12. You win again

The cab is quiet: largely companionably so, though every so often Castle opens his mouth, stops, and shuts it again. The words what was wrong last night are trying to cough themselves out of his throat, no matter how much he knows that this would be a very bad idea.  It’s a particularly bad idea because Alexis hadn’t noticed anything wrong at all.  And, of course, because Beckett is not precisely keen on having her actions questioned by someone who has only been around her for three months or so. Affection, sex, food, wine or silly games provided or not.

Fortunately they reach Beckett’s block before Castle’s impulses to achieve suicide-by-Beckett can overtake his survival instinct. He bounces out behind her, pays the driver before she can and gets growled at, moderately gently, for his pains, and follows her upstairs.

“Coffee? Soda?” Beckett asks.  Still no alcohol, this close to Christmas?  Doesn’t she ever have anyone round for a drink?

“Coffee, please.” At least it’s hot.  It’s freezing outside and although Beckett’s apartment is at a comfortable air temperature the lack of any decoration or festive adornment gives it a chill atmosphere.

“Okay. You set up the game, then.  It’s on the shelf over there.”  She gestures in the direction of the bottom bookshelves, where Castle can spot the box – and the wrapped box for her father.  So she hasn’t taken that over to put under their tree yet either?

“Don’t you put presents under the tree in advance?”

There is a half-second hitch before she answers, and Castle, looking round at her, notices a sudden rigidity in her back and a pause in the process of coffee-making.

“No. Always at the last moment,” Beckett says lightly.  “Stops people cheating by trying to look through the paper or get an idea of the shape.”  Her words are casual.  Her shoulders and back are stiff.  The coffee continues to be made, although a sprinkling of grounds is on the counter not in the pot.

They had done so, once: put presents under the tree as and when they were bought; an ever-growing pile of multi-coloured wrapping and strange shapes. She had done, the second year, not that there were many for only the two of them.

There had been even fewer by Christmas Eve: her father having fallen into them, drunk; and, still drunk and incapable of realising the significance of the wrapped parcels, tearing the paper and leaving them scattered: too wasted to understand that it was Christmastide. The vomit hadn’t improved any of the presents, either.  The next year she’d taken them round on Christmas Day, and the tradition had stuck.  She doesn’t know if any of the first five years’ presents had survived the twelve days until the Epiphany.  She had never asked, or commented.  Since then, each present has survived, and been displayed, or worn, or used, with pride: another way in which her father proves that – with her unstinting support – he controls his demons.

She finishes making the coffee and brings it over to where the game is set up and ready.

“You can be blue, Beckett. Matches the uniform I’ve never seen you wear.”  He looks salaciously hopeful. 

“Uniforms do it for you, do they? I’ll remember that, so I don’t raise your temperature by wearing one.”  He makes a very disappointed face.  “The uniform is polyester: not warm in winter and too hot in summer.  It’s not nearly as good as it looks.” 

“Who’s starting?” says Castle, instead of how about I buy you a pure silk version and then take it off you very slowly, which would not be good for his continued existence.  Still, Beckett seems to have got over her constraint of the other evening (he is still sure she was off-form, despite all intelligence telling him he’s an idiot) and she’s a little more relaxed than she was earlier, and whatever had spooked her is gone again.

“I thought your friend said that you cut to decide who goes first? Are you trying to sneak an advantage, Castle?”

“Curses,” he cries dramatically. “Foiled again.”  Beckett rolls her eyes, and cuts.  Castle follows, and is unreasonably triumphant when he gets to begin.  It doesn’t actually help him, as Beckett points out, since if he doesn’t get the right cards he still won’t be starting a man.  She is considerably underwhelmed when he does.

“Are you sure you didn’t stack the deck, Castle,” she humphs as, yet again, the card she draws is useless.

