73. Keep you safe

Beckett opens her mouth and sharply closes it again; jerks to standing and stalks to the window by her small table with the little stone bird. She picks up something – not her bird, but Castle can’t see what it is – and plays with it: her fingers twisting around it.  There’s a small glint of blood-red; crimson spilling through her long digits, and for a moment he thinks that she’s cut herself, till he realises it’s light, not fluid.  It dawns on him that it’s the small red quartz crystal he’d picked up on the beach and given to her; it must have been sitting next to the bird.  She’s still turning it as he comes to her, looms up behind her and gathers her into his broad frame, crosses his arms over her torso and leaves hers free so that her fingers aren’t stayed from their incessant twisting.

“Why not, Kate?” he asks again, softly, but he’s beginning to think that he knows, because after all, she asked him for help.

Suddenly she drops the stone on the table, spins in his grasp, drags his head down to hers and kisses him: hot and ravaging, passionate and demanding; by reflex his right hand knots in her hair, his left spanning her back, together holding her for his avid mouth and touch; and she fires up and blazes with him: two pyromaniacs in a firework factory.

“Because…” but she doesn’t say, maybe can’t say; takes his mouth again. He lifts off, before he – they – can be lost again.

“You asked me to come. You can always ask me.  Asking me to come over isn’t asking too much.”  She looks hopelessly confused at the statement, as if it doesn’t make sense.  “Kate.  Just stop thinking.  Sit down and stop.”

She acquiesces to being moved back to the couch and to sitting down.

“That’s better,” Castle says. “Now, why can’t you stop going to therapy?”

“I can’t live like this any more. If I don’t fix it I’ll be benched again and…” she stops again. 

“And?” Castle asks gently. If she could only articulate this point – and he is sure of what she’s going to say but she has to say it – then probably everything will follow from it.

There is a very long silence.

“And you’ll go,” eventually dribbles into the air. Beckett’s head is in her hands, her shoulders hunched over.  “I don’t want you to go.”

Castle’s first, fortunately unarticulated, thought is Yes! He manages to alter that to, “I’m not going anywhere,” before he can get himself into serious trouble.

Beckett’s words have expired again. This is okay.  The important ones are out there. I don’t want you to go.  He tightens his arm round her to pull her closer and nuzzles the top of her bent head.  It doesn’t seem to make much difference.

“Beckett – Kate, come here. It’s okay.  I’ll be here if you need me.  It’s okay to ask.”

“No, it’s not. Every time my father asked, I went.  I thought I could fix him and I’m not making the mistakes he did.  It wouldn’t help.  It’s not your job to fix me.  It’s up to me.”

Castle forces her chin up so she has to look at him. “Yeah, it’s up to you.  But you don’t have to do it all on your own again.  Asking isn’t forcing, and you are not your dad.  You thought you had to keep him safe, and you did whatever you thought you had to so you could.  I’ve no intention of trying to keep you safe.  Bit pointless, when you’re the cop and you’ve got the gun – and there is no way I’m getting on a sparring mat with Esposito.  You can do that if you like.  I like myself unbruised.”  He returns to the main point that she needs to understand.  “I don’t feel any need to fix you” – well, not if she’s doing it herself, and she is – “and I’m not scared to say no to you.”

When there’s no comprehension in her dazed eyes, he shakes her shoulders, not quite hard. “Listen to me, Kate.  Only you can save yourself.  But you can yell to me to throw the lifebelt if you’re too tired to swim.”

“He would have drowned me with him, if I hadn’t walked away.”

“I can swim quite well,” Castle says, not quite inconsequentially.

“And then he drowned me anyway. Killed myself with kindness.  I should have stayed away.”  Her eyes flare, then go dull.  “I used to be able to swim.”

“I’ve got the floaties, if you need them.” Beckett doesn’t appear to appreciate the comment.  Nor, however, is she killing him.  This is actually very worrying.  He drops the attempts at humour: it really isn’t working, and brings her in closer until she’s tight against his side.  “Listen to me,” he says again.  “Asking isn’t too much.  You’re so desperate not to lean on anyone like your father leaned on you that you don’t ask at all.  Too little’s as bad as too much.”  He looks down at her, sympathy liquid in his eyes.  “I won’t let you be your father, Kate.  I don’t think you would ever be like that, but you’ve got to lean on me sometimes.  I’ll let you stand down.  I” – his breath hitches – “I’ll take care of you, when you need it.”

