54. Drive you home

“This isn’t the way home.”

“Yes, it is. My home.  Where my car is.”

“What? I thought you’d lend me the subway fare till tomorrow.”

“It’s cold, late, and you don’t have a proper coat, so I’ll drive you home.”

“But…”

“No buts, Beckett. You don’t have to come up to the loft, just as far as the garage.”  He’s mildly assertive.  “No-one’s home, so it doesn’t matter if I go out.”

“Oh,” she says, confused. “Okay.  Thanks.”

She has to admit that being taken home in a nice cosy car in nice cosy comfort – heated seats, mmmm – is a huge improvement on the subway and the late-evening – er – personalities. It doesn’t take long before Castle is pulling up at her door.

“Thanks, Castle. Um…do you want a coffee?”

Castle blinks a couple of times. “Sure,” he says amiably, and follows Beckett to her apartment.

Inside, the yoga mat is still on the floor, there is no evidence of dinner, and Beckett’s wallet is in the middle of the table. Beckett hangs Castle’s scarf up and then disappears to put the kettle on, Castle extracts himself from his coat while she does, and then prowls after her to the kitchen. 

When Beckett has finished fussing with coffee, kettles and cups, he takes the path of non-resistance to his urges, leans on the counter edge and pulls her back against him, where he can cuddle her in. And since she’s comfortably cuddled in, it’s but the work of an instant to kiss the top of her head, conveniently at a perfectly kissable height.  He’s about to embark on kisses down the edge of her face, when – inconveniently – the kettle boils.  This is unfair.  From the tiny little noise she’s just made, Beckett may very well think so too.

“Coffee or kisses?” he says provocatively. “Coffee with kisses?  Coffee then kisses?”

“Coffee.” She pauses for just long enough for Castle’s face to drop.  “Then kisses.”  He grins, and as soon as they’re seated drops his arm round her shoulders.  She snuggles in without a pause.  The contrast between Castle’s lack of any questions, quarrelling, or attempts to psycho-analyse her and Lanie’s commentary is very obvious.  Still… hang on a moment.

“Castle?”

“Uh?”

“Why is everyone suddenly calling you when they want to know where I’m at?”

“Uh?” Castle says articulately.

“Lanie rang you. Lanie tried to ask you in the morgue, too.  You said my dad had called you.  Montgomery – didn’t ask you, but I bet he thought about it.  The boys probably asked you.  What is going on?”

“I haven’t said anything to anyone.”

“I know that,” Beckett says exasperatedly.  “If I didn’t know that you wouldn’t be here.  You’d be in a pine box.  That’s not the point.  Why does everyone suddenly think that you’re the one to ask?  I’m not invisible.”

Castle can see the oncoming disaster. Oh well.  Evasion is only going to prolong the agony.

“No, but you are silent.”

“Huh?”

“They know something’s not right, they ask you, and you don’t tell them anything.”

“Yeah, so they should stop asking.”

“Yes, but actually what they do is worry, and then they start asking other people because they’re worried.”

“And how is asking you going to help anything? You’re not telling them anything either.”

Castle shrugs. Since he’d asked himself almost precisely that question when Lanie called him, he doesn’t have a good answer that won’t get him into hot – boiling – water.  Saying they think I’m keeping you sane is unlikely to be well received.  “No idea.”  He tips her chin up.  “Why are you worrying about this now?”

It’s Beckett’s turn to shrug.

“Ah,” Castle suddenly realises. “It’s not just Lanie, is it?  It’s because you’ll be seeing your dad on Sunday.”  Beckett humphs unhappily.  “It is.  Why don’t you just tell him the truth?  That dealing with Mrs Berowitz dragged up old memories and it hit you a bit harder than you expected.”

“Dad is an attorney. Saying that will only lead to more questions, and more questions, and then I’ll say something he doesn’t need to hear.”  She’s tightened up, and her eyes are bleak again.  “I suppose I’ll get through it.  Just like usual.”

Castle doesn’t say anything. He can see the catastrophe already looming, but he’s not going to insert himself into that situation without a very specific and clear invitation.  Instead he smooths over Beckett’s hair and pets a little. She shifts under the caress, in a very inviting fashion.

“I’ve finished my coffee,” she purrs.

“Yes?”

“You promised me kisses,” she says seductively, and wiggles into a conveniently kissable alignment.

“You’re avoiding the issue,” he points out. Beckett abruptly stops wiggling, and glares.

