104. I'm empty and aching

“When you walked away I finally got it. And when you came back – you know, I didn’t think you would. I never thought that you’d come back: I thought I’d have to find you but you came. It was… it was like the sun came out. It wasn’t that… if I thought I was slipping, I thought of that day.”

“You told me I saved you. You told me I was the only thing that kept you sober.”

“I didn’t realise what you thought I meant. It was up to me not to drink. I only needed to know that… that you had let me have another chance. I never meant you to give up your life. I never meant to stop you having Will, or Rick.” Tears are spilling down his face, pooling in the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, the grooves by his mouth. Opposite, his daughter is blank-faced and still. Castle is watching Dr Burke, who appears unwilling to intervene. Castle has to trust that this is the right thing to do.

“I just meant that Rick’s family was the first family we’d had anything to do with. I didn’t mean his was a better family, or that we weren’t a family. I guess I hoped…” he trails off. Castle meets Dr Burke’s eyes, and is granted an infinitesimal shake of the head.

Beckett still says, does, nothing. Castle thinks that she can’t speak, or react.

“I can’t give you the time back, Katie. I’m just so sorry…”

Dr Burke finally intervenes, murmuring in Jim’s ear. Jim rises and leaves. Beckett doesn’t even seem to notice.

“C’mon, Kate. Let’s go,” Castle says. “I’ll go tell Burke we’re leaving. We can be there in a couple of hours. Do you need anything before we leave?”

She shakes her head. “I just want to go,” she forces out, tears held back behind the words. “Can’t we go?”

Castle taps on the door of the other room, and when Dr Burke pokes his head out explains.

“I think that would be best,” Dr Burke says. “There is nothing more to be gained from continuing. Detective Beckett has exhausted herself, and needs time to recover. Take Detective Beckett away as you had planned, Mr Castle, but be careful of her. Today’s revelations may readily come back to hurt her later.”

Castle withdraws, sombrely. “C’mon, Beckett. School’s out.” He has no option but to pull her up and keep an arm round her, since she is making no effort at all to move. He expects that she’ll be out cold as soon as he starts the car.

Beckett installed in the passenger seat, Castle starts to roll out towards the Midtown Tunnel and out on to the I-495. He puts on a relatively soothing playlist which he used to use to calm himself whenever Gina had been particularly annoying, and doesn’t try to talk. Occasionally he slips a hand on to Beckett’s knee, just to let her know that he’s there for her. She isn’t responding, and she isn’t there.

By the time they’re passing Flushing Meadow a quick glance shows that Beckett’s eyes are shut and her breathing has smoothed out. It hasn’t cured the pinched, white cast to her face, nor the sharp edges to her shoulders. However, sleep is probably the best thing right now. The alternatives are all much, much worse, and when he has her safely in his Hamptons home they can both relax.

The big car purrs through the miles and the dimming evening light.   They’ve missed the worst of the weekend exit traffic, and Castle doesn’t scruple to ignore the speed limits. The sooner they’re there, the sooner he can feed Beckett, provide good wine, and simply cosset her close and show her how much he wants to make it all better for her. And later, he’ll be able to hold her to him all night and when he wakes she’ll be there; when she wakes he’ll be there; as if they were totally, properly, together. Maybe now, now that the whole mess is out there, maybe now they can be.

“We’re here, Beckett,” he says, and gently wobbles her shoulder.

“ ‘M asleep.” She tries to turn over, and wakes as she realises that this is not a bed. “Urg?”

“We’re home. Well, the Hamptons. Come on, let’s get you inside.”

Beckett exits the car slightly clumsily, and finds Castle already at her side with her bag in his other hand.

“Food,” he says enthusiastically. “We should have plenty and it won’t take long to fix dinner. Do you want some wine, or… or soda?” The last is added as it belatedly occurs to him that Beckett may not like the idea of alcohol, having just gone through a very painful therapy session which arose from the effects of alcohol.