No-one’s offered that since Will. And deep down she hadn’t believed him, because he couldn’t understand about her father, and never went near him.  Not that she’d encouraged him to, or indeed done anything at all to suggest it.  Castle, somehow, has shoved himself into her father’s orbit.  He gets the picture, but he isn’t telling her to forgive because it’s family, or forgive just because she ought to and that’s what good people do, or to ignore her dad, or to do anything at all.  He doesn’t push, and right now that’s what she needs.  She’s trying to fix herself, and pushing is not helpful.  She needs to do her thinking in her own good time... oh.  That’s what Castle meant.  Take the time she needs, not hurry through it to be done.  She made that mistake last time round.  She tucks herself more closely in.

“But you keep coming round.”

“Yeah, so? It’s not because you ask me.  I could count those times on my thumbs.  If I waited for you to ask me round I’d never see you.”  His fingers draw a little squiggle on her arm.  “I like seeing you,” he murmurs in an insinuating baritone, and draws another squiggle.  He goes back to briskness.  “So here’s the deal.  You promise to ask when you need me – or even if you think you might – and I’ll promise that I’ll only come if I want to and can.  If I think it’s too much, I’ll tell you.  You only have to decide yes or no.  Deal?”

Back to simple decisions. Yes or no.  Rely on Castle to tell her the truth.  He has so far.  But… ask?  He seems to think she’s got a right to ask him – then again, he’s also just pointed out that he’s got the right to say no.

“You’ll say if it’s too much?”

Of course I will. Because there are going to be times when Alexis needs me, and she comes first.  No matter what, while she’s living with me.  After that… by then it’ll all be different.  Permanent.  I hope it’ll be permanent.

“Yes,” he says simply.

“ ‘Kay.”

“Deal,” he says, and tips her chin up to kiss her lightly to seal it. “Now,” he says mischievously, “what shall we do?”

He perceives from her unfocused look that she hadn’t expected him to want to stay now. She’s exhausted, and therefore indecisive.  Therefore, he should be decisive.  And decisive in his book involves doing what he wants to do, which is take that emptiness out of her eyes, and the way to do that is to kiss her.  So he does.  Strong hands curve around her face, then one arm drops behind her and encourages her to turn a fraction into him, not pulling her up on to his lap, not now, not yet.  Here, he can capture her lush mouth and take away her ability to think too much; or indeed take away her ability to think at all.  He’ll stand her down, and the fastest, easiest way to do that is still to work her up.  Afterwards, they can talk some more, when she’s eased.

Upon the thought, his arm behind her curves itself around her middle and the fingers at its end insert themselves between her waistband and her top, tugging gently. Magically, this results in the top ruffling up far enough for his fingers to loiter on bare skin, sketching seductive symbols; enough pressure to show what he wants.  Just as always, she responds, just as always, it ignites.  This time, though, she’s not soft and receptive and giving: she’s demanding, hot and feral and it’s changing to hard and fast; his hands gripping and hers digging in; his mouth fighting for dominance and hers fighting back; her top off and his shirt open. 

He stands up, hauls her up with him, swings her up into his arms and carries her to the bedroom, showing off his strength and ability to take the lead; drops her on her bed and strips the pyjama pants from her, leaving her naked to his hot gaze and hard hands; falls over her and takes her mouth all over again. He licks a scalding line over the nerve in her neck, inducing the movement that that touch brings to open the curve of her throat so he can carry on downward and nip sharply in the join of her shoulder to neck, carefully placed so the mark it will leave won’t be visible to anyone.  She squirms, and her hands open his pants and shove them and his boxers away, stripping him with desperate rapidity so that he’s as naked as she, swelling and rigid under her questing fingers and grip.

