Pseudologoi

It's not like he meant to do it, not really, but when he got dressed this morning Castle found himself orienting towards the darker half of his closet. A deep navy button down, the line of studs up the placket like winking eyes whenever they catch the light, and a coat that makes his torso square and boxy.

Sombre, funereal even. He's mourning the death of their partnership, and it seemed only fitting that he dress all in dark colours now. None of the pale blue that always makes Beckett take an extra second, her whole body stuttering at the sight of him. No red, because he wants to steer well clear of crimson lust right now.

"So, Kyle killed someone he never met for no reason, is that what we're supposed to believe?" he says, leaving their suspect's hospital room a couple of steps behind his partner.

Used to be he would purse his lips and tilt his head, his whole body sagging to one side as he checked her out, but now it's just that the brush of her upper arm against his might really kill him.

Out here in the hallway, the insect-hum of the fluorescent strip lights makes his teeth ache down to the root and he squares his jaw. His right eye twitches and he blinks hard, exhaustion suddenly swamping him. This case is tearing him up.

Leaving Beckett is tearing him up. But so is staying, and forgive him, but it's time to be a little bit selfish. Lord knows his partner has been serving her own agenda all damn year. And he's an idiot, he's the kind of snivelling fool she barely notices as he stoops at her feet, but he can't stop loving her.

"Well, isn't that what you said zombies do?" she says beside him, pulling a pen out of her folder where it was marking her place. He's amazed that she's able to walk while scanning her notes on the case, even managing to scribble something else down.

Castle finds himself stumbling over his own feet whenever he even dares to glance at her, and here Beckett is smoothly avoiding smashing into the doorframe without even looking.

"It is with a sad heart that I say that that man is no zombie," he admits as they fit neatly through the door together, squeezing out of a capillary and into one of the main arteries of the hospital. The main entrance is just behind them, an ambulance parked up out front and throwing Beckett into sharp relief, shadowed in blue and then red over and over.

Gesturing at him with her pen, Kate turns her face towards him for a moment, letting him see the mischief that flirts with one corner of her mouth. Both of her eyebrows lift towards her hairline, lovely little creases wrinkling her forehead.

"Oh, even though he rose from the dead?" she teases, and he feels a grumpy noise bloom into life at the base of his throat. She's been trying to cajole him into laughing with her during this case, but even though the zombie element is truly fantastic, he's found himself turning away and seeking somebody, anybody else to share his childish joy with.

Not even a month ago, he oriented around Kate like a flower turning his face up towards the sun. They used to conspire together, heads bent over her desk as he volleyed ideas and she grumbled at him. She would shoot down his wilder theories, but a secret smile always had her lips peeling back to show her teeth, her chin ducked as if that might stop him from seeing.

"It's common knowledge when you turn into a zombie you cannot turn back," he says, to distract himself from the great tide of grief that roars over his head.

Beckett is still scribbling notes onto the pad of paper that always seems to materialise from out of nowhere when she needs it, and he can't help himself. He peeks over her shoulder to read what she's written, her handwriting still that lovely, looping cursive even without a real surface to lean on.

He still likes the weird stuff, she's jotted down, a hastily drawn box around the handful of words to keep them separate from her notes about their suspect's condition, the results of his medical tests.

She's talking about him. Writing it down to remind herself that he, Castle, is still the same goofy hulk of a man who shared a bucket of popcorn and muttered lines of dialogue from Forbidden Planet in her ear. He hasn't changed, loved her even then, so she must think that it's her. That she did something.

Well she's not wrong.

Beckett gestures with her pen again, almost prodding him in the chest with it, but her eyes are still on the notes she's making. She doesn't see the craggy melancholy that spreads rapidly across his face, doesn't witness his anger dissolving into remorse.

He's hurt. His bear paw pressed the trigger plate of too much silence between them and the trap snapped shut, made him yelp and curl in close around his wound. Castle has bared his teeth to her these past few weeks, snarling when she tried to come close, but that's not fair. To either of them.

For three years now, he's been proud of how well he knows Kate Beckett. And he knows that she's probably been laying in the wan light of the early hours since the day she was shot, persuading herself that he didn't really mean it. That his words were empty, a platitude.

The only time he's ever told her, they were both crying; no wonder she's been too much a coward to bring it up again.

"So you concede to the fact that there's a medical explanation for all of this?" Beckett says, and Castle stops walking.

Enough.

It takes her a moment, still absorbed in her note-taking as she is, but Beckett picks up on the sudden loss of his warmth at her back and she turns around to see him, her mouth already open in question.

"Okay, I'll admit defeat," he jumps in, showing her his palms. "Because I love you."