“So? I don’t want to discuss it any more.”

Tell me something I don’t know, Castle thinks.  “So say so.”  His tone alters.  “Stop suborning me with sensuality,” he murmurs.  He doesn’t sound very sincere.

“Why, Mister Castle,” Beckett emits in a faux-shocked accent. “Whatever do you mean?”

“Stop channelling Dolly Levi. ‘Why, Mr. Sullivan, whatever put such a preposterous” –

“idea into my head – your head!’” Beckett caps the quote.

Castle sniggers, and then breaks into song in an orotund baritone at an impressive volume and with absolutely no embarrassment. “Out there, there's a world outside of Yonkers; way out there beyond this hick town, Barnaby” – he pauses – “this hick town, Becketteeeeee” – she groans – “there's a slick town, Becketteeeeee.  Out there, full of shine and full of sparkle; close your eyes and see it glisten, Becketteeeeee; listen, Becketteeeeee...”

Beckett gives in to temptation and comes in, in her full mezzo – not slurred, this time, and Castle raises his brows in some appreciation – to join him.

 “Put on your Sunday clothes, there's lots of world out there…”

They finish on a full-throated flourish.

“You didn’t sing last time. You implied you didn’t sing.  Or couldn’t.”  He manufactures a semblance of offence.  “You lied to me.  By omission, but you still lied.  That wasn’t fair.”

“Don’t sing. Not can’t sing.  I don’t do performances.”  She stops, and her face twists.  “I took a class in Musical Theatre, at Stanford.  Then I didn’t carry on, here.  I couldn’t commit,” she bites out.  No, she couldn’t.  She realised it after the third time she had to bail at short notice, and quit.  “You can’t let people down if you’re doing a show.”

“Just – never, ever mention this to Mother.”

“Huh? Why?”

“You’ll be centre stage – well, actually, downstage left so you’re not upstaging Mother – before you’ve blinked twice. Mezzo and you know lots of musical songs” –

“How’d you get to that?”

“You were singing Chess.”

“I was singing Hello Dolly, not Chess.”

“No, the other night. When you were – er…”

“Drunk,” she says flatly.

“Anyway. Chess wasn’t exactly a global 20-year extravaganza, and yet, Detective Beckett, you know the words.  My mother would love it.  You’d be in one of her productions in no time, like it or not.”  He pauses.  “On the other hand, we’d be a stunning leading lady and her charming, ruggedly handsome leading man, so…”

“No. I am not getting on any stage, anywhere, ever.”

“Okay, you can save the singing for the shower. Bathroom duets.”

“Duets? Duets?  You think you’ll be sharing my shower?”

Castle smiles very slowly and rakishly and slips one finger under Beckett’s sweatshirt and on to her skin. “Frankly, my dear, I’m surprised you’re not in it already.  Yoga, running… you must be really… dirty.” The twist on the final word would seduce a seraph.

Beckett peeps up from under her eyelashes, which nearly incinerates Castle’s self-control. “Really?  I’d better go wash myself clean.”

“I seem to recall promising to massage you to take all the kinks out,” Castle husks, leaning over her and slowly descending.

“But you’re complaining about my personal hygiene. I thought masseurs liked clean clients.”

“How do you know that?”

Beckett smirks knowingly, which is a remarkable achievement considering that she is generalising from a single spa day after which she had threatened her friends with cattle branding, racks and the tortures of the damned if they ever forced her on one of those ever again. Castle growls in a very satisfying, sexy fashion.  This is all so much nicer than the thought of therapy or her father or Lanie.  Or spa days, for that matter.

“That’s for me to know, and you not to find out.”

“I’ll weasel it out of you.”

“Hm,” says Beckett sceptically, and tries to stand up. It doesn’t seem to be working.  Very shortly, it’s not working because her sweatshirt is being removed.  A thick finger traces a line from neck to sternum, and carries on down to hook into the waist of her sweatpants.  Then it stops for a moment, to consider.  Beckett finds herself to be standing in front of Castle without actually having done anything to achieve this.  The finger takes a circuit around her waist.  She wriggles.  A finger from the other hand joins the first.  With a similar lack of any input from Beckett, the sweatpants meet the sweatshirt on the floor.  Castle’s lips meet her now-bare clavicles, and then travel downwards to investigate her stomach.  His tongue swirls lasciviously around her navel, draws a hot, wet line back up between her breasts without doing anything useful, and kisses her hard and possessively as he stands up.

