123. Give me the key

Castle peels himself away from his blissed-out Beckett, who mews in soft, cross protest at his absence, strips in two swift movements, and repositions her along the length of the bed to join her, slipping a hand under her to remove her bra and leave her as naked as he. He rolls her into him: her leg comes up over his, her arm around his ribs, and she’s curled across him, dropping tiny playful peck-kisses on his neck. The laxity of her body indicates she’s not ready for anything more, yet. He’s content to wait and pet gently, before leading her to more. He lies comfortably surrounded, surrounding, his quietly sated, satisfied Kat; and dreams of the day that this will be permanent, and permanently in his loft.

Dreaming abruptly ceases when Kat nips his ear sharply, curls her fingers round him, and makes it perfectly clear that it’s playtime again. Well, he’s certainly up for playtime. Even more so when she slithers over him and simultaneously dives into his mouth before he can react and envelops him in one smooth movement. He nearly explodes on the spot: she’s slick and hot and tight and perfect and his hands drop to her ass to hold her so he’s fully within her, she moves on him, squirming, and rises a little and her beautiful breasts are right there in reach and he takes one, then the other, then back; she grips his shoulders and rocks into him and his hips cant into her as she rides him till he can’t bear it any longer and releases her breasts and rolls them and then takes her hard and fast and frantic and she’s right there with him, all the way to explosion.

He rolls back and takes her with him, unwilling to let her be even the slightest fraction of an inch away from him. Fortunately, she’s happy to cuddle in and stay right where she should be: safe with him. She pulls a cover over them and the next thing he knows it’s past midnight, and he’s woken with Kat still snuggled close against him and breathing in the slow cadence of deep, restful sleep, her ribs expanding and contracting within his encircling arm. He wants this as he’s wanted nothing else in his life: the only comparable strength of feeling his instant, overwhelming love for his newborn daughter. He wants his Beckett to be here, with him, against him, safe in his love, drowning him in hers; this night, and every night.

And yet he still must wait upon her healing, which, while begun, has still so much ground to cover. He turns to his side, and without waking her spoons her in, breathes the faint scent of her hair, and sleeps again.

Beckett wakes cosily warm and comfortable, wholly rested, and approximately five seconds before her attack-warning level alarm goes off. She silences it before it can wake the large figure of Castle, sprawled out across the bed and still sound asleep. She intends to indulge in a little inspection of her own. He, after all, spends a great deal of time inspecting her. She looks at his face, younger in sleep, but less compelling without the bright blue fire of his eyes, the constant play of expression and emotion across his face. Still, as she looks at him, her heart flips over. With him, anything, everything, is possible. Whatever happens, he’s there for her. Whatever will happen, he will be there. She knows that as surely as she knows her own heart. She lies back down, head pillowed on his chest, and listens to the slow, sure beat of his heart for the few moments that she can spare before she has to rise and prepare for work.

Castle wakes to find a warm, but disappointingly empty, space beside him, looks at the clock, listens to the splashing noises from the bathroom, and deduces that Beckett is getting ready for work. He pouts a little, mostly at himself for not waking earlier, stretches hugely and pads off to put the kettle on. On returning, he finds Beckett disporting herself at her dressing table clad only in an extremely fetching – it certainly fetches him to her – dark green underwear set, a few damp tendrils of hair curling round her ears, and her make-up half done. She sees him looming behind her in the mirror, meets his gaze, and smiles with no reserve or artifice at all. It’s devastating. He returns it as openly, and sees her equally devastated, both of them in the best possible way. However, she is clean and fresh, and he is definitely not.

“Can I take a shower?”

“Sure. By the time you’re done, I’ll be done. Coffee?”

“Already put the kettle on.” He smirks. “I know your little foibles, Beckett. And your need for intravenous caffeine.” He fakes realisation. “You’re functional? How are you functional before coffee? Every other time I’ve seen you pre-coffee you’ve been close to catatonic.”

Beckett growls, not in a friendly way, and applies both her eyeliner and a frigid shoulder.