“Whatever.”

They’ve walked up to the door. Castle puts down Beckett’s bag, which is remarkably light (Gina used to carry half a ton in baggage. Meredith had two tons, at least half of which was makeup) to open the door. He looks at Beckett, smiles lazily – and sweeps her up into his arms to carry her inside, just like the first time.

“There,” he says. “Home. Just us.” He bends a little, and kisses her gently: stands her back on her feet. “Just you and me.” And he kisses her much harder, forceful and definite, knowing without knowing how he knows that she needs him to be sure, and strong – and to show that she’s still his regardless of the pain that had gone down in that therapy room. Her arms come round his neck, her body softens and curves into him, and suddenly all her pain and stress slips away for now and she’s simply soft, pettable Kat.

He has no expectation that this will last.

On the other hand he’s going to make sure that they both enjoy it while it does. He explores her mouth smoothly, holding her tightly and not giving so much as a hint that he might let go (he’s never going to let go) until she’s as relaxed as he thinks she’ll get.

“Dinner?”

Beckett manages a genuine, if still exhausted, smile. “Please. Something easy?”

Castle rummages in the fridge. “Pasta, or grilled cheese, or – no, that takes too long – salad – Joe, why did you get broccoli? You know I hate it” –

“I like broccoli,” Beckett points out. Castle ignores this ridiculously provocative statement, since no-one he knows likes broccoli and he is sure Beckett is just being annoying.

He emerges from the fridge. “Pasta?” he semi-asks.

“Okay.”

“Pasta with carbonara sauce, garlic bread and salad.” He looks a touch embarrassed. “Ready-made sauce and garlic bread.” Beckett nods. “And then ice-cream, if you want. It shouldn’t take more than about fifteen minutes.”

“Sounds good. Can I help?”

“No need. You could unpack.” There’s a little hitch. “Um… you remember where my room is?”

Beckett flicks a glance up through her lashes at his slight uncertainty. “Yes,” she says, tiredly, and wanders off in the correct direction. Castle converts his desire to follow her and damn the dinner into brisk efficiency, as a result of which dinner is almost ready when Beckett returns, changed into a softly draped green top and a calf-length rich brown skirt, with flats. Not a trace of icy Detective Beckett, nor of the furious, devastated Katie, remains. Unless, of course, Castle looks down into the very furthest depths of her hazel eyes, where tiny smears of chill agony remain: little raindrops of bitterness.

He dishes up dinner, Beckett conveys salad and garlic bread to the table, and only then does he realise that there’s nothing on the table to drink.

“Wine, soda, water?”

Beckett doesn’t hesitate. “Wine, please.”

Castle rustles up two glasses and a good white in short order. There is a small clink as they raise them to each other.

“That’s better,” Beckett says, after a mouthful of wine and some of the pasta. It’s not clear whether she means the food and wine, or the totality of being out of Manhattan. At this point, Castle is merely glad that she is not still in that ghastly state in which she’d left Dr Burke’s, nor is she spilling out anger and/or hurt on him. She polishes off a substantial quantity of pasta, though only one glass of wine, and then an equally substantial quantity of ice-cream.

“When did you last eat?” Castle abruptly wonders, unfortunately allowing the thought that should have stayed in his head to escape from his mouth. Beckett doesn’t answer, reserve descending around her. “Coffee?” he asks, rather than ruin the mood further.

“Please.” She looks tired, again.

Beckett hadn’t realised how hungry she was until dinner appeared, at which time she had great difficulty not falling upon it like a starving predator on the first deer it had killed for a week. With extreme self-restraint she maintains her table manners. The wine is not nearly as troublesome. She doesn’t want much of that. She is enormously comforted and, though she wishes she had more faith, reassured by Castle’s searching kisses: the memory of three hours ago still sharp and cutting. Castle’s well-meant question about how long it’s been since she ate triggers thought – Thursday? She doesn’t remember even getting breakfast on Thursday, and after that she wasn’t hungry. Wednesday dinner? That’s worrying.

