119. I will comfort you

“That, Detective Beckett, is something that you will have to establish. That has been the core of your issues since you first saw me: your inability to forgive yourself for your own actions. I will remind you that you cannot control the actions of others, and that therefore there is nothing for which to forgive yourself in that respect. In addition, you should recall that once a course of action proves ineffective, or damaging, there is no shame in abandoning it.”

“But…”

“Detective Beckett, I counsel that you should think through your own actions and feelings whilst your father was drunk, with considerable care. You should consider them in the light of the three Cs, and reflect. I suggest that it would be wise for you to consider also a discussion of the results of your thinking before any further session involving your father.”

“Okay,” Detective Beckett says slowly. “Okay.”

“On that note, Detective, the time for our session is almost over. Is there anything more that you wish to discuss?”

“No. Not now.”

“In that case, good night.”

“Good night. Thank you.”

Dr Burke watches Detective Beckett leave, somewhat swathed in the large frame of Mr Castle, who is clearly taking no trouble at all to conceal his feelings from the world at large. Dr Burke regards this as a positive matter. After all, Detective Beckett herself had pointed out that actions are far more telling than words. Dr Burke regards Detective Beckett’s actions in allowing Mr Castle to display affection in public as extremely telling. Despite that, he is still entirely decided that should either of them ever require relationship counselling he will be unavailable. Permanently unavailable. He strongly suspects that they would bring considerable persuasion to bear, which would be tedious, and ultimately unavailing. He begins to clear his desk, preparatory to enjoying a pleasant weekend.

“What do you want to do, Beckett? Dinner? Drinks? Movie? Home?”

Beckett considers. Therapy generally destroys her appetite, and anywhere with drinks is liable to abrade her open wounds, straight after a session. Movie? There’s nothing she wants to see.

“Home.”

Castle likes that idea. Beckett’s apartment, coffee, takeout and cuddles. Or something like that. And if she wants to talk, that would be just fine too. Not that it’s terribly likely, but she is rather more communicative than she was before they went to the Hamptons, and she’s even asked for his advice. Well, demanded it. With menaces, and the spectre of her Glock. Still, she wanted his advice, and didn’t kill him slowly and painfully for giving a view which was different from hers.

The first thing Castle does when they enter Beckett’s neat apartment is take his coat off. The second thing he does, however, is catch her in and kiss her, first delicately, and then searchingly and deeply. She sighs, and curves against him, letting him hold her close to him and hold her up. It’s time for her to stand down, safe with him. He slides her coat off and tidily hangs it up for her; without asking Beckett turns to her kitchen to put the kettle on and assemble the constituents of coffee. Castle notes with some pleased relief that the tray contains creamers and spices and concludes that Beckett is in a less dreadfully miserable mood than after any previous therapy session. In fact, comparatively, she is almost cheerful. Almost.

They settle on to the couch and Beckett settles herself into Castle, who is conspicuously not objecting and indeed is encouraging her with a warm and not-quite-forceful curve of his arm around her. She wriggles a little to get completely comfortable and ensure that she can reach her coffee mug without having to move more than her arm. She sips her coffee, and contemplates.

“This isn’t going to be any fun, is it?” she says, out of the blue.

“Uh? Oh – you mean next session, or the session with your dad?”

“Both,” Beckett says gloomily, and snuggles a bit more closely to try to abate the gloom. “Ugh.” She sips some more coffee, until she finds that it’s all gone, when she sets the mug down with an air of disappointment at its failure to refill itself. Castle, who is perfectly content with the quantity of coffee in his mug and the quantity of Beckett curled close in his arm, does not offer to do anything about it, and in fact simply presses Beckett’s shoulder a little till she’s tucked her head on to his shoulder and couldn’t be closer unless she were in his lap. No doubt they’ll get there, too.

“You don’t have to discuss it any more now. In fact, you shouldn’t. We have some other things to talk about. Such as your provocations yesterday, and today.”

“Provocations?” Beckett queries sleepily. “I didn’t provoke anything.”

