7. Play the game

He sits, in fact, almost as close as he can get without actually picking Beckett up and putting her on his knee, and the only reason he doesn’t do that is that Beckett, despite the immense improvement in her levels of stress-induced reserve since they left the store, is not precisely radiating receptivity. He compromises by laying his arm along the back of the couch without quite touching her, but managing to make it clear that, should she lean in only the smallest fraction, his arm will be very content to curl around her.  He has, in fact, developed yet another plan. This plan is intended to deal with his ever-stronger suspicion (though he still finds it very strange) that behind her own closed door – or possibly confined to the even more limited and inaccessible area behind her eyelids – the only decision that she wants to make is whether to say yes or no to any suggestion he might make.

He continues to find that very odd indeed. A rum go, as Julian might say.  His extensive experience and exploration of the highways and byways of sexual practice does not incline him to think that any usual form of Beckett has any bent at all towards submission.  His very short meeting with the aspect of Beckett to which he is very privately referring as Kat does not give him that impression either. But she isn’t pushing for anything. But she is – was – soft and yielding against him. But she seemed to be perfectly content to allow him to choose what happened: almost passive, though thankfully not passive but perfectly, gloriously responsive to him.  And then he’d – big mistake – stopped to think and a switch had flipped and soft, yielding Kat had instantly become hard-edged, alpha, driving Beckett and everything had ignited into one searing firestorm of – ah.  Of sex without closeness or emotion or, really, affection. 

Light dawns. Kat wants affection.  How had he not seen that earlier?  He knows that Beckett doesn’t do casual (or even not-casual) touching: never bumps fists or high-fives or claps anyone on the shoulder, no matter how merited.  Up till a month ago, and with the exception of that evening and this, she had never touched him, even accidentally.  It’s as if she’d had a force field around her that prevented her touching anyone, or anyone touching her.  Under the social shell, the Snow Queen.

But that is all very odd too. Normally, from all the variegated research that he has done – largely into child-rearing, so he could do the best possible job with and for Alexis – that sort of lack of desire for contact and lack of contact implies a cold, unaffectionate (and sometimes abusive) household.  Yet when he’d told her his conclusions about her history, he’d got the very clear impression that, up till what he is now absolutely bone-deep certain was her mother’s murder, she had grown up in a happy, loving household.  Maybe he’d been misled about that, but he simply cannot see how she could be as empathetic with the families of the victims as she is, had she not had that loving background.  Maybe the trauma of the untimely death had done it.  Maybe there was something else, though right now he has no idea what that might be.  (It never occurs to him to remember, still less connect, Beckett’s instant recognition of alcoholism or that, at the time, he had been less than wholly convinced by her explanation of that recognition with his current train of thought.)

Anyway, enough thinking. There is coffee, to warm his chilly blood, and Beckett, to warm him generally.  And if he, much bulkier, is chilled right through, how much more must she be? And, he thinks, she wants affection.  Possibly.  Right then.  Time to test the theory – very carefully.  He likes living, and he wants to continue to do so with all appendages attached.  He’d look most peculiar with only one ear, or no nose.

He drops his hand very slightly to rest around, not on, Beckett’s shoulder, where the implicit suggestion that it carries is that it would be nicest to curl in against him; which suggestion is backed up, after a second or two in which he does not become maimed, dying or actually dead, by the lightest possible pressure of his fingers to encourage her in.

He’s less surprised than he would have been a month ago when she does lean in.  It lasts for all of five seconds, until she leans forward, adds what appears to be half-a-pound of cinnamon, at least a half-pint of creamer, (vanilla, by the smell) and then a sizeable dash of nutmeg to her coffee.  Her mug must be a Tardis, he thinks, and wonders where he can buy, beg, borrow or steal one.  He then repatriates his arm and himself adds creamer and a small dose of cinnamon to his own coffee.  (He’d used to like nutmeg in it, till his first marriage collapsed.)

“How much spice did you put in there, Beckett?”