Beckett stumbles back away from him, her hands meeting the wall behind her, and her whole body sags against it in a slow melt. The folder goes clattering to the floor, her pen rolling across the linoleum until it bumps against the toe of his shoe and comes to rest. Her mouth works around silence and she stares at him.

"I love you, Kate," he says again, as if he does it every day, as if it doesn't bother him in the slightest that they're in a hospital and any number of strangers can overhear them.

One day, he's going to get this right. Tell her with grass tickling her bare toes, legs stretched out on a tartan blanket and her belly full. Or over coffee, first thing in the morning while her limbs are still jerky and disconnected, sleep fraying her muscles down to wire.

Doesn't matter. What's important is that he get through this time, make sure that she's really hearing him. Maybe kiss her, just a little bit. And then he can say it whenever he wants, actually let it free each time it bubbles like nectar in his stomach and his chest and his throat.

"Castle-" she whispers, still staring at him, and he reaches out to cup her elbow because she really does look like she's about to go to the ground. He didn't exactly mean to do it like this, to blindside her with it, and he's not looking to have her embarrass herself here in the hospital.

"Detective," a voice calls out, and the fine baby hairs at the back of Castle's neck prickle into attention. He growls his frustration, low enough that only Beckett will hear, but she doesn't quite manage to give him the huff of laughter that he's searching for.

Clearing her throat, Kate straightens her spine and peels away from the wall. "Perlmutter. What are you doing here?"

"I came to tend to one of my patients, Kyle Jennings," he says as he approaches them.

Castle shifts around to stand behind his partner, absolutely not using her as a shield against the medical examiner, and he peeks at Perlmutter from behind the helical spill of Kate's hair. "Um, do you think that's such a good idea?"

A cool hand comes to Castle's thigh and his whole body cants forwards into that one infinitesimal point of contact. Beckett doesn't look at him, doesn't acknowledge him at all, but there's a twitch at the place where her jaw meets her neck.

"I'll have you know I'm perfectly capable of treating living patients, I simply prefer not to. I made an exception here because the results of his blood work are quite unusual."

"Okay," Beckett says, shaking her head. The skin between her eyebrows puckers and her gaze catches on the cart stacked with fresh linen just behind Perlmutter, lingering for a moment. She clicks her tongue before she turns back to face the medical examiner. "Can you- would you call the precinct with those."

"Can't I just tell you now?"

"No," she says firmly, shrugging her shoulders inside that amazing jacket. "We have to go."

One hand fists in the sleeve of Castle's shirt and tugs, and he goes stumbling past Perlmutter and his bemusement. He has to jog a little to catch up with Beckett as she strides out of the hospital. "What's going on? Are we going back to the precinct?"

"No," she spins on her heel and pokes a finger into his chest. Hard, and he yelps and jerks back away from her, a hand coming up to protect himself from another attack. "You can't just- just say that."

She's stuttering. It's adorable.

"I didn't exactly mean to," he winces, preemptively pulling away in case she prods him again. Instead, Beckett pushes her hands into her pockets, elbows jutting at awkward, spidery angles. "It just. . .came out."

"Oh, God," she growls, wrenching her hands back out of her pockets again and pushing the heels of her palms hard against her eye sockets. "What is wrong with you?"

"Me?" he grunts, irritation swelling out of nowhere and he circles her wrists in his fingers, tugs her hands away so he can see her. "You're the one who pretended not to hear the first time. Left me with no other choice."

"No other choice?" she says, and thunder rolls across her face. "Castle, you've had almost a whole year to say it again and you choose now? I thought you hate me these days."

He grapples for her, but Kate neatly sidesteps the claw of his fingertips and folds her arms across her chest. Hunched, and that leather jacket and hooded sweatshirt combination suddenly makes her look like a little girl, her slender body swamped.

"I don't hate you. As much as I might have tried."

"But why did you try?" she asks, her voice reed-thin, and she pulls the sleeves of her sweater down over her hands. "Why did you want to hate me?"

Castle growls and rakes a hand through his hair, so frustrated with this whole clumsy mess. He doesn't want to awkwardly sidestep around the truth anymore, can't stand one more moment of Kate's confused and timid face just before she turns away.

"I heard you. You told a suspect that you heard me when you were shot. Before you had the decency to tell me."

"Castle-" she whispers, but he's not finished yet.

Pushing his hands into his pockets, Rick lifts his shoulders at her. "I mean, it's fine. I'm over it now. Obviously."

"You're over it," she says flatly, her face carefully blank.

"My hurt," he clarifies. "Not loving you. That's still- I clearly need to work on my self control a little bit, but it doesn't mean it isn't true."

Kate turns half away from him, leaves him with the shard of her cheekbone and a mess of hair as she mutters to herself. "This is not real life."