“You provoked me by teasing me about the lens cases. You provoked me by saying you’d dress up as Red Riding Hood so I could eat you all up, and you didn’t. And you provoked me by calling me old.”

“Do you ever forget anything?” she asks snippily. “You must be first cousin to an elephant.”

“Do you want to see my tru” –

“Shut up, Castle.”

“Okay,” he says amiably – and leans down and kisses her deeply. “Isn’t that a nicer way for me to be quiet?”

Beckett rolls her eyes. Castle simply kisses her again. “Rolling eyes isn’t nice.”

“But justifiable,” she snarks, and does it again for effect. So he kisses her again. For effect.

The effect of opening her shirt, however, is not an eye roll. More of a sleepy, sultry smile. So he opens it some more, to see what he’ll uncover. He’s rather hoping for red, even though the shirt is blue. On uncovering it, however, and finding the underpinnings (as it were) to be a shifting shade of teal blue-green, blue in one light and green the next moment, he lets that hope sink without a trace of regret.

“It’s not red,” he says, faux-unhappily. “I like you in red.”

“Doesn’t go,” Beckett says. “Red was yesterday. Today it’s blue.”

“Green.”

“Blue.”

“Definitely green.”

“I bought it and it’s blue. Teal blue.”

“I want it to be green,” Castle says firmly.

“Why are you so bothered? I’m wearing it. It wouldn’t suit you. It wouldn’t fit you, either,” she says hurriedly, watching the mischief rise on his face.

“Blue’s neutral. Green means go.”

“I didn’t notice that red meant stop the other day. It looked like red meant start,” Beckett points out. Castle pouts, stymied.

“You’ve got so many pieces of sexy lingerie. It’s very distracting.”

“Is it?” Beckett purrs. “That’s good to know.”

Castle suddenly realises that he’s just given a major hostage to fortune, and to Beckett’s well-developed sense of ragging. His heart sinks, momentarily. Concentration will clearly be in very short supply for some considerable time to come. Then it rises, along with other areas. She looks so very good in whatever she is – or isn’t – wearing, and his imagination is excellent. He may never be bored ever again. Possibly frustrated, but never bored.

He runs a light touch around the revealed edge of lace (which is definitely green, whatever Beckett thinks) and enjoys the slight elevation in her breathing. This is very nice. Very nice indeed – Uh?   Ohhhhh. That’s cheating. She’s rolled him up, horse, foot and guns, and he’s putty in her hands. And then mouth. Ohhhhh Beckett. He would slide the shirt from her shoulders, but he can’t quite reach without spoiling her fun. He compromises by running his hands into her hair, and then all he can do is hold on and gasp out her name.

She slithers back into his lap, smirking. All he’s capable of doing right now is cuddling her close – and holding her destructively evil hands so that she can’t do him further mischief until he’s ready to make some mischief of his own. In a minute, he’ll take sweet revenge for that piece of wonderful wickedness. She’ll be left gasping his name. Oh yes. Ohhhh yes.

He starts with some delicately placed stroking, which touches nothing significant but promises that it might with every sweep of teasing fingertips. She mews, a little crossness tinging the satisfied tones, and wriggles into a more encouraging position. Castle is quite happy to be encouraged, and takes full advantage. He transfers both of Beckett’s hands to one of his, places them against her shoulder and out the way, and then, still delicately, undoes her pants and shimmies them from her. She tugs against him, without any force at all, and then curves sensually into his chest in a way which encourages his free hand to slip and slide over her taut breasts in their green-blue covering, to play with the peaked nipples and tease and pluck and roll and palm, until Beckett is panting and making very sexy little noises which he steals from her with a deep kiss.

Once he’s started kissing her again, he can’t find a single reason for stopping. His hand wanders southward, tantalisingly softly, pausing at her stomach, then gliding gently between her legs to rest cupping the hot centre of her body, so that she presses into him. He plays a little, teasing, so close to the pressure and touch that she wants, that her body is demanding from him; but never quite delivering on the promise of his hand. Beckett mews again, slipping easily into strokable, pettable Kat who curves and slides against him and is as happy to be taken anywhere he wants to take her as he is to do the taking. He pets some more, silkily seducing her into purring delightfully.