“I’m wounded. How can you think that I would cheat?”  His eyes twinkle and crinkle as he grins at her.  “I’m just lucky.  You know what they say, Beckett.  Lucky at cards and lucky in love.”  His grin gets even wider.  Beckett humphs again.  She really does not like losing, does she?  He starts a second man and advances his first a little further.  There’s a very small noise of considerable displeasure, swiftly supressed, next to him.  It occurs to Castle that Beckett hasn’t disagreed with his deliberately misquoted thesis on luck.  He decides to push his luck, and slides closer, putting an arm round her.

“What’s this, Castle?” She taps the hand on her shoulder, surprisingly gently.

“Well, Beckett, I believe that technically it’s called a hug. Have you heard of them?  Usually provided between friends when one of them seems to need it.  You’re tired, and tired people need hugs.  Well-known fact.”  He grins some more, and doesn’t move his arm.  There’s another tiny humph – this one conveys a certain amount of disbelief – but no movement away.  More surprisingly, there’s no denial.  So she is tired. 

The moment is broken by a squeak of satisfaction. “Sorry!” says Beckett with no apology at all, and sends his furthest advanced man back to the beginning.   Castle returns his attention to the game, and is still winning that several minutes later.  Beckett is also still within his arm.  Win-win, in fact.  And thinking of winning, the best thing he can do is win this game as quickly as possible and then proceed to claim a prize, just like last time.  The same prize will do very well.

So that’s what he does. Beckett is – well, trounced would be a good word.  He’d expected more of a battle, but luck seems to have deserted her today, and now she’s looking down at the remnants of the game without any particular annoyance at having lost.  He would have expected it, given her general competitiveness.  (He’s competitive too.  He just hides it an awful lot better.  Or indeed, unlike she, hides it at all.)

He turns her round towards him. “I won,” he points out.

“Yes. And?”

“I get my prize.”

“More M&M’s, Castle? You’ll get fat if you eat all those sweets.”  Castle smirks.

“Not likely, Beckett. I take good care of myself.  A healthy mind in a healthy body.”  His smirk becomes more of a lazy smile.  “But you needn’t worry.  I don’t want M&M’s.”  He leans down.  “I want a kiss.”  And he takes it, and when she doesn’t protest, takes another: slower, longer; and when she doesn’t protest that either, simply carries on kissing her in an entirely possessive fashion.  She’s still far too much Beckett for him to think that she’s truly relaxed, but kisses can be very relaxing, if properly delivered.

He brings her firmly closer, pulling her on to his lap where she can be more readily accessible, holds her against him when she shivers slightly and then bends to her full mouth once more. This time she opens for him before he’s done more than barely touch his lips to her.  He nibbles her lip delicately and then kisses her slowly and surely.  Affection is high on the agenda, suddenly.  Tired Beckett might, he hopes, want to be Kat, or at least less Beckett than she’d been last night.

Beckett had known that this was a possibility from the minute Castle had dropped his arm around her, and decided to let the chips – or the Sorry cards – fall as they might. When he kissed her, gently and yet with a definite note of intent, it went a long way to reducing the tension that permanently inhabits her at this time of year consequent upon her hatred of the season.  When he carried on kissing her, and hoisted her into him without any effort, she was reminded that he’s big, strong, and perfectly capable of taking care of himself.  And, of course, his family.  She shivers slightly, likewise reminded of the way in which her father is the opposite, and finds herself tucked in and kissed with rather more determination. 

She eases into his clasp a little, settles against him more comfortably, and opens to his demands. It doesn’t take long to succumb to them, to let the heat build between them, to press into him and bring her hands to his neck, and then, having consented to his invasion, give herself up to whatever he might do.

What Castle might do is vexing him extremely.  He might pick not-quite-yet Kat up and take her to her bedroom and make love to her in all the ways he wants to and that he already knows she would enjoy.  He might indulge in some heated petting on this couch (and then, perhaps, take her to bed).  Or he might continue this as a relatively gentle make-out session, much as had been so very effective a few days ago, with nothing further.  Right now, the last seems the best idea – at least for the moment – as it’s his best chance of relaxing Beckett into Kat.  And after the last couple of days, he wants to know that he can turn her into Kat again.  She’s been far too Beckett, and far too tense, and far too not his.