“I like spice.” She only realises what she’s said on Castle’s indrawn breath and suddenly sparkling eyes.  He never can – and he clearly isn’t even trying to – resist temptation, and she’s left him a gateway the size of the Brooklyn Bridge – lengthways – to be tempted.  It wasn’t even deliberate.  A delicate line of pink draws itself over her pale cheeks.

“You like it spicy?”

“Coffee,” she says discouragingly.

“Nothing else?” His arm has sneaked back around her.  His fingers are insinuating tiny patterns on her shoulder, which are encouraging her to lean in against his chest again.  The gesture doesn’t match his words, which are Castle-normal flirtation and innuendo, whereas the fingers are soft and gently persuasive.  She succumbs to the possibility of affection inherent in his fingers, and leans back against his arm and slightly inward to his chest.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” she ripostes: normal shut-it-down technique in action. It usually works.

“Yes,” states Castle extremely baldly. Beckett’s mouth drops open in shock.  That is not how the game is played between them.  He is not supposed to be transparently and blatantly clear about what he wants.   She becomes aware that he hasn’t finished talking.  “but I’m sure I’ll find out eventually anyway.  So it’s fine that you don’t want to tell me now.”  The very strong implication is You will.  Possibly suffixed by soon.  And he’s still talking.  “I’ve got a much better idea for right now.” 

Really, Castle? That line is so lame it requires a wheelchair.  It’s perfectly clear what he’s about to try.  She leans away from him again.

“Sure you do,” she drawls disbelievingly, edged by annoyance.

“You’ll like it,” Castle grins.

“Sure I won’t.” The border of annoyance on her words widens.

“You liked it plenty last time.” Oh, for heaven’s sake.  Could he be any more obvious without starting to take his clothes off?  She’s amazed that he isn’t already undoing the buttons on his shirt.  Or on hers, for that matter.  Or dragging her back to his cave.  Some of these lines need carbon dating to establish their age.

“So will you set it up or shall I?”

“You might as well,” Beckett says crossly. “Seeing as you’re the one who’s making such a big fuss about it.  Let me know when you’re ready.”  The next thing she’s expecting is an attempt to kiss her, which will result in his ears being amputated without benefit of scalpel or anaesthetic.

She is therefore completely blindsided when he looks about him, spots his prey, extricates her lovely new game and efficiently sets it up on the coffee table in front of them.

“There we are,” he says happily and innocently. His uncontrollable, wicked smirk makes it absolutely and infuriatingly obvious that he had quite deliberately misled her.  She glares, and when that has no effect, growls.  The smirk grows wider.

“One colour each, or two?” Castle grins, the underlay of evil mirth still wholly apparent.

“One. I’m still getting used to this game.”

Okay, so he thoroughly mischievously led her down a false trail, but actually, here, now, tonight, she likes this idea better. It’s another matter that doesn’t match his words but is very congruent with his fingers; which, she notes, are still around her shoulder and still encouraging her inward.  It occurs to her that if she ignores the over-heated nature of his conversation and simply believes the message contained in his actions, then she can continue the calming serenity of the earlier part of the evening.  She leans back in, and this time Castle repositions his arm so that she is, gently, a little more wrapped in.  Hmmm.

Castle still wins. However, Beckett gives him a considerable run for his money, and although she doesn’t forget to say Sorry! every time she succeeds in squishing one of his men and sending it back to the start, the tone of satisfied triumphalism tells a very different story.  Each time she does, Castle pouts; each time it’s her piece returned, she grumbles and he grins.

By the end of the game, they’re on the third pot of coffee and Beckett is firmly snuggled up to Castle. It makes moving the men a touch awkward, but that slight disadvantage is firmly counterbalanced and indeed substantially outweighed by the major advantages that the position brings: chief amongst which is that she feels warm, comfortable and cosseted: of all of which this winter season has left her much in need.  She emits a tiny, contented noise and curls closer, which act is swiftly followed by Castle clasping her more tightly.  It feels good, even if she did lose the game.

She looks up and smiles. Castle smiles back.