“I like stroking my Kat,” he murmurs into her ear, and adds a kiss below it. She curves against him, and somehow his shirt has become open and they’re skin to skin and her mouth is against his collarbone and nibbling naughtily, with a little lick now and then to soothe the tiny sharp sting.

“Mmm,” is all he gets in return, and a definite wriggle of intent.

“I’m going to take you to bed.”

“Mmmm.”

“But first, I’m going to stroke you some more.”

His hand shifts the smooth fabric between her legs, rubbing it against her, sensing the spreading dampness below, dropping his grip on her hands to bring her closer and take her mouth with no apology: her hands come around his neck and pull him down to her and she’s so responsive, so receptive, so simply his. When finally his fingers slide under the pretty teal blue panties to find heat and wet and open readiness, she’s so wound up it’s a matter of a few firm thrusts to find a spot that sends her moaning and a wicked thumb to flick the knot of over-sensitised nerves and she shatters around his talented hand.

And then he simply cossets her languid body close against him until she shivers slightly and rouses, when he puts her from him, rises, pulls her up against him, and – because he wants to and she likes it and this can be how they roll – sweeps her up to carry her to her bed and lay her down, shucks his own pants and shirt and joins her there.

Beckett opens sex-hazed eyes and delivers a deliberately sultry, come-and-get-it look containing a considerable layer of admiration for the big, muscular frame beside her. She loves the way his size can envelop her: the feeling that – regardless of her gun and shield – when they’re in private he can be the rock that she needs to anchor to, the one person with whom she’ll always be able to stand down and be Kat; the one person who she trusts to take the lead when she needs that.

She reaches up to him and pulls him down over her, feeling his weight and bulk press her into the mattress, opening to fit him into the cradle of her hips where she needs his hardness pushing and demanding that she open further, raise her body to his and let him take her. She brings a leg round his waist to force him closer and have him as near as he can be, and for a minute he does as she wants, but then he ceases to pillage her mouth and repel all her answering attacks and rises up on his elbows.

“I’ve got you,” he purrs, velvet seduction slinking down her skin to pool between her legs. She lifts into him, and rubs. “I’ve got you right where we both like it: as close as we can be.”

“Not quite,” she husks, and rubs again, and reaches down. “These are in the way.” And she pushes his boxers off.

“Take it easy. We’ve got plenty of time.” Castle smiles wolfishly, and kisses her much more possessively than earlier. “I’ve caught my Kat, and now I’m going to play with you.” He takes her mouth again, a little roughly, a little use of size and weight to pin her under him, a little answering sigh and roll of her hips to keep him cradled where she wants him. She melts under his hard mouth, happy to be loved in just the slightly assertive way that she appreciates most. She would, however, appreciate it even more if her own panties weren’t still in the way. She would do something about it, if there weren’t a significant quantity of Castle also in the way. She could, of course, move him just a little… Beckett slides her hands down Castle’s beautifully muscular flanks and attempts to lift his hips the narrow fraction of an inch that would allow her to remove her own panties and wiggle Castle into just the right place.

“Tut-tut,” Castle smirks. “Something you want?”

Beckett makes a frustrated noise as lifting his hips proves impossible. Castle smirks more widely. Beckett considers revenge for the smirk, and is frustrated in that too when Castle bends his head to hers and bypasses her parted lips to trace a long line along her cheekbone and round to her ear, where he nips neatly on the lobe and then licks beneath the curve. She wriggles. She always wriggles when he does that, and it’s not fair that he’s using it to stop her wriggling her panties off and him into his proper place. He does it again, and she wriggles again, even though she’s expecting it, and then he basely uses her wriggle to catch her hands to her sides and slither down her body and then she stops thinking about his despicably sneaky conduct and unfair use of size and strength and the weakness of playing with that nerve below her ear because he’s slowly peeling away her panties – finally! – and settling his broad shoulders into place and her hands move to his head and suddenly clench on his skull as his devilish tongue begins to tease and taste and take her. She’s driven up and up and up, twisting and bucking under his mouth and wicked fingers and evil touch, and very shortly she’s screaming his name and shattering for him.