The blare of a siren jolts Castle and he reaches for his partner, curls his fingers over the top of her shoulder. "Let's not do this here."

"Really?" she hisses, whipping back around. The ends of her hair lash against his cheek and he wants to howl, tugs her away from the ambulance bay to distract himself from the flare of needle heat. "You're the one who just told me you love me in a hospital corridor."

"Okay, okay, jeez," he whines, sticking an arm out into the traffic that floods past the hospital in the hope that a cab will take pity on them. Turning over his shoulder to look at her, he tries very hard not to roll his eyes. "You know, I thought you would have been a little happier to hear it."

A cab stops for them and Castle wrenches the door open, gestures for Kate to climb in first. She does, but she doesn't slide all the way across to the opposite window. Instead she settles in the middle seat and fastens the belt, twisting against it to look at him.

"I am happy to hear it. I really am. I'm just shocked. I thought you. . .I thought this was gonna be your last case."

"So did I," he admits, grappling for her hand and lacing their fingers together. It makes hers splay too wide but she doesn't move to take her hand back from him, allowing her palm to meet his. He's clammy, but so is she, and gratitude makes him sag against his seat.

The cab driver turns back to look at them, his face weathered with grumpiness. "Where to?"

"Oh," Rick casts a startled look towards his partner and she leans forwards, her arm stretching back at an awkward angle to keep her hold on his hand as she gives the driver the address of her apartment.

"That okay with you?" she says when she sits back again, nibbling at her bottom lip, and he thinks he actually might die here in this cab if she doesn't quit being so adorable.

He does a very unmanly cough to clear the mute clutch of desire, tries to smile at her. It's probably a little closer to a galvanic twitch, but it makes her grin at him. They're both a bit delirious; he feels giddy with the weight of a secret shared, has to make a concentrated effort not to let nervous energy make him tremble.

"Yeah. But what about the case?"

"Screw the case," she growls. "The boys can handle it for tonight. You're talking to me. Smiling. I'm not letting that go to waste."

He has nothing to say that isn't defensive, so he keeps his mouth shut for the ride to her apartment. When the cab pulls up outside the building he passes a handful of bills to the driver, already tumbling out of the car with Kate's body hot and insistent at his back.

They stumble into the elevator together and he crowds Beckett against the back wall, his palms either side of her head. He stares down at her, brushes the baby hairs back out of her face. "I mean it. Meant it. And I'm sorry I didn't say it again until now."

"I'm sorry I lied," she says, lifting up into him so that he feels the wash of her breath over his cheek.

The doors peel open at his back and he grunts, allows her to push on his chest to get him moving. He can't help but nudge his way in close against her at her front door and she fumbles the keys, her elbow knocking against his sternum as she hunts for the right one.

He's so grateful he could weep when she finally gets the door open and he spills into her apartment, closing the door behind himself. The blinds in the living room are open, a single lamp burning in the office because she hates coming home to thick and textured darkness. It throws her shadow against the living room wall, every lustful quiver of her body mimicked and magnified, and Castle reaches for her before he knows he's doing it.

"Kate," he says darkly, drawing her in against him. "I'm sorry I said it in a hospital. But I'm not sorry I said it."

"I hurt you," she whispers, and the moon's round, wise eye peers in at them through the window.

"Yes. And then I lashed out, and I hurt you too."

She comes in a little closer, both hands coming up between them. One of them fists in the collar of his shirt and the other curls at his ear, holding him in place. "Are we past it?"

"Yeah," he gruffs, and then before he can say anything else she lifts up onto tiptoe and presses her mouth to his.

Her kiss is timid, her lips meeting his and pulling away only to come back a moment later, and his head thuds back against the door. It startles her into a laugh and he takes his chance, slicking his tongue into her mouth. She moans, a broken sound that makes a fist tug in his belly, and her hips rock shallowly against his thigh.

"Kate," he gasps, nose pressing hard into her cheek, and her fingers sift through the fine baby hairs at the nape of his neck. "I can't believe you're real."

"I'm real," she murmurs, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes, and the smile that blooms across her mouth is one he's not sure he's ever seen before. It's so peaceful, makes him want to go to his knees and worship at the font of her body.

Well, they're already cutting work.

"Can I take you to bed?"

"Oh," she sighs, kissing him again because that's a thing they're doing now, and he clutches at her hips so he doesn't topple. "Yes."

A/N: I've recently been dwelling a lot on what certain scenes would be like if lines of dialogue from scenes in later seasons were inserted, so of course I had to play with this. In Greek mythology, the Pseudologoi were gods of lies. Thank you Allie for looking this over, and Carlee for cheering me on and giving me the title.

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Twitter: seilleanmor