So that’s what he does. He doesn’t make the mistake of stopping to think, which has only ever led to being right back to hard-shelled Beckett and that very unpleasant and peculiar feeling that the incredibly good sex is in some way – or he is in some way – second-best.  Which is another unsubstantiated but persistent nagging feeling in his mind.  He’ll just enjoy himself – and whichever version of Beckett, Kate, Kat or whatever personality appears – for now.  Hard upon the thought, he kisses her again, never having stopped stroking her gently – affectionately – across her back. 

She’s nicely responsive, but it’s disappointingly clear – from an…er…affectionate point of view – that she’s also very weary. The niggle that has been plaguing him recedes somewhat.  He cuddles her in, encourages her head to fall neatly upon his shoulder where he can, if so inclined, (and he is) drop occasional kisses on her hair or cheek, and simply snuggles.  Affectionately.  Beckett – or possibly nearly-Kat – is yawning and otherwise quietly soft in his arms: quite different to how she had been yesterday in his loft.

Maybe a day of quiet paperwork has soothed her. It’s been pretty full on for the last month, and while he’s stayed as late as the case demanded or the team could stand, Beckett’s hours have been – from the number of used coffee cups on her desk when he gets in – maybe double his?  She’s never left before him, and from snippets of overheard gossip she gets in before the boys and leaves after them too.  No wonder she’s exhausted.  Now it’s all stopped, just in time for Christmas, and all the team spirit and adrenaline that has kept them going has been flushed away.  It’s probably much like his feelings when he’s written frantically – either while inspiration lasts or because his deadline is approaching – and when he’s finally done, crashes.

In that case, he hopes that Christmas will be corpse-free, to give her – all the team – a break; and after that, she won’t be weary or tired and – surely? – that odd constraint will not reappear. She’ll come to his loft, and be content there.  It’s likely that her family Christmas will help, too: time with her father.  He plops another undemanding buss on her hair, and is instantly rewarded by a snuggle closer.  Beckett’s slim hand has curled itself into the front of his shirt, and her head has tucked itself into the angle between his shoulder and neck.  Very nice.  He ensures that she is completely wrapped into his arms, leans his cheek on the top of her head, and idly surveys the décor of her apartment.  He’s not looked closely at it, before, being more concerned by its occupant and their… interactions.  So to speak.

It’s very clean and tidy. It’s also – he searches for a word, and finds only vague.  Nothing is definite: it doesn’t have a clear personality – at least, not one he would ever associate with Beckett.  The furniture is curved, and plump; the few knick-knacks are largely abstract or impressionistic, with the exception of the little amethyst bird he’d seen last time.  The pictures are all abstract: soft, swirling patterns in soothing, peaceful colours: greens and blues; a creamy, buttery yellow; a hint of chestnut brown.  Organic colours, somehow.  The pictures might have been landscapes, or seascapes; but they’re unclear, an illusion of meaning that fades and dissipates as he looks at the picture again.  He doesn’t remember much about her bedroom: he’d been… distracted.  Still, soft furniture and soft pictures and colours not withstanding – there are no photos, he realises abruptly – the lack of festivity leaves it chill.  He shivers slightly, and pulls Beckett even tighter in. 

She squeaks, and Castle realises that he’s holding her too tightly for her to breathe properly.   He loosens his grip a little: enough so that she doesn’t actually suffocate, and returns to his musings.  Beckett has, he notices, kicked her shoes off.  She has pale pink nail polish on her toes.  It’s not very Beckett.  Far too girly – but very cute.  It doesn’t fit Beckett, still in her sharply tailored precinct garb.  It might fit Kat, but he has no idea what Kat might wear.  He has no idea who Kat might be, except that she wants soft affection and not to be in charge.

He certainly has no idea why there might be a Kat at all.

Before he can pursue that thought, though, Beckett (or whoever she is), shifts in his lap, glances at her watch, and sighs.

