hesitant. That's almost charming and coquettish. Castle brings his mouth close to hers, near enough to feel the ozone rising from her lips, close enough to let his mouth skim the edges of her breath.

It's quiet, almost too quiet now, and the only sound apart from the water lazily lapping at the intrusion of their bodies is their breathing, quickening and sharp. Beckett somehow manages to untangle her finger from her hair, letting her hand drift below the water's surface in the same beat that Castle cups her cheek in his hand.

He's too close for her to make an excuse, to laugh it off as some kind of play at humor, and she knows that even speaking at this point will cause her lips to brush against his with every syllable.

"Castle," she murmurs.

His surname has never sounded so intimate.

It drives and stokes whatever impetus has gotten him this far, coaxing his hands along her hips, his fingers trailing along the slim, calculable curve of her jaw. CAS - TUHL. That's a breath, and that's all that Castle needs to bring his mouth against hers, low and sweet.