“Too early?”

Another growl. Castle concludes that it is too early to tease, and takes his shower in the hope that Beckett will have poured down her first mugful. About that point he realises that it would have been sensible to bring a change of clothes. He tucks the towel around his waist, and wanders back out of the bathroom to see whether he can find yesterday’s boxers (ugh) and shirt. The boxers are found.   The shirt is nowhere to be seen. He excavates a very hazy memory of losing the sweater, but not the shirt, before ever attaining the bedroom, and retains the towel for some warmth as he follows his nose to the coffee and a rather more convivial Beckett. She’s quite openly ogling his chest as he walks towards her.

He accepts the proffered cup of coffee, thinks very quietly that Beckett must have had at least one mug, since there is spark and intelligence in her face, and enjoys this moment of peaceful domesticity and togetherness.

Then he starts to search out his shirt. It must be somewhere near the bed, surely? It seems to have disappeared entirely.

“Beckett, where’s my shirt?” There is a suspicious silence. “I need to put on my shirt to go home.” He thinks for a second. “And my sweater. It’s gone missing, too.” He’s watching her very, very carefully. There’s the tiniest hint of colour on her cheeks, and he doesn’t think it’s from the heat of the coffee. “Beckett?” He grins mischievously. “You know where they are, don’t you?”

“Nope,” she says, unconvincingly.

Castle sidles up to her, takes the cup out of her hand and puts it down with his own, and tugs her into his embrace. “You do,” he says happily. “You’re trying to steal my very expensive imported cotton shirts. And my beautiful sweater. They won’t fit you, Beckett.”

There is a mutter somewhere around his ribcage. “Not stealing,” is the most likely interpretation, and more clearly, “just ‘cause you can’t keep track of your clothes.”

“I keep track of your clothes,” Castle flips back, “especially as I’m taking them off – ow! That wasn’t nice,” he says reproachfully, “and nor is stealing my shirt.”

“It’s right there,” Beckett says, a little sulkily. “Behind the couch on the window side.” It’s not fair. Why hadn’t Castle thought to bring a change of clothes? He’d never have noticed leaving it if he’d done that. And she’d wanted it. On days when he isn’t here, or can’t stay, or if she were unhappy. Just until she’s fixed.

“Ugh,” she emits gloomily.

“What?”

“Dr Burke.” She makes another disgusted noise. “And it’s going to be paperwork all day today to wrap up the case and the supporting evidence.”

“Ugh,” Castle agrees. “I don’t like paperwork days.”

“You never do any.”

“Can’t,” he says smugly. “I’m not a cop. You keep reminding me of that, too. You can’t have it both ways, Beckett.”

There is another growl. Then she drains her coffee, glances at her watch, squawks at the time, and hurriedly digs a key out her purse.

“You’ll need to lock up,” she says, and then pauses, blushing. “Maybe… you should get a copy cut?”

Castle is still mentally gibbering at that line when the door closes behind Beckett. He’s not sure what he said in reply. Urg? seems most likely, but since she didn’t hit him, shut down, burst into tears or do something that might otherwise indicate he’d said something really dumb that made her think he wouldn’t want a key he must have said something that meant yes. Yes, yes, yes!

He scrabbles frantically around till he’s found and donned all of his clothes, skitters out the door, only just remembering to lock it, tears home to shave and change, and tears out again to the nearest locksmith to have his copy key cut before anything can get in the way, such as mutant giant spiders invading Broome Street, or an earthquake, or an alien invasion.

He is only calmed when the new key, bright and shiny and still hot from the cutter, slides on to his key ring, right next to that for his own loft. He has a thought, and asks the technician to make a copy of his key. She might not be able to use it – yet – but it’ll be ready when she is.

In the bullpen, Beckett is collating all her evidence, and ensuring that the missing pieces are going to be in her hands in extremely short order by using a combination of a dazzling smile and straight-up intimidation, sometimes on the same person at once. Everything is promised by the end of the day, Beckett intimidates further and everything is promised by three p.m., at which time Beckett stops intimidating and emits happy, thank-you flavoured noises. This is productive of much relief, in particular around Ryan and Esposito, who had been suffering the majority of the intimidation and a definite minority of dazzling smiles. They feel that this is unfair.