“Please,” she says in answer to the question of coffee. Maybe it’ll wake her up a bit. Long enough to snuggle into her nice big warm Castle, anyway. She could do with some snuggling. She pads over to the couch with her coffee, and curls up in the corner with her now unshod feet tucked under her skirt. Castle sits down next to her and very unsubtly lays his arm along the back of the couch. Equally unsubtly, Beckett puts her coffee mug down and wriggles herself into that particularly Beckett-shaped space between Castle’s hip and shoulder. Perfectly sized for her to lay her head on his shoulder and be nestled in. In fact, just plain perfect. Well, not quite. She recovers her coffee. Now it’s perfect. Castle is cuddling her in and being outside Manhattan is the best idea she could have had.

She’s too tired to think about anything that’s happened in the last couple of days, and truth to tell she doesn’t want to, especially this evening. She just wants peace, and quiet, and no demands. She snuggles in more closely, taking comfort from her large, cosy Castle, who brings his arm round her to wrap her in with just the right amount of strength.   Without meaning to, or even really noticing, she emits a quiet little mew-murmur.

Next thing she knows, she’s being carried to Castle’s excessively large and comfortable bed. This time, her noise is questioning. He’s stolen her coffee cup, which is not fair.

“You fell asleep, Beckett. C’mon. Bedtime. It’s too dark to go for a walk on the beach now, and you’d only fall asleep in my exceptional hot chocolate which would be a total waste of marshmallows and cream.”

“Bed?”

“Sleep. You’ve been asleep, you’re mostly asleep now; therefore sleep in comfort.”

Beckett manages to focus on the important matters: teeth, cleaning off her make-up, and so forth, before investigating her unpacking for just long enough to find her nightwear and fall into bed. She’s asleep before she’s breathed twice.

As a result she entirely misses Castle’s strangulated reaction to her choice of nightwear. She would have been very disappointed by missing it, if only she’d known. She’d picked it specially to ensure that he’d be speechless. Though she had hoped when she selected it that he would not be tongue-tied.

Castle stares at the astonishing sight of one knocked-out Beckett in an amazingly tiny emerald-green baby-doll and matching tiny briefs which are just not quite see-through enough. Why does she have to be asleep? The universe hates him, he is sure. He covers her up in self-defence and pads softly back to the main room, to think over the evening without the immense distraction that a snuggly Beckett-Kat provides.

Much as it pains him to agree with Dr Burke, the evening could have gone massively worse than it did. Beckett’s complete shut-down doesn’t worry him half as much as a screamingly emotional fight would have done, because the shut-down meant that no irrevocable words could be said.   There is, however tentatively, hope. On which note he discovers that he, too, is wrung out by – in his case – the second-hand emotions of tonight, and quietly prepares himself for bed.

It is, Castle thinks sleepily, the best bedtime present ever to be cuddling up to a sleeping Beckett in his bed and know that he needn’t rise – well, wake – early to leave, nor need she. He drapes a possessive arm over her waist and tucks his Beckett in against him and falls blissfully into dreams.

Beckett slowly surfaces to find herself half-buried under a very warm mound of Castle, who is snuffling into his pillow – oh. That’s her pillow. And her. He’s lying with one arm and one leg across her, as well as half his chest. And even in his sleep he’s clearly very happy to have her there. Possibly the final word of that thought is unnecessary. However, breathing is necessary, and she is being slowly squashed into suffocation. She shoves Castle’s sleep-sodden self and achieves enough movement to allow her lungs to expand.   Then she closes her eyes again.

When she next opens them, she’s in empty space, with a warm dent where there ought to be a warm Castle. Or a hot one. She humphs, and turns her back on the space. It’s not supposed to be a space. It’s supposed to be a cosy Castle. Or more usefully, a concupiscent Castle. She’d packed this nightwear especially to appeal to him, and he’s not here to be appealed to. She humphs, again.

