Fic prompt: 2x18, Castle is giving Beckett his clothes to sleep in/seeing her wear it for the first time
He sat in the kitchen, hands wrapped around the glass of water he had poured - almost twenty minutes ago - but hadn't sipped from: not even once.
It was more of a prop, really. Something he could touch to anchor himself to reality.
He should be in bed. Asleep. Dreaming peacefully of... well, anything. But every time he closed his eyes he saw it again: the flames; the thick, billowing smoke; her tiny frame all battered and curled up in the tub.
Guilt settled heavily in his chest.
He had put a target on her back. She assured him that she placed no blame on his shoulders, but he did. He had created the perfect target for this psychopath and she had almost paid the ultimate price.
Oh God, he really did not want to think about how close he had come to never seeing her again.
His eyes wandered toward the staircase as he briefly wondered just how inappropriate it would be for him to sneak upstairs to check on her.
Turning back to his glass of water, he shook off that idea. The last thing he needed was to get himself shot because the already frazzled detective woke to a figure lurking over her in the dark.
She's okay, he reminded himself. She had a bed to sleep in, a roof over her head and people who care for her here if she needs to talk. He knew that he had done everything he could.
Still, he wanted to do more. He wanted to completely erase the damage of the past 48 hours. Hell, he'd erase the past year - any trace of himself, of Nikki Heat - from her life it that would make the guilt subside.
"Hey."
The soft rasp of her voice pulled him from his thoughts and he looked up to see her standing at the bottom of the stairs.
"Beckett, hi." He released his grip of the glass as he straightened his back and stood tall. "Everything okay?"
His eyes searched her, looking for any sign of distress. The clothes he had given her to sleep in - one of his favourite cotton tees and an old pair of grey sweats - were baggy, almost comically so. She looked so delicate, so fragile in them.
But apart from swimming in his clothing, the tiny cut that was barely visible in her hairline and her bandaged wrist, she looked fine.
She's okay, he reminded himself once more for good measure.
She looked down at his too-big, burgundy shirt.
"Not my best look," she said, looking back at him with a smile.
He mustered a weak smile; for her. "I think it suits you."
Her smile faded with his words. "It's not your fault, Castle."
Despite his best efforts, he never was able to hide from her. He shook his head, forced his smile to be real.
"Can't sleep?" he asked.
"Just need some water." She walked into the kitchen and pulled a glass from the overhead cabinet, filling it with water from the tap. "Throat's a bit dry."
"Yeah." He let out a huff of air, turned back to his untouched glass of room temperature water. "Fire will do that," he mused absentmindedly.
He could feel her eyes on him, her presence lingering in the silence until suddenly she came into his line of vision, leaning against the counter just as he had been before. She jerked her elbow to the side, tapping it gently to his arm to gain his attention.
"You doing okay?" she asked once his eyes were back on hers. "You would have inhaled-"
"I'm fine."
She rolled her eyes. "You don't have to pretend. You ran into a burning building to save me; and even heroes suffer from smoke inhalation."
"I wasn't trying to be the hero." He shifted, his entire body turning toward her; fast. "I-"
She moved, too; her back ramrod straight as she stared into his eyes, hovered just inches from him.
"You what?" she whispered urging him to continue, to say whatever it was that needed to be said.
He looked down, fingers tangled in the excess material of his shirt that had completely enveloped her.
Was she always so small?
So vulnerable?
So beautifully human: capable of bruising, of breaking, of dying because of him.
He closed his eyes and tried to force that thought from his mind, but he couldn't. The memories just kept replaying.
The flames, the smoke, her body.
She's alive.
The trickle of blood down her forehead, the wince as she stepped from the tub and into his arms, the fear in her eyes when Shaw had tried to pull her from the case; the one thing she had left.
She's alive.
The quiet moment of reflection as she wiped soot from her mother's ring, her too-steady-he-knew-it-was-forced voice as she called out "has anyone seen my father's watch?" and the poorly veiled helplessness behind her joke about insurance covering the cost of dry-cleaning.
Her world had been thrown off axis. How was she keeping it together? How was she worried about him? Why was she so willing to let him off the hook for this?
But, she's alive.
"I'm so sorry, Kate." He leant closer and pressed his lips to her forehead, careful to avoid her injury. "I'll shake it off eventually. Just not tonight."
He stepped back, grabbed his glass of water from the bench and retreated to his bedroom, hidden from her studying eyes, where he could dwell and wallow and chastise himself and she wouldn't feel any sort of unnecessary guilt.
Because he had meant what he said: he would shake it off, eventually.
Just not tonight.
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Is there like any narrative point to seeing that poor guy suffer?
Of course there is! Several reasons, in fact.
1. To show the brutality of the world he inhabits, especially for slaves, and also how that suffering can bond people who might otherwise be opposed to one another (also to show the cultural differences that put him in his particularly nasty situation)
2. Showing the way the dynamic between him and his abuser changes throughout the story. Can’t go into too much detail because spoilers but yeah, this is a story about messed up relationships.
3. This part of the story I’ve been posting recently is a scene where he is desperate to avoid betraying his friends. His suffering shows his devotion to those he loves, even if he isn’t completely unbreakable.
4. I’ll probably skip over some of the worst parts in the actual book, my recent posts are from a chapter but also just straight up practice for animation. Dripping blood = liquid practice, pain is a great subtle face thing, and so on and so forth. Trying to get the body to move correctly in animation can be quite tricky, and I only have so much time in my regular life lol.
5. He’s my blorbo and I’m a freak who likes to make characters suffer
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Whimpers in marus ear
"'m sorry, 'm sorry," Maru whispered desperately in return, forcibly relaxing his grip and slowing the fevered rutting though he didn't stop; Lovek hadn't told him to stop he hoped Lovek wouldn't but Maru would if he was told to-
He pressed his forehead, sweat-soaked bangs and all, against the Viera's shoulder near where he'd sunk teeth just moments before and his heated breath washed over pale skin. Hot tongue flicked out to taste and he mewled his need, blunt claws leaving grooves as he struggled to rein himself back in.
There were tears at the corners of his eyes. He sank teeth into his bottom lip to keep from biting his bedmate again.
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