107. Life is life

Castle takes full advantage of Kat’s blissed out state to wriggle down a little further and lay his head on her stomach without putting much weight on her. When she’s ready, they’ll play some more: everything he wants to do with her and to her and for her; to be everything she needs, here and everywhere else, always and forever and ever. When he can get her out of Manhattan (he shivers at how close she came to cutting him off, lost in her own insecurity and pain and pushing everyone away) she’s so different: playful and sparky and wholly adorable; her heart in her eyes even if it’s not (yet) on her tongue.

He feels a hand smoothing through his hair, lazily, as if it can’t help itself, twining slowly. It’s soothing, this petting, and he understands suddenly why it works on Beckett, or Kat, so very often. He emits a deep, contented rumble, and stretches a hand above his head to meet hers. He misses her hand, but finds a pleasantly soft curve and point instead, which is fair trade, and essays some petting of his own, not particularly trying to arouse, yet. Her hands become more intent, more purposeful, and skate around the jut of his jaw, trying to reach further down. She can’t move far with him blocking her, and if she’s ready for more he is definitely so. He stops playing with her breast and strokes down her side to her hip, lifts his head and slips further down, trailing his mouth across her navel, stopping at the lace panel of the panties.

“I know you like this,” he purrs darkly, vibrating the lace. “Don’t you?”

“Mmmm. Kiss me, Castle.”

“Soon,” he promises. “Soon, Kat.” Before he tastes, he intends to touch. He settles into a more comfortable position and lets his fingers loose: feather light strokes on the satin skin of her inner thigh, smooth pale cream against the scarlet silk. As he had with the bra, he slides the fabric across her, and then lengthwise to press and pull on the knot of nerves, and she writhes, already wet again and making occasional soft moans and whimpers of desire and need. His finger slips beneath the material, stroking through hot slick folds and playing teasingly at her entrance, a little in, a little out: one finger, two; never deep enough or full enough for his Kat who’s pleading for more, harder, more please Castle more and twisting to bring him to her desire, but this is his game, this time: she can have her way later or tomorrow or another day, but now he’s going to hold her on the edge of ecstasy until he’s had his fill of showing her stars.

His fingers stroke harder, and then he lifts her slightly and peels away the panties, all the way down her legs and then parts her again and strokes some more: dipping in and feeling the muscles flutter and twitch; sliding to the nerve endings and she’s bucking and twisting: her hands in his hair, and then he finally leans in, breathes over her to tease, and puts his mouth on her and she cries out wordlessly, losing speech. He has to hold her hips still to carry on, and takes her with his tongue and then withdraws to lick firmly straight along her, end to end and she screams, bucks and writhes and tries to escape the exquisite torture of absolute ecstasy, but he won’t let that happen, takes her again and again until the pre-orgasmic flutter is constant and at last he stops, surges up and thrusts into her open, willing, desperate body; seats himself fully, wrapped in her tight heat and then withdraws, thrusts; withdraws, thrusts; takes her mouth with his without a pause and it’s all about possession then: she just has to be his; he already is hers, like it or not; and he thrusts harder, faster and she comes screaming as he groans out her name and collapses atop her, rolling over and taking her with him to hold her close and keep her.

“Mine,” he murmurs into her hair. “Whatever happens, mine.” She makes a soft mew-murmur of assent and snuggles into his shoulder, a leg flung over his, an arm over his chest, idly sketching fence-posts on his shoulder. He turns the lights off, starlight from the clear night, drifting through the window, the only illumination. Here in the covering, concealing darkness she might speak plainly. Sometimes, darkness can reveal secrets, not hide them.

“Whatever happens?” she questions.

“Whatever it is.” He listens carefully to the quality of her silence and the intonation of her breathing. “What’s wrong?”