Castle saunters in around noon, happily smug about missing the paperwork, and instantly less happily smug when he discovers that it isn’t yet finished. He makes some hurried noises about getting everyone lunch, and is firmly told to sit down, keep quiet and do what he’s told till they’re ready to go. Doing what he’s told mostly seems to involve holding on to bits of paper until Beckett’s ready to put them in the correct place in the file for the DA. This is a very tedious way to spend time. He has no free hand to play with his phone, all he can do is watch Beckett and whine about the amount of paper that seems to be needed until she’s done. It takes at least four hours, he is sure, though his watch – which is a liar – says that it’s only been half an hour.

“Can we go get lunch now?” he pleads.

“C’mon, Beckett,” the boys join in. “We’re hungry.”

“What are you all, grade-schoolers? It’s barely half past twelve.”

“Be-ecke-ettt,” they all whine in unison.

“Oh, for God’s sake. You’re all about five years old.”

“Please, Mom,” Ryan sniggers. Snigger is cut off sharply by Beckett’s glare.

“You’re all going to keep bleating till I say yes, aren’t you? Sheeple.”

Esposito tries a baa, and gets almost as far as the b before he thinks better of it.

“Sheeple?” Castle queries. “Is that English?”

“New word,” Beckett says airily. “It means people who follow each other like sheep. Seeing as you three are all following each other bleating pathetically, I thought it was appropriate.” She smirks.

Esposito, Ryan, and Castle all glare at her. It has no effect whatsoever.

“Anyway, I thought we were going for lunch. Have you all changed your minds?” She plucks up her purse and is looking back at them from the elevator before they’ve really recognised the change. The three boys suitably reduced to a sense of their own silliness, Beckett smirks happily and leads off.

After a comfortable lunch that’s not eaten at their desks, everyone’s happy. Beckett’s even happier when she’s parcelled up all of the evidence and sent off the neat package to the DA. Out of her hands, now. On to the next one.

Unfortunately, on to the next one does not occur this afternoon, and five-thirty rolls around all too soon.

“Do you want me to come with you, Beckett?” Castle asks quietly, “or just collect you after?” She’s drawn taut, again. He hasn’t had a chance to give back her key, let alone offer her his. It’s not something he – or, no doubt, she – wants the boys breaking in on. She looks uncertain.

“I… don’t know.”

“In that case I’m coming with you,” he says cheerfully, “and you can decide when we get there.”

She doesn’t argue with him, and Castle deduces that she isn’t yet sure whether she’ll need him once she’s in there. He stops her before she can start the car.

“You need your apartment key back.” He hesitates slightly. “I got a copy cut.”

“Good,” she says.

Castle slips a large hand round her face, and turns her to him. “Here’s yours.” He puts it into her hand, hesitates again, and then goes for it. “And a copy of mine. For when you’re ready.”

There is utter silence in the cruiser. Beckett is staring down at the familiar and the unfamiliar keys in her hand. Her eyes are wide in shock, and as he watches a sheen creeps over them, swiftly blinked away.

“Key?” she says blankly. “Your key? But…”

“My key. For when you’re ready.” He remembers something. “But I’ve – well, Mother did – had an idea.”

“Huh?”

“If I could guarantee that she and Alexis weren’t there, then do you think you might be able to come to the loft? Desensitisation, like with brunch out?”

The sheen regathers. “You… you can’t do that. You can’t push them out just to deal with my issues. That’s not fair.” Her head drops, to stare at the two keys together in her hand.

“Hardly pushing out,” Castle says very dryly. “Mother suggested it. She wants an expensive spa weekend with Alexis, and Alexis has never knowingly rejected a pamper session with Mother. I think she likes watching the show, as much as anything else. So there’s no pushing out. More like them going on a weekend break.” He stops there. Now is not the time to tell her the rest. He’ll save that news for later.

