He got to go to her place a few times before she called everything off, and Tom saw all the Richard Castle stuff. He'd just assumed she liked to read them - it was a safe assumption because she had a lot of books and Castle wasn't a bad writer.
Tom wasn't a good enough guy to call him a good writer, but Castle was at least average.
He had pictures of his partners, too, arms slung around shoulders and giving noogies. He had some pictures of his old partners shirtless and sweaty after sparring or a NYPD league football game. Hell, if he looked around enough, he might find some misplaced t-shirts from every partner he'd worked with. He didn't have photos of himself slow-dancing with them and gazing into one another's eyes.
It wasn't the partnership that bothered him - he was used to partners being more important than lovers, sometimes more important than children and spouses. Non-cops didn't get that cops protected their partner like an extension of their own body and soul; perhaps better than their own body and soul. It was sacred. Kate Beckett, who trusted no one with anything, trusted Richard Castle with her neck. The writer helped her on with her coat and his fingers curled under the collar with an ease that spoke of complete acceptance.
Tom had held her down and nibbled at that neck, he'd cupped his palm over it and held the humidity under her hair, he'd smothered stupid orgasmic howls in that neck. Kate let him touch, but she didn't give it to him like she did to Castle. Demming could touch her neck, but Castle was her partner, so her neck was his own.
But sometimes when she moved her head just so, Demming could feel the softness of her nape tickling so hard along his lip it scrubbed away everything rational.
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timeasmymeasure
Siege Engines that Failed, PG-13, Beckett/Demming
Date: 2010-10-09 03:12 pm (UTC)Tom wasn't a good enough guy to call him a good writer, but Castle was at least average.
He had pictures of his partners, too, arms slung around shoulders and giving noogies. He had some pictures of his old partners shirtless and sweaty after sparring or a NYPD league football game. Hell, if he looked around enough, he might find some misplaced t-shirts from every partner he'd worked with. He didn't have photos of himself slow-dancing with them and gazing into one another's eyes.
It wasn't the partnership that bothered him - he was used to partners being more important than lovers, sometimes more important than children and spouses. Non-cops didn't get that cops protected their partner like an extension of their own body and soul; perhaps better than their own body and soul. It was sacred. Kate Beckett, who trusted no one with anything, trusted Richard Castle with her neck. The writer helped her on with her coat and his fingers curled under the collar with an ease that spoke of complete acceptance.
Tom had held her down and nibbled at that neck, he'd cupped his palm over it and held the humidity under her hair, he'd smothered stupid orgasmic howls in that neck. Kate let him touch, but she didn't give it to him like she did to Castle. Demming could touch her neck, but Castle was her partner, so her neck was his own.
But sometimes when she moved her head just so, Demming could feel the softness of her nape tickling so hard along his lip it scrubbed away everything rational.