“Noth… everything. Nothing’s fixed and I still can’t face your family. Out here it’s good: it’s like there’s no-one else. No drunk father, no loving daughter; just an island. Every time I think about doing this in Manhattan, going to your loft, I just can’t see it. I spook.” Self-contempt colours the words. “Worst thing is, I know why, now. Dr Burke” – the name is bitten out – “explained it all. But understanding it doesn’t mean I’ve got over it. I thought by the time we got here I’d be able to make it work but it doesn’t matter what I understand, I can’t feel anything but stupid pathetic envy and what’s the point of being in love with you if I can’t even face your family?”

She only realises what she’s admitted when Castle gasps and his arm clamps tightly round her. By that time it’s far too late to escape.

“Plenty of point, Kat. Plenty. See, being in love lets me say I can wait as long as it takes, till you’re ready. You’re still trying. You faced your father. I’m here for you. That’s all we need, for now.” He stops. “Love’s all we need.”

A damp patch spreads on his chest. He holds her, deep in the covering night, and blinks the dampness in his own eyes away. After tonight, anything has become possible. “Come here, sweetheart,” falls out his mouth, and he pulls her up so that he can kiss her: first the top of her head and then, raising her further, her forehead, and then her lips, gently and sweetly. And then he simply cuddles her until the silent tears dry.

“I need a shower,” she says eventually, tiredness lining each short word.

She rolls off Castle and sits up, slowly, not really making it to straightened up. Castle crawls over to unfold beside her, and looks down at their collective toes in the moonlight. He wiggles his, and nudges hers.

“C’mon. Let’s go shower. Will you wash my back?”

Kat yawns. “Yeah,” she says, “if you wash mine.”

“Sure. But no funny stuff. You wore me out.”

“ ‘Kay,” she yawns again. “Me too.” She pauses, and then seems to realise that she’s on the wrong end of the snark-score. “No funny stuff from you, either. Shower only.”

“You’re about to fall asleep in the shower. C’mon.”

The shower is short and involves only washing. The sheets are changed swiftly, the two of them working in tandem. Beckett then collapses into them, pulls the comforter over her, closes her eyes, and from the change in her breathing is asleep before Castle has really tucked his toes in. He lies there, staring into the night, and hugging close the warm new knowledge that Beckett-Kate-Kat loves him. Shortly, he turns over, spoons into her, and hugs both Kat and knowledge to his overflowing heart.

Beckett wakes cosily cuddled, snuggled against the wide warm wall of Castle’s chest, and doesn’t see the point of moving anywhere. She’s also still completely naked. She closes her eyes again, and dozes, feeling safe, and secure, and loved. Coming here had been the right thing to do. Absolutely the right thing. Doze swiftly turns to deep sleep.

Castle wakes a little after, and leaves himself and his arm exactly where they are, curled around Beckett, who is curled like a cat into him. She’s completely naked, which is excellent, and deeply asleep, which isn’t. But – but she loves him, and she said so. Coming here had been absolutely the right thing to do. He closes his eyes again, and dozes lightly, never quite losing awareness of Beckett tucked beside him.

After another stretch of time, in which it has become clear that Beckett is not going to wake any time soon, Castle succumbs to the nagging of his body, pads to the bathroom, and then, wrapped in a dark blue robe, to the kitchen. He sets the percolator to make his favourite brew of coffee, and inhales the aroma. He needs to do some thinking. Beckett undoubtedly does too, but that’s a different matter.

Thought one: Admissions have been made that can’t be unsaid, and the greatest of these is love, he thinks, not whimsically at all. They – that mysterious, tangled, intertwined mess that is now a they – are good. Better than good.

Thought two: against that is the problem of Jim, and Beckett’s still-unmended bitterness and guilt. There’s a long road still ahead there.

Thought three: Manhattan beckons, late tonight. In Manhattan, that crushing emotional claustrophobia sets in, and all issues reassert themselves. They can’t stay up here: the weekend was fine but he has other responsibilities.

Thought four: well, that comes full circle round to thought one. Love conquers all. Knowing what he knows, they can get through this, with care, and attention.

