200. You've got a way

Come six, since there are no new homicides to detain her, Beckett makes her way to her own apartment. Once there, she puts the kettle on, and while it’s boiling finds a small overnight bag, packs a clean set of clothes and some extremely attractive nightwear into it, and then stares at it in the hope that having packed will make the coming evening – and subsequent morning – much easier.

Not that Castle actually knows that she’s planning a potential sleepover. He’d only mentioned coming for dinner. If he doesn’t like the idea, no harm done. She does think that Castle not liking the idea that she stays would be even more unlikely than pigs flying, and as far as she knows there are no fat pink pigs circling the flight paths into JFK this evening. But it’s still another step. At least she’s done it once before. It shouldn’t be this difficult.

But somehow it being a week night, and having no surge of anger to buoy her up and drive her onward, makes it harder. She berates herself for cowardice while she drinks her tea, then picks up her bag and vacates her apartment before she can unpack again.

She knocks at Castle’s door, and is greeted with considerable enthusiasm, manifesting in a toe-curling kiss.

“What’s this?” Castle enquires curiously, taking her bag. “You didn’t need to bring your own provisions.” He prods it, and finds that it squishes. “Beckett…?” His wide grin crinkles up his eyes. “Have you brought a change of clothes?”

“Might’ve,” she mutters, blushing.

“Ooohhh,” Castle emits happily. “I know where this goes, then.” Seems like that solves the question of whether he likes the idea of her staying. He bounces off towards his bedroom, and shortly returns, minus bag and with an even wider grin. He’s obviously peeked into her packing.

“What’s for dinner?” she asks, and thinks that a little ice water might be a good accompaniment.

“Chicken in cream sauce, pasta, green salad. It’s nearly ready.” He trots to the stairs. “Alexis! Dinner time.”

Alexis comes scampering down the stairs, and dinner is swiftly dished up. Conversation remains, at least on Beckett’s part, fairly stilted, but it’s easier. It’s especially easier because Alexis chatters at nineteen to the dozen – at her slowest. Had she not known that they were father and daughter, the machine-gun speed of conversation might have clued her in.

Dinner done, she’s not allowed to help clear up, but is sent, with a mildly malicious grin, to sit and behave yourself, Beckett, because you can’t threaten the washing up with your Glock. She growls and glares, but it makes no difference: she is left to curl up and await the coffee which had been promised to her.

She’s daydreaming when it’s placed in front of her, followed by Castle plonking himself down next to her and without hesitation slinging his arm around her.

“That’s better,” he murmurs. “You’re here.”

“Mmmm,” Beckett hums.

“I’m glad. You’re really peaceful.”

Beckett splutters out her mouthful of coffee all over the table and the knees of her dress pants. Peaceful? Her? He’s known her for nine months, in which they’ve hardly been peaceful.

“You are,” Castle emphasises. “I mean, not like everything’s peaceful around you, but you’re quiet. Still. You don’t fidget.”

“You make me sound like a statue.”

“I wouldn’t like you if you were marble, or on a pedestal,” Castle points out. “That wouldn’t be any fun at all.” He curls his fingers around her upper arm, and tip-taps gently. “Anyway, you’re peaceful.”

Beckett proceeds to prove his point by drinking more of her coffee without chatter, and peace has, indeed, descended.

Set at a slight distance from the morning’s events, and with Beckett tucked in beside him, Castle can apply some thought and intelligence to the goings-on of the last weeks. After some pondering, he comes to the conclusion that he might actually have got through to his mother. After some further pondering, he decides that he’ll only know the truth when some time has passed. A while after that, he realises that he needs to set a date for the housewarming party. But after that, he wonders whether it wouldn’t be a good idea for his mother to meet Dr Burke properly. Castle hadn’t failed to notice Dr Burke’s tactical retreat after opening night, and while admiring his skill and acuity, had been less than appreciative of the strategy. Apart from anything else, he’d been very disappointed that he’d not had a front-row view of the expected floor show.