She emits a high-pitched noise as he moves to her breasts: a little forceful, a little rough as she’s been just a little rougher with him, tugging and pulling, suckling to soothe the erect nipples; but she drags him up again and flips them so she’s on top. He’s not having that, she needs him to be assertive and tonight she’s looking for a fight, so he continues the flip till she’s under him again and pins her hands by her head and parts her legs to settle his hips between them, hard against her slick softness, poised to enter her, but he makes her wait for that, kissing her hard till she lets him conquer her mouth and then he conquers her body, wholly within her and bringing one hand down between them to tease and press and stroke and she cries out, he groans and they’re locked together as close as lovers can be, soaring together and falling into each other’s ecstasy.

He holds her close, blanketed over him, and keeps his fidgety fingers still. He likes to touch, and pet, and play: his fingers are never still, but now he forces them to peace.  Only in peace will she relax and maybe, maybe talk.  She didn’t exactly talk, earlier.  More… offloaded.  Now, if she would only do that in therapy where the poor benighted bastard she landed on as therapist would sort it into its constituent strands, she might get somewhere.  Castle doesn’t envy the unlucky shrink.

“Anyway,” she says, out of nowhere at all, “I have to go to therapy.”

“Okay,” Castle rumbles.

Beckett pillows her head on his chest, where she can hear his heart beat, now at resting rate, slow and calming.

“So what are you doing to do?” he asks.

“Use it,” she says wearily. “Sort out how I feel.  Work through it, move on.”  She lifts her head and peeps up at him, nervousness on her face.  “Be able to deal with your family like they deserve.”  Her head drops back down.  “Twice a week, Tuesday and Friday.”  She sighs.  “Montgomery’s monitoring that I go.”

“Seriously? He gets reports?”

“Just whether I show up or not. Nothing else.”

“Huh. So what do you want, then?”

“Not to go to therapy would be a good start.” Ouch.  “Since I’ve got to, I want not to freak out if I run up against another drunk on the job.  Montgomery ordered me not to work on any cases involving alcoholics, and banned me from seeing the Berowitzes.  And I want to not be pathetically envious about your family.”

There are a couple of very large crevasses in that landscape, Castle thinks. Her dad, and Lanie Parrish, for a start.

“ ‘Kay,” he rumbles again. Now is not the time for either crevasse to be investigated.  He’s got a better plan, being the one which he discussed with Esposito.  He cuddles and strokes for a while, until she’s soft and relaxed and just a little aroused.  “I wanna see O’Leary again.  Let’s get him out for another beer.”

“You’re thinking about O’Leary now?” Beckett growls.

Castle’s hand on her back slips smoothly southward. “No,” he murmurs, and glides his fingers teasingly to some advantage.  “Not right now.”  A grin becomes apparent in his voice.  “Why? Are you?”

“Might be – ohhh. I could easily be distracted, though.”

“Could you? Maybe if I did this” – big fingers explore and slide – “that might distract you?”   A well-placed stroke makes her gasp.  Another causes a wriggle.  Castle rolls them and props himself up on his elbow to give himself freedom to play, which allows Beckett freedom to play too, which fairly swiftly results in the playpen being very untidy indeed.  Sharing playtime with Beckett is definitely far more fun than with any other playmate.

“So shall we go out with O’Leary, then?” Castle says, as he’s reluctantly getting dressed.

“Who?” Beckett says with a sleepy, naughty smile, tucked under a pile of coverings and smothered in her pillows.

Castle smirks. “Big guy.  Gives good story about Rookie Beckett.”

“Oh, him. If you like.”

“I’d like to explore Beckett – Rookie or not – a bit further,” he leers.  His face falls.  “But I’ve got to go home.”  He plops himself down on the edge of the bed and puts a warm hand on the approximate location of Beckett’s shoulder.  “I meant it.  You think you might need me, you call me.  If I think you’re asking too much, I’ll tell you straight.  Trust me to know what’s best for me, Beckett, and we can make it work.”  He pauses, pats, decides that it’s probably worth laying out one very important point.  “But me coming round Tuesday and Friday isn’t up for discussion.  That’s going to happen anyway, whether you call me or not.  The only difference is if you want me to come get you from therapy, you call, otherwise I’ll be here.”

Beckett acquires an expression remarkably and unattractively reminiscent of the wide-mouthed frog about to croak. Castle kisses her swiftly to remove the undoubtedly arriving imprecations and makes a dash for the door before objections – in the form of flying pillows, or possibly bullets – can be raised.