There’s no answer. There’s no move to start the car. There’s no movement of the hand the keys are in. Castle closes Beckett’s hand over both keys and continues to hold it, swamped in his much bigger span.

“We need to go, Beckett,” he reminds her after a moment or two. She doesn’t seem to hear him. “Kate!” Her head jerks up. Her eyes are still sheened, puddling at the corners. “We need to go.”

She swallows hard and blinks harder; repeats, searches out a Kleenex and blows her nose. “Yes,” she says. “We should go.” But still she doesn’t put the twin keys away.

“Kate,” Castle says rather desperately, “if you don’t want to drive at least let me.”

Finally she springs into life. Well, not exactly life. Or indeed springs. She achieves dropping the keys into her purse, and turning the car key in the ignition, and driving. None of it is done with any indication that Beckett is in the same universe as Castle, or the cruiser. Fortunately she seems to be driving with attention to the road.

Beckett is concentrating very hard on the road and driving in order not to have to think about anything else. Castle’s gesture of complete confidence that she’ll fix herself has left her emotionally stunned and reeling. She can’t believe, even now, even knowing how he feels and she feels, how easily he can provide such wholesale support. She parks the car, and parks the thoughts. Castle’s arm slides firmly around her waist as they walk towards Dr Burke’s office, and fails to be withdrawn when they arrive there.

Dr Burke’s room is its usual cool, unemotional place. The only emotions it displays are the ones brought here by its visitors, disappearing as soon as they do. Dr Burke is his usual cool, unemotional self. Castle is still holding on to her. Beckett’s mind is still in turmoil.

“Good evening,” Dr Burke says. He is mildly surprised, and slightly worried, that Mr Castle is already providing physical reassurance to Detective Beckett. It implies that there is an issue of which he is not yet aware.

“Hey,” Mr Castle says, regrettably informally. Detective Beckett merely emits a noise, and is persuaded to sitting by Mr Castle, who then murmurs something to her. She nods. Mr Castle stands up. “Can I wait outside?” he says.

“I think that would be wise,” Dr Burke agrees, and adds, with a tiny touch of malice, “Would you like a pen and paper?”

“No, thank you. I have my own,” Mr Castle replies very blandly, and exits without further exchanges of compliments.

“Detective Beckett?”

“Uh?”

“Detective Beckett, is there some matter affecting you?”

“Oh, no” – Dr Burke is entirely unconvinced of the veracity of that statement – “just something to think about.”

“In that case, shall we consider your thoughts following our last session?”

“Okay.”

Despite her assent, Detective Beckett says nothing further. She appears to be entirely confused, which is not a state in which Dr Burke has previously seen her. Highly emotional or furiously angry, or entirely reserved, but not confused.

“Detective Beckett, I do not think that you will be able to concentrate on your thoughts following the last session unless you deal with the matter which is clearly on your mind now. What has occurred?”

“Castle gave me a key to his loft.”

Dr Burke fails to see the reason for this to cause confusion of this degree. He is, in fact, surprised. He would have expected that to make Detective Beckett still more sure of Mr Castle’s feelings, and therefore to provide her with further stability.

“Why should this be a matter for concern? Do you feel unable to reciprocate?” That would be understandable.

“No, I said he should get one cut for my apartment, and then he gave me mine back and then one for his loft.”

Dr Burke considers for a second. “So you are on an equal footing. Why does this gesture concern you?”

“Because I can’t go there. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to go there and he’s just so sure I can fix this and how’s he so sure when I’m not?”

“Detetive Beckett, has not Mr Castle always displayed confidence in your ability to resolve this matter?”

Dr Burke has not heard Mr Castle say so, but he is completely confident of this deduction.

“Well…” Dr Burke quirks an eyebrow. “Yes,” she says.

“So why should you be surprised that he is so now?”

Detective Beckett is silenced. Thought appears to be occurring, not before time. Finally her face clears, she ceases to try to find answers in the swirling pattern of the carpet, and says merely, “Of course he would.”