“Do you think I should ask Burke to talk to Mother?” he says, apropos of his thoughts. Another splutter greets the comment, consisting largely of the remains of Beckett’s coffee.

“I like these pants,” Beckett says crossly, dabbing at them with a Kleenex and not notably improving matters thereby.

“Sorry, sorry,” Castle apologises. “But what do you think?”

Beckett considers. Clearly Castle is serious about this. “I don’t think he’d take her on as a patient,” she says slowly. “I think he might have hit his limit with the rest of us, and he scuttled off pretty damn quick from the theatre.”

“I don’t want him to take her as a patient – much, though I think it might be funny from a safe distance – I just want him to make sure she realises how wrong she was.”

Beckett considers some more, chewing her lip thoughtfully. “I’m not sure. She didn’t believe him when she wasn’t involved – about me – so why would she believe him now? Don’t you think she might just dig her heels in?”

“I guess she might,” Castle agrees gloomily. “But we’ve tried and tried to make her see, and what if she still doesn’t? Burke’s washed everyone else’s brain out. Why shouldn’t he do hers?”

“I’d leave it for a few days. See what happens.”

“You?” Castle squeaks, astonished. “You are telling me to wait and see? You never wait and see. You blast straight through all the obstacles and get things done.” He stops. “At work.” He stops himself saying anything further, such as but then you let your relationship with your father fester. That wouldn’t be helpful. Beckett flicks him a half-irritated glance, which makes him think that he’d better quit while he’s ahead: to wit, stick with his problems with his mother. “Okay. I’ll try it,” he says with resignation.

“And don’t forget to shout,” Beckett says with mischief suddenly brimming in her eyes.

Castle growls at her, though his matching grin underlies the growl. “No fair, Beckett. If I start shouting, I might shout at you.”

“You do that anyway,” she notes.

“I do not!”

“So that wasn’t you shouting Beckett! Beckett! in bed?” She dissolves into laughter at his expression of general horror. Castle merely dissolves into pouting grumpiness, which is eventually replaced by a smug grin.

“You shout too,” he points out. She glares. “You shout at criminals.” She reverts to dark mutterings over a delicate blush. “I wouldn’t mind if you were shouting my” –

“Shut up.”

Castle sniggers, pulls her in much closer, and then leans in slowly to kiss her, making no secret of his intentions. A single searching exchange later, however, he stops.

“Let’s take this elsewhere,” he purrs softly. “I don’t want to be interrupted.” He stands and pulls Beckett, who is rapidly softening towards Kat, with him towards his office and then his bedroom, shutting both doors firmly behind him.

Once in his bedroom, he takes her firmly into his arms, tips her head up and kisses her slowly and assertively, stroking the length of her spine and then returning his hands to span her waist. Kat softens against him, curves in, and slides elegant fingers into his hair: letting him take the lead and take her wherever he wants to go.

For long minutes he simply kisses her, still slow, sure and assertive: content to own her mouth and hold her slim body; happy to defer more while delicately stoking the rise of desire between them. She’s soft in his arms, pressed against him bonelessly and purring quietly in pleasure between kisses, infinitely pettable. Gently, he begins to explore under her top, skimming the waist of her pants and the pale skin of her back, roaming round to unbuckle the narrow belt, undo the dark button and the zip, allow the pants to fall away and leave her glorious legs bare. She steps elegantly out from the pools of fabric, and returns to be cradled against him, unbuttoning his shirt as he slips hers off: skin to skin and then mouth to mouth.

Slow, sure kisses turn inexorably to harder, hotter exchange; hands begin to wander more intently, pressing in begets rolling of hips and thick weight pushing between lean legs. Castle’s pants disappear, his shirt follows, and both of them are left, still standing by the shut door, in minimal underwear: shivering, though anything but cold. Time slows in their sensual haze: each touch, stroke and kiss languorous and leisurely; drawing them nearer to the bed without haste; the measured pace only adding to the deepening sexuality between them.