“What’s that noise for, Beckett?”

“You’re here.”

“Where else would I be?

“You weren’t here when I woke up,” Beckett points out.

“Did you miss me, Beckett?” Castle purrs insinuatingly.

“No,” she lies, not convincingly. To cover her untruthfulness, she pushes the covers off herself. After that, Castle wouldn’t have noticed if she’d claimed that she was Elektra. He seems to have lost the power of speech. And thought. He’s staring at her so hard that the fabric ought to disintegrate. It doesn’t. This doesn’t seem to faze Castle in the slightest. On the other hand, he’s still frozen in place, which is not the plan. She stretches, which reveals the top edge of the very brief briefs, and a slash of toned stomach. Castle gulps, and then seems to recover himself.

“Pretty,” he growls. “My pretty Kat.”

And then he falls on her, devouring her mouth and pinning her under him: demanding access and receiving it; taking and raiding and plundering and then conquering. She doesn’t put up any resistance at all, welcoming him in and encouraging him to take more: to take everything. In his arms is the single place that – here in the Hamptons – she can be, and admit to being, safe; can feel – and can admit to herself – that she is loved and wanted: petted and protected and cherished.

“Mine,” she gasps out: the first time she’s ever claimed him with the same possession as he does her. This is why she wanted to be here: a place where she can be free of all the clinging restrictions of her everyday life; a place where she can open up and reveal herself. That first step now taken, maybe… maybe the next will be easier, later, when she’s more relaxed, eased by the fresh Atlantic air.

Beckett reaches up and pulls Castle down to her lips again, gripping hard into the firm muscle of his back. For a moment, he lets her, and then reasserts himself, lifting off and propping himself up on one elbow to examine Beckett with lazily predatory eyes and smile; darkness and desire bleeding into his gaze.

“I like this,” he says darkly, and strokes down over the silk-chiffon. “Very pretty. Now I know why you wouldn’t let me help pack. You didn’t want to spoil the surprise. I like surprises like this. The only question is” – he pauses, and twitches the fabric back and forth – “should I leave it on, or take it off?” He twitches it across her chest again. “What do you think?”

Thinking is not the first thing on what is left of Beckett’s mind. In fact, thinking is positively not on her mind. Castle shouldn’t be thinking either. She runs a hand over his naked chest and carries on down, which has exactly the effect that she expects. He promptly decides that the fabric can be moved, does so, and then applies an excellently practised and mobile mouth to her thoroughly receptive breasts. She squirms under it, and retaliates with some well-judged stroking of the weight in her hands, which produces stroking across her, which very shortly results in Castle’s rising above her and oh-so-slowly slipping into her and, when he’s fully home, filling her almost too full, leaning down and taking back her mouth and then his body and mouth move in time and he’s stealing the noise from her lips and she’s purloining his and then it changes to be harder, faster: his solid strength covering her softness and she cedes all else to the sensation and soars and shatters around him.

She finds herself cuddled in and happily relaxes into the soft mattress and smooth sheets. She’ll just stay here for a while. It’s warm and cosy and safe and home. Her eyes drift shut, her hand slips over Castle’s and pulls it up to lie safely over her heart, where it ought to be. She doesn’t mean to become so, but in instants she’s asleep again: all the exhaustion caused by the stress and pain of the last month catching up with her and overwhelming her.

Castle finds himself in a minor, and very pleasant, dilemma. He can continue to cosset his sleeping Beckett-beauty (and she is beautiful in anything, but the tiny little teeny-weeny baby-doll is particularly attractive) and close his eyes again; or he could give her a few moments and then go and wash and consider the options for breakfast. Her ribs are disturbingly evident, though the curves over them are still delightfully strokable. On balance, he thinks breakfast. Beckett’s grip has fallen away and her breathing has slowed to the cadence of deep sleep. He’ll leave her to it. She needs the rest.