“That was fun,” she says. “I’ll beat you next time, though.”  Castle shrugs, unbothered.

“Bring it on. At your disposal, any time you want to try again.”  He acquires an expression of realisation.  Beckett is instantly suspicious.  “I won.  Don’t I get a prize for winning?” he asks hopefully.  She rolls her eyes in resignation.

“What are you, five? Do you really want a prize for winning when I’ve only played three times and you’ve played – what? – three hundred?”  Castle looks plaintively at her and produces a sad little-boy face that goes straight to some previously undiscovered area of Beckett’s brain, which promptly makes a land-grab for the well-travelled areas of her brain previously responsible for common sense.

“But I won,” he points out, as if that’s a clinching argument all on its own. It’s not.  She’ll shut this down, too.

“Okay, I’ll buy you a packet of M&Ms tomorrow. There.  Happy now you’ll have your prize?”  Her tone is rather substantially less snarky than her words.  She’s too comfortable to be wholly snarky.  Beckett is snarky.  Right now she feels warmly not-quite-Beckett.

“Well,” Castle murmurs in a low, growly voice that does very strange things to her stomach, “it wasn’t quite the prize I was thinking of, but it sounds good.” This time, having been comprehensively fooled earlier, Beckett refuses to rise to the bait he is casting in front of her.  Instead, she drinks her coffee, makes a horrible face as she discovers it to be nastily tepid, and puts the mug down with a noise of disgust, enhanced when she notices Castle’s empty mug already there.  She entirely fails to realise that putting the mug on the tray next to Castle’s means not only that Castle currently has both arms free but that she has just laid down her defences: being the risk that her coffee might spill.

When she looks back up at Castle, he’s already leaning down slowly, intent written in every line of his face and his darkened eyes. His arm has tightened around her, though she’s sure that if she makes the slightest movement of discontent he will stop.  All she needs to do is not stop him.  No further decisions needed.  Maybe this evening she’ll receive what she really wanted, the comfort and soft consolation of being able to lay her load down and be cared for by someone else.  Who’d have thought that it would be irritating, sexy, smart-mouthed, jackass Castle who might be able to give her what she wants most?  Even if it’s only once, that’s a whole lot better than the last couple of years.  The whole evening since they left Castle’s loft has made her more relaxed and soothed than at any time since she broke up with Will.

She nibbles automatically on her lower lip. She might as well, she thinks stupidly, have stripped naked.  Castle swoops down on her mouth and sets about claiming what he clearly perceives to be the correct variety of prize.  And since this time he’s not only made a decision but, clearly and thankfully, doesn’t seem to expect her to do anything more complicated than consent and respond, she lets the hard gloss shell of Beckett fall away and becomes, at least in her own head, not-quite-Kat but certainly someone who’s a lot closer to Kat than to Beckett.  She rearranges herself into a more comfortable and, not incidentally, accessible alignment and ensures that she is a full participant in proceedings.  She can do that excellently well without needing to take any decisions beyond Yes or No.

For this one evening, she dimly realises, since the start of her shopping trip, she has been able to lay – and more, has laid – her burden aside.

Castle, having provided himself with considerable amusement from the unusual success of his mischievous misleading of Beckett, had then spent the game with three-quarters of his attention on the board (with an occasional increase to full concentration any time at which it looked like Beckett might win) and the other quarter on unobtrusively bringing her closer and closer, mainly physically but also, as the game had progressed, emotionally. In fact, he hasn’t ever seen her like this: even a month ago she’d been quiet and miserable.  Tonight, she seems happy.  As happy as he’s ever seen her, that is.  Beckett’s life seems to be remarkably and distressingly devoid of joy.  He thinks that he can, and should, try to solve that: certainly temporarily and then more permanently.  Well, for a while, anyway.  Permanence is a long way ahead of where he’s at, right now.  (But it sits at the back of his head and niggles at him, rather than disappearing as such ridiculous ideas should.) It’s hardly as if Beckett’s throwing herself into his arms, either.  In fact, the only way she’d got there is because he pulled her there.  So it’s fine.