He wanders back into the bedroom and into bed, swiping his laptop on the way and only just not spilling his refilled coffee. He becomes aware that his bare feet are cold, and the sheets are very likely warm, and that the bed, and in particular the bed full of Beckett, who is still curled up on her side far into the arms of Morpheus, is a far better place to be on a bright but chill early March morning. He studies her dark hair spread out over the pillows, her hand half-hidden beneath her chin, her dark lashes sweeping her cheeks and the slight curve of her full lips: a tiny hint of a smile. Happy dreams, maybe: she deserves some of those. Inspired by the sight of her relaxed, he begins to tap quietly over his keyboard, and soon his neglected coffee is cold.

He’s disturbed from free-flowing inspiration by a half-stretch and movement beside him, which, it transpires, is Beckett turning over and murmuring you’re here, as she had done before; reaching out for him and finding him there. Since Castle is sitting up, propped against the headboard, what her grasping hands find is his legs. Specifically, his upper thigh. Up is suddenly much on his mind.

Beckett’s eyes peel open, still hazy with sleep and somewhat confused.

“Why’re you up there,” she slurs. “C’m back down here.”

Castle puts his laptop safely out the way, ensures he can’t knock over the coffee, and complies. Beckett wriggles over him.

“ ‘S better,” she says, and closes her eyes, hugging him close and – really? – breathing him in. He wraps his arms round her and enjoys the affection. He also very much enjoys naked Beckett draped over him, and from the slight wiggle that has just taken place, she’s noticed and is not objecting.

Very much not objecting. In fact – oh oh oh – it seems that sleepiness is now sexiness and she is on a route southward – oohhhh – which involves detailed attention to his nipples, his navel, and now… ohhhhhh her mouth is hot and wet and her tongue flicking and the suction and he’s utterly helpless when she does that to him and his hands are fisted in her hair but there’s only one person in control here and it surely is not him. He surrenders to her glorious mouth and comes hard.

Kat wriggles back up his body with an I drank the cream feline smile and sprawls back across his heaving chest. “Mmmm,” she hums, and licks her lips. Castle will deal with that self-satisfied smile. He will. Just as soon as he’s recovered from her actions. For now, he’s going to hold on to her. Post-coital snuggling is very important.

“Now what?” Kat purrs. “You’re awake.”

“I’ve been awake for ages. It’s you who’s been fast asleep. I did write half a chapter, though. Your sleeping was very inspiring.” Purr shifts to semi-growl. Castle doesn’t like the growl, and whilst parts of him will still need a little recovery time, there is absolutely nothing wrong with his hands. He strokes all the way down Kat’s back, over her beautiful ass, and then wanders further to stroke between her legs, where he finds that she’s already wet and ready for his touch. Touch he does, dancing fingers and then firmer strokes, tiny circles and then gentle pinches, slow and sure and searchingly assertive: stating his intent through his hands until he’s ready to replace fingers with hard length and oh-so-slowly taking her; not rolling them, leaving her atop him and she sits up, her breasts proud for him to taste and palm and lavish caresses upon. This will not be hard and fast, primal and primitive and possessive: this will be slow, and sensual, and loving.

So it is. He brings her down to kiss her deeply: giving and taking, and gradually they fall into harmonised rhythm and then to stronger, harder motion and then nothing is left but them and the movement and the glory.

Quite a lot later they’re sitting out on the decking under a surprisingly warm March sun, eating the remains of the Danishes and drinking Castle’s excellent coffee. Beckett licks her fingers clean, at which Castle’s eyes flare hotly, wipes them on her jeans, and then lays her hand over his and intertwines their fingers.

“I wish we could stay here,” she says pensively. “Just until everything was cleared up. It’s all so much easier, here.” She looks uncertain. “There’s still so much to work through.” Her voice falls away, quiet and tired and fading. “I know why I’m doing it, but why do you? I get mad when I’m scared and all of this scares me. My dad, your family, everything. Everyone wants something, and that’s scary too.”