“Night, Beckett.”

“See you Monday,” she manages, in a what-did-you-just-say? voice.  Just before he’s made his escape from her likely wrath and her bedroom her tones scorch across the space.  “Castle!”

“Uh… yeah?”

“Thanks,” she says with a soft smile.

“Partners,” he replies, and leaves.

Left alone, much comforted by Castle’s visit, Beckett slowly turns out the lights and drifts towards slumber. On Tuesday, her sleepy mind decides, on Tuesday she will talk to Dr Burke about fixing her issues with Castle’s family.  Sort out that mess.  Start to sort it out, anyway.

If she can do that, then she won’t feel nearly as bad that she doesn’t have any real family of her own to love her. She’ll get past that, move on.  Plenty of people have no family left, and they manage to cope.  So will she.  She’ll work through her issues, and then she’ll have saved herself from the mess her life has been till now.

Only you can save yourself.  True.  And the truth will set her free.  Once she’s free of her past, then she can move forward.  Forward, she hopes, with Castle.

She falls asleep surrounded by his smell and the warmth he’s left behind him.

On Sunday, she unearths her slow cooker, throws in a healthy quantity of vegetables and joints of chicken, adds enough stock for the putative stew to be perfect; and then goes out for a long, muscle stretching run. For a change, there’s a little warmth in the air, and a feeling of spring.

On her return, she showers and changes into a soft, favourite skirt and top, curls up on her couch with her toes tucked under her and begins to consider Castle’s family, as if she were assessing them as witnesses.  It provides her with a certain degree of necessary distance.  She’s good at witness assessment.  She’s good at her job.  And she is absolutely good at sussing out motivations and relationships when it comes to murders.  So she can do it now.  Treat it like a case.

First, her protagonists. Castle.  He can be a suspect.  He’d love that, as long as it wasn’t really he who’d done the murder.  Witness one, his theatrically over-exuberant, centre stage mother.  Witness two, his studious, sensible, but still enthusiastic, daughter.  Beckett wonders where she got that from.  The sensible bit, that is.  She’s never doubted Castle’s intelligence.

Right. Stop procrastinating, Kate.  She has to do this.  She didn’t do it yesterday because she never got that far.  Today, she is going to face it.  If nothing else, look at the mess and be ready to confess to Dr Burke.  It’s the only way.  But still she cringes internally.

So. Alexis.  Fourteen? – no, fifteen?  Castle adores her.  Beckett supposes that’s because they’ve always been all in all to each other.  She, quite deliberately, recalls how he had been with little Callie Donbass.  Not his child, but he’d been amazingly, disconcertingly careful and gentle with the baby.  How much more so, with his own baby?  He’d have been awash with love for Alexis, bathed her in it.  Still managed to bring her up right, even though he must have been able to give her absolutely anything she would have wanted.  And Castle still adores her, and is still proud of her, and would still do anything to protect her.  If you want to get to Castle, she thinks, threaten Alexis, or their bond.  It had almost worked for her…

Oh. She’d always been able to go to her dad.  Right up until she couldn’t.  She hadn’t wanted to look at the photos because half of them are Katie and her dad doing things together.  Whistles, or hiking, or fishing; up in the Catskills.  Moments of pride and triumph.  Moments of disagreement, too.  There’s a photo of her glaring up at her dad… she must have been four or five. 

So, point one. Alexis can lean on her father and she, Kate, can’t. 

And oh, again.  Castle adores Alexis.  Absolutely nothing gets in the way of that.  But her dad has stopped loving her.  She’d walked away to save him and he clearly never forgave her.  Well, she thinks harshly, plenty of people have never forgiven her for plenty of things.  Usually, putting them in jail.  She’s got past that.

Point two, then. If she can’t be a family with her father, it doesn’t matter.  It doesn’t stop her wincing.

And from that, point three. She was uncomfortable with Martha getting on so well with her dad because it reminded her of the family chat over the dinner table, before.  But she’s not had that for ten years, and she doesn’t have a family to have it with, and she can deal with that.

Right. Three things to discuss with Dr Burke.  She can handle that.  It’s really all quite simple, now she’s thought about it sensibly.  Quite simple and logical.  So there is no reason at all to be sad.  No reason at all.