He deliberately exaggerates his dismay when she sends his men back to their start, and his triumph when he returns the favour, and gradually the Beckett he knows thins and melts somewhat and she relaxes and smiles and laughs. (and once he’d swear there was a giggle) It’s all thoroughly satisfactory, and becomes even more so when he wins.  He likes winning against (his mind insists on trying to replace against with over) Beckett.  Who is currently not-Beckett.  It occurs to him that he deserves a prize for winning – well, he doesn’t exactly deserve it because she’s barely played and he’s been playing it for years but suddenly he wants to tease her and make her smile some more.  It’s good for her, smiling.  She should do it more often: not her precinct sardonic version but a genuinely happy smile.

So he winds her up about wanting a prize and she snarks but not nearly as edgily as he’d expect her to, and then promises to buy him M&Ms the next day. Well, he’ll hold her to that, but right now he’d much rather hold her to him.  He’s ready and moving when she finally puts that damn coffee cup, which has been the last obstacle for ten minutes, down.  And rather as he had already surmised, granted that she’s given consent, she lets him lead the way and kiss her as he chooses.  Still not passive, though.  Definitely not.  It’s just that once again she isn’t leading, isn’t driving.  Once again, she’s curled in and soft and open and very definitely not Beckett.  Possibly not yet Kat either, but a lot closer. 

He keeps on kissing her, demanding her response to that but not making further advances for now. Kat, he is sure, wants affection.  Affection doesn’t preclude excellent sex, of course – but right here and now he wants Kat to come back, and his best chance to find her is to major on affection.  Besides which, and most unusually, he’s enjoying it as it is, rather than planning the move to the next base.  How odd.  It was the same the first time.  That was odd, too.  Not his usual style at all.  He shrugs that thought away and goes back to kissing, exploring her mouth and discovering that he’s addicted to it.  Or possibly addicted to her. 

Beckett is rapidly falling into the comfort of being simply Kat, even if Castle will never know that.  Her confidence that she can be Kat tonight, though, has suddenly been dented, since Castle has unaccountably and unfairly stopped. Oh.  Oh, okay. Not stopped.  Instead he’s moved round to – ooh – just the right spot on her neck which always makes her wriggle and that’s an interestingly determined reaction to a wriggle.  She moves slightly to open the curve of her neck, which has the useful side-effect of widening the gap at the top of her shirt.  She likes this, even though she could also stand him returning to the more forceful kisses of the previous occasion, before they’d gone to bed.  That’s better, he has.  It’s as if he’d heard her thought.  Beckett-wanting-to-be-Kat wants petted.  Cosseted.  And very conveniently, that’s what’s happening.   No hard-edged lust, finally no need to take charge or control or command.  Unconsciously, she cuddles closer and emits a soft, happy purring noise.

Castle hears the purr with delight. Beckett’s back to soft and relaxed and pettable and this time he is not going to spoil it by mentioning Kat. Kats, cats, and all forms of feline, strokable, purring kittenish-Becketts by whatever name are much better dealt with by actions rather than words.  Certainly for now.  Words, maybe, later.  Much later.

His eye, and very shortly thereafter his mouth, is drawn to the gap at the neckline of Beckett’s shirt. It could, he thinks, be usefully made just a little larger.  He undoes one single button to achieve this.  Tonight is now about slow, gentle affection and definitely not about flaring hard-edged sex.  He thinks that he might just enjoy that too.  Well.  No might about it.  He is enjoying it.  So, clearly, is Kat.  This is Kat.  His Kat.

He kisses her deeply and she purrs some more. That’s addictive, too.  He could become addicted to his Kat making that noise very, very quickly.  Or maybe he is already. 

It occurs to him that calling her Kat out loud will be fatal, quite possibly literally. He’ll keep that pet name to himself, certainly for now.  Maybe in due course he’ll call her it, when he’s discovered why she’s so very closed-off normally and can be sure that it won’t upset her; but even then he’ll keep it quite private between them, a name that only he uses, that only he can use.