Castle untwines his fingers, turns his hand up under Beckett’s, and re-clasps hers. He doesn’t say anything, but actively projects a confidential, talk-to-me atmosphere.

“Even you and O’Leary seemed to want something. Do it this way. See the truth we see. Change your mind. Listen to us.” Her hand clenches. “All of you. No-one’s happy with just me.” She stops. “Not even me.”

Castle replaces one hand with the other, and curls the freed arm around her consolingly. He still doesn’t say anything.

“I thought that Friday would be the end. Instead Dad’s still crying that I’m all he’s got and I don’t know what to believe. It’s not even my word against his.   It’s his word against his, and how am I meant to find out what’s true then? He doesn’t even know. He doesn’t remember any of it, he only remembers when he was sober, and now he says I misunderstood that too. He never meant that we weren’t a family.”

Castle can hear the agony clawing through her controlled voice. Tears are not far away, he thinks; the promise of pain potent.

“Maybe he didn’t. But maybe he did and he’s just screwing with my head now. I looked it all up, you know. After you and O’Leary forced me to see. How can I trust anything he says? He might mean it, but he might just be trying to get me back to being his patsy. How do I know?”

“You don’t,” Castle says, soothingly, “and that’s okay. You need time. Never mind your dad, he’s got other people to talk to if he needs to. You need time to think through what you want to think about. You’ve got Dr Burke to talk to” –

“I don’t like him,” she says crossly.

“Nor do I, but every time I have to talk to him he seems to talk sense. Anyway, you’ve got him to talk to, O’Leary to drink with – he won’t be pushing you, he just doesn’t want you hurt any more. He’s still your best pal.

“No, he’s not,” Beckett mutters.

“Uh? He is. Don’t push him away.”

“He’s not. You are,” emerges in a deeply embarrassed flush of crimson and indistinct mumble.

“Different,” Castle murmurs. “I’m…” he swallows “…your lover. He’s your friend.”

“You’re my best friend,” she insists.

Castle leaves it. “Anyway, you need time. It’s all come to a head now, and it’s up to you how long you take and what you do. It’s nobody else’s decision.”

She’s silent for a long while, clutching his hand.

“C’mon, Beckett,” Castle says eventually. “Let’s go for a walk along the beach. Blow the cobwebs away.” She quirks an eyebrow. “Then we’ll come back and have hot chocolate.”

“Okay,” she says.

Castle fetches jackets and reappears, politely holding Beckett’s for her to slip into and then donning his own. The wisdom of jackets becomes evident as they move down on to the beach, where the wind is much more noticeable than the sheltered nook at the back of Castle’s house. Beckett shivers slightly, and is instantly wrapped into Castle’s broad frame. It doesn’t really stop the wind, but she appreciates the care he’s giving her. She winds her arm around his waist in return. The fresh air and smell of ozone help, surprisingly. She’s here, she doesn’t need to think about anything, she only needs to relax and stand down, safe with Castle, who she loves, who loves her; and both of them said it. She said it.

Her mind wanders, far away from her feet crunching on the damp sand, to last night, a place where she’d been brave enough to say the truth; brave enough to say what she really feels. She holds Castle tighter. But love… is love enough? It’s why she started, but Dr Burke’s methods have stripped her raw and right now she feels that she’s as far from her goal as she ever was, love or no love.

“What if I never manage it?” she says.

“You will manage it.” Castle’s tone doesn’t admit disagreement. That’s a tone Beckett normally hears from her own mouth. “When have you ever not managed something you set your mind to?”

“Couldn’t save my dad,” comes bitterly.

“Not the same. You couldn’t control that. Now, answer the question. When have you ever not managed something you really set your mind to? Something you really wanted, that you could control?”

“Never,” she eventually admits.

“Thought so,” Castle says smugly. “So why break the habit now?”

He leaves that hanging, and smoothly turns them round. “I’m cold,” he says. “Let’s go home and have hot chocolate.”