Beckett finds herself snuggled up and tucked into Castle’s lovely wide, warm frame. She stretches luxuriantly in his arms, and discovers, very unsurprisingly, that he’s very pleased to have her right there. She’s pleased to have him right there. A wiggle against him later, and curling her leg backwards over his, and there’s a space for him in just the right place, so he shifts to slide over her, once forward, once back, gliding through slick folds and she reaches down to grip and stroke and then place him at her entrance when he’s in no position to argue – not with her hand around him – and slide on to him. She sighs as he fills her, a gasp as he’s snug within, a quiet moan as his hands close over her breasts, a cry when he starts to move and growls a description of exactly how he feels, how she feels, into her ear as he thrusts and she slides and her hands are over his on her and this time they break together.

He hasn’t let go, Beckett discovers: Castle’s arms are still wrapped around her though his hands have dropped to less sensitive areas: her shoulder, her stomach. She flexes slightly to ensure that she still has four limbs and a head, any or all of which could have fallen off without her noticing in the sheer delight of their lovemaking. Castle makes a sleepy, growly noise of general discontent with any movement at all that isn’t firmly back into him, and she humours his post-coital need to cuddle without any discontent of her own at all.

She remembers something, floating back into her head on a cloud of loved-up fluffiness which is so completely unlike her usual sharp, logical thinking that it must be important.

“Didn’t you ask me about brunch on Sunday?” she queries, fuzzily.

“Uh, yeah?”

“I wanna give it a go, again,” she muses. “See if I can…” she doesn’t finish the sentence, but she’s pretty sure Castle hears it… do better.

“Okay. ‘S long as it’s you who wants it.”

“I do.” Beckett is waking up a bit. “Maybe what I need is a bit of desensitisation. Like when you’ve got a phobia” – Castle jerks – “okay, not exactly a phobia, but you know they do those exercises if you’re scared of flying: you look at planes, you sit in stationary planes, and so on?”

“Ye-es.” He doesn’t sound wholly convinced, but Beckett thinks she might be on to something here.

“Look,” she says firmly. “I’ve got to sort things about my dad. I can’t get around that.” Wish I could, she thinks, oh, I really wish I could, but I’ve got to face it. Whatever happens.   “But maybe if I see your family not at your loft it would make it easier to face up to coming to the loft?” It ends on a question.

Castle rolls on to his back without actually letting go of Beckett, who ends up sprawled out across him in the manner of a resting, sated tiger. He stares unfocusedly at the ceiling and thinks about it. The more he thinks about it, the more it starts to make sense. Lots of sense. It also becomes borne upon him that, while Beckett has been saying since the start (almost) that she wants to be able to come to his loft and be able to see his family there without difficulties, this is the first time that he’s heard her come up with a strategy that explicitly acknowledges that she has to deal with her father too. In fact, she seems to be taking proper ownership (he winces at the term) of both ends of the problem.

“Okay,” he says mildly, and then much more enthusiastically, “Yes. Let’s try it. Same rules for you as last time?”

“Yes. And…”

“And?”

“And could you try to stop your mother stomping all over the raw patches?”

“I can try,” Castle says ruefully. “But I tried last time and we know how well that went.”

Beckett pauses. “Um… if you really have to, you can tell her a bit about Dad. That we’re… um… working through some stuff from when he was drunk.” She shivers, and Castle pulls her closer to warm her chilled soul.

“Only if I have to,” he promises. “Now, important things. Same place as last time? Balthazar? If I can get a reservation. Ten o’clock Sunday morning?”

“Yes.” Suddenly there’s spirit and fire around her. “Yes. Let’s do this, Castle.”