Castle brings Kat to the bed, standing between her legs and lowering her down on to her back: taking the opportunity to study her with heat and adoration mingling and matched in her keen gaze; then kneeling himself with his chin resting between her breasts and, now, an entirely male, predatory expression which slithers down her nerves and pools in her core. And yet despite the blazing heat between them, he’s still unhurried, tracing her body with his tongue as if they’ve all the time in the world, as if the evening would never end.

He starts at the top: a barely-there flick of the tip of his tongue across her clavicles; a tiny scrape of teeth, hardly enough to notice. He continues downward in the same vein, paying detailed attention to each inch he passes: the same deliberate pace as he goes. It’s wholly erotic. The fabric of her bra moves across her nipples, providing delicious friction that sends sparks through her senses, until it’s unfastened and discarded and his lips have replaced the silk. Castle amuses himself there for a while; coaxing her to white-hot arousal and mewling noises of desire.

When his leisurely teasing has had the desired effect, he moves further down, still softly predatory and assertively masculine: his hands firm around her waist, then her hips, then gripping her thighs, as his mouth follows. He draws her panties down and away, leaving them to join the rest of their clothing on the floor, and laps at her: open to him, wholly his. She squirms and writhes, hands in his hair, face turned into the pillow to muffle the noises (damn those bookshelves!), completely unable to escape his slow tightening of her body, the intimate invasion of his tongue; entirely given up to the sensation and to him, until she’s wound so tight and so high that the only escape is to snap, on a high cry.

She smiles, cat-like, as she discovers Castle’s hard body wrapped around her; brings long, delicately probing fingers to bear, delicately, and as slowly as he had, exploring around thick, hot weight and stoking him to tense, poised-to-pounce flashpoint: but when she dips her head he prevents it, pulls her up to his mouth and kisses her deeply; rolls her and settles in the cradle of her hips; then takes her in one deliberate, forceful thrust which leaves her filled full and gasping into his matching growl. He moves, and she lifts to receive him again, and the rhythm picks up pace until all that’s swallowing their desperate, seeking noises are their kisses, and then on one last frantic movement there are mutual cries and then only stillness and silence and serenity, and then, not much later, sleep. The carefully packed nightwear is entirely ignored.

Deep in the night Castle wakes, finds his Kat curled beside him, and leaving his hand on her waist so that he’ll know she’s there even while he’s asleep, drifts back into utterly contented slumber. Still later, Beckett shifts, barely awake, and snuggles herself closer into his warmth, bringing his hand to over her heart, and slides back to sleep.

When she wakes, it’s time to get going. Castle is snuffling gently into the pillow, two degrees of turn away from suffocating himself. Beckett pokes him in the ribs until his eyes flutter.

“I have to get going,” she notes. Castle grumps. “Work.” She slides away. Castle reaches out and tugs her back, but contents himself with one hard kiss, and then releases her. Less than twenty minutes later, she’s showered and dressed, putting on her make-up and trying to fluff her damp hair into semi-dryness: that tried and failed, she’s gone in a whisk of Beckett-ness.

Castle stumbles into his unsatisfyingly solo shower and eventually emerges with marginally more intelligence and attention to the day. Breakfast is punctuated by Alexis’s curiosity about the lack of Beckett, which Castle deflects, unconvincingly.

“I don’t mind you having friends over,” Alexis notes mischievously, with a salacious accent on friends that causes Castle to raise an eyebrow and emit a parentally displeased noise.

“How lucky,” he says sarcastically, “since last I looked this was still my loft.”

“Da-ad,” Alexis pouts, abruptly similar to his expression. “I didn’t mean that. I just mean you shouldn’t worry about bringing Detective Beckett home. It doesn’t upset me.” She pauses, and acquires a seraphic smile. “So long as you don’t object when I want to bring boys home.”

Castle chokes on his coffee and takes some time to recover. “You won’t be bringing boys home overnight till you’re twenty five!” he manages.

Alexis snickers happily as she clears her breakfast dishes away. “Gotcha,” she smirks. Castle harrumphs and clears up his own detritus before retiring to his office, his laptop, and a floodtide of inspiration.