“It’s after eleven, Castle. Shift starts at eight thirty.  I need to get some sleep.”

Castle smiles lazily at her. “I could help you sleep, Beckett.”

“Yeah, you could read me a story. That’ll send me to sleep.”

“That wasn’t quite what” –

“Sleep, Castle. Alone.  Not with.  I’m too tired.”  She slams her mouth closed on that admission.

“See, I knew you liked me,” he smirks smugly.   But he cuddles her closer, and strokes her hair, and gradually she eases again.  Too tired?  That implies – which is undoubtedly why she cut the words off short – that if she weren’t tired she’d be happy to indulge in rather more than soft making out and cuddles.  He indulges in a small amount of both, and then reluctantly untangles himself to go home.

Beckett takes herself to bed in short order and falls asleep on the thought that everything’s okay – as long as she doesn’t go to the loft for the moment. It’ll all be much easier – everything will be less raw and she won’t be so pathetically, pettily resentful – after Christmas.  Well.  After mid-January, anyway.

Castle takes himself home and, not being exhausted and being something of a night owl anyway, repairs to his study and tries to think. Specifically, he tries to put together a number of disparate niggles that he has accumulated.  Chief among them are the odd pauses and hitches in Beckett’s normally smoothly polished façade: when to put presents under the tree; mulled wine; brandy butter; mince pies; a slightly odd reaction to the alcoholic; a complete lack of festive cheer; and volunteering for the Christmas Day shift every year and then losing her temper with him in a completely wholesale fashion.  And, of course, her constraint at his loft and lack of constraint in her own apartment.

None of it makes sense as a whole, and each individual item – mostly – has had a perfectly logical explanation. He shouldn’t be second-guessing her behaviour, and he shouldn’t be imagining phantoms and fancies where none exist.  His imagination is – not for the first time – running away with him, he concludes.  But he’s still indefinably dissatisfied when he sleeps, and when he wakes.  It’s very irritating.

Irritation is somewhat relieved by the provision of another substantial box of doughnuts and pastries, of which Beckett eats rather more than her fair share by dint of a crowd-scattering scowl and the use of the ripped off box lid as a tray. She wrestles her prey back to her desk, puts her arms around it protectively and further defends the doughnuts by placing her Glock very obviously next to them.  Then she eats them with an air of considerable pleasure, a very satisfied smirk of triumph, and – to Castle’s mind, at least – a wholly unnecessary amount of happy noises, lip-licking, and finger sucking.  Purely, of course, to remove the frosting and sprinkles from her hands.  Fortunately she finishes that game just before he is forced to make either a sharp exit or to kiss her.

“Those were good,” she smiles happily. Castle wonders where she put them. She’s so slim he’d have thought that so many doughnuts would have caused her stomach to protrude, much as if a snake had swallowed a pig.  Fortunately, he stops that thought before it exits his mouth and shortly thereafter life exits his body.  He surreptitiously flicks a glance over her.  Nope.  No protrusions.

“Creepy, Castle. Quit staring.”  He shrugs.

“Never seen doughnuts disappear so fast. Is that a cop thing?”

“Yeah. You snooze, you lose round the bullpen, especially where doughnuts are concerned.  Gotta be quick.”

“I noticed,” Castle grumbles. “I brought lots and they’re all gone.  I barely got one, and you had several.  You’ll get fat.  Or you’ll have an upset stomach.”

“Nope,” grins Beckett smugly. “Cast iron stomach, here.”  She pats it.  “Never had an upset stomach in my life.”

There’s a very disconcerting flicker across Castle’s face. Beckett thinks it’s either disbelief or realisation, which is very confusing.  Oh.  Oh shit.  She suddenly remembers that she’d claimed an upset stomach after the first bite of mince pie.  Even more disconcertingly, Castle doesn’t follow up with the obvious question.  But all through the rest of the morning Beckett can see his sharp mind working.  She’s only too relieved when he wanders off, claiming that he’s bored of watching paperwork and is going off to do some more Christmas shopping.