The precinct is quiet and boring, and remains so throughout Thursday and Friday. The team’s on call at the weekend, but as of lunchtime on Saturday nothing has occurred, Beckett has completed her chores, and she is bored. She looks up exhibitions, and can’t muster enthusiasm for any of them; so eventually changes to go out for a long run. Her exercise has been of the paired-up variety, recently, and a nice run is just what she needs to stretch out her muscles. She clips her phone, gun and shield on (just in case anything interesting happens) and sets off at an easy pace, aiming for Central Park.

About halfway around her circuit, the phone rings. It’s not, almost regrettably, Dispatch with a nice new body, but it is Castle, which makes her happy.

“Beckett, what are you doing tonight?” he bubbles.

“Uh?” she says, confused. “Tonight? I’m on call, but I hadn’t any plans. Why?” She’s just a tad suspicious. Castle is overflowing with enthusiasm, which could be marvellous – or could be dreadful, depending on whether his enthusiasm is for a nice dinner in good company or for something entirely ridiculous, such as a trip through an abattoir which he requires for research. He would be equally bouncy about either: she, however, would not be.

“I’ve been dumped,” he says soulfully. Beckett makes an unsympathetic mutter of disbelief. “I have. I was going to take Alexis to the theatre – not La Mama,” he says very hurriedly as she emits a fearsome noise, “but she’s had a better offer and I couldn’t really let her not go even though normally I make her stick to the first one she accepted and” –

“Focus, Castle,” Beckett raps out, in the hope that he’ll slow up and explain.

“So would you like to come to the proper theatre?”

“Yes. What is it?” she asks, rather after the fact.

“Blithe Spirit. I’ll even give you dinner first. Can you be ready for me to pick you up at five-thirty, and we’ll do a pre-theatre meal?”

Beckett checks her watch. It’s after three. She’ll need to make tracks. “Okay.”

“Great. See you at five-thirty. Till later.”

“Bye.”

She turns herself round and speeds up.

Once home, she devotes all her energy to a soothing, but accelerated, bath, and is ready to go at quarter past: putting on a pretty, summery dress in recognition of the warm June evening, but having her badge, gun and phone (carefully switched to vibrate) in her clutch bag. She snatches up a light silky wrap in case it’s cooler later, and is content.

She is extraordinarily glad she made the effort to dress up some when she sees Castle. He’s dressed up some too: blazer and formal pants, a dress shirt but no tie.

“Oh good,” he says with relief, “you’re all dressed up. I forgot to tell you” – he catches her glare – “not that you don’t always look gorgeous but you’d be uncomfortable with everyone else dressed up if you were in jeans…” He stops his venture into dentopedology. Beckett doesn’t do anything at all to help him extricate his foot from his mouth. When she thinks he’s reduced to a proper sense of his silliness, she changes the subject.

“What was Alexis’s better offer?”

“Some teenybopper that she’s been desperate to see for months, who she probably has a crush on,” says Castle with deep dislike, “and a subsequent sleepover.”

“Oh. I see. Rather her than me.”

“Me too,” Castle says in a very heartfelt tone. “C’mon. Let’s go get dinner.” He wraps his arm around her waist and steers her out of her own door, barely remembering to allow her to lock up.

Dinner is good. The performance is good, too, enhanced by its utter lack of pretentious “concepts”, strange casting choices, modern interpretations, and inaudible dialogue. It is, in fact, a thoroughly enjoyably classically produced play, and both Beckett and Castle enjoy it to the full, improved yet more by the lack of any urgent calls from Dispatch.

“Now, Miss Beckett,” Castle says with exaggerated gallantry as they exit the theatre, “please allow me to escort you home.”

“I’ve got a gun,” she replies provocatively.

“I’m much more fun than a gun,” Castle rasps into her ear, and proves his point by a tiny, meaningful nip.

“Mm? I guess I could test that out,” she husks in return, and slips her hand into the crook of his elbow. “Let’s go.”