And then he sweeps her up, carries her through to her bathroom, deposits her in the shower, and is only stopped from switching it on by Beckett’s taloned grip on his wrist and a threat of death if he does. So he undoes her bra instead, with his free hand, and then his shirt, and his belt and pants, a little awkwardly, and returns to his earlier possession of her soft, full mouth: open and receptive under his, until she’s lax against him and her hands are round his neck and he slips off her panties and then his boxers, presses her against the shower wall and then turns on the shower.

“Aaaarggghhhhhhh!” he yells, rather louder than Beckett’s appalled squeak since he’s in the direct line of fire and she is largely shielded by him.  It’s cold.  “What the hell?”  His – er – interest in proceedings has abruptly deflated.  He did not need frostbite.  Especially not there.

“Ah. Um.  I must have used up all the hot water earlier.”

Beckett nips out of the shower with alacrity and basely leaves Castle to freeze. No doubt because the freezing water has frozen his brain, it takes him a moment to follow.  By the time he does, she’s flipping a switch.

“Immersion heater. Give it a few minutes.” 

Castle stalks towards her. “I’m freezing.”  She runs a long, slow, glance up and down him.

“I can see that.” She sniggers as her gaze passes through halfway down, and halfway up again.  “You’re blue.”

Beckett is already wrapped in an enormous fluffy towel.  Castle feels this to be entirely unfair.  He looks about, and fails to spot anything other than a hand towel, which will be no more use than a handkerchief.  Drastic measures are clearly required.

He grabs Beckett, who is still sniggering, untucks the towel from her, wraps it round both of them, (maybe it’s a misplaced comforter, he thinks. It’s the size of a bed sheet) and smiles ferally.  His interest in proceedings makes itself re-apparent.

“I guess we’ll just have to find a way to pass the time,” he rumbles in a deep, furry baritone that could heat the entire building’s water supply all on its own. He easily hoists her up and presses her against him with a firm hand on her rear.  Her arms slide back round his neck, her legs twine around his waist.  She essays a small wiggle and Castle groans.  “Wait, Beckett.  It’ll be worth it.”

“Promise?” She wiggles again.  The hard weight against her feels good.  If she only manoeuvres just a tiny little bit, it won’t be against her.  More… inside.  She tries to move in an appropriate direction.

“Uh-uh,” he chides, “no cheating. Wait.”  He forestalls complaint by kissing her again, and while she’s still trying to fight back and take possession of his mouth bends down and lays her out, stark naked, across the bed.  “That’s better.  Now, I promised you kisses, after coffee.”  He lies down beside her, idly tracing a hand over her flat stomach, and then props himself up on an elbow to survey her lithe body, turning her over. 

“Wow,” he says, concerned.  “You really took some hits earlier.  Don’t they hurt?  How didn’t I notice?”

“Well,” she smirks, “your eyes didn’t really seem to be on my back. I’ve had a lot worse.” 

Castle rolls her towards him again, cautiously. “At least your front’s okay.  Though…”

“Mmmm?”

“Bruises should be kissed better.” The words are childish.  The tone and expression are certainly not.  He turns her over again, and drops little, delicate kisses on every bruise, as well as quite a number of places where she is fairly sure there are no bruises.  She melts into the mattress, and enjoys it.  Eventually, Castle has covered every inch of her back, and quite a lot of her legs, and gently flips her again.

“I guess now we’ll just have to make sure that any potential bruises are kissed better.”  He slips an arm under her neck.  “But first…”

He falls on her mouth and takes complete, immediate and searching possession. His hands roam freely: gently forceful, asserting his right to touch and stroke, to tease and wind her up; she responds in kind and it turns hotter, wilder.  She’s not paying any attention to her aches and bruises now, only to his mouth and hands, the hard thigh between hers pressing against her and demanding she open to him; her leg curling round his hip in reply.  His lips slither down over her throat, and her back arches to present her breasts to best advantage.  Castle doesn’t hesitate to enjoy the advantage presented.  He takes one pink tip into his mouth and she twists under the delicate suction and teasing nips; then he repeats on the other side and he has to take her hands into his and hold them beside her head to stop her clawing at his shoulders. 

She falls into the blowtorch blue of his hot eyes as he takes her in one smooth, powerful thrust and captures her mouth once more; moving in her as she moves around him and then he slides fingers between them and flicks over her and she shatters an eye blink ahead of him.

He rolls over and off, holding her to him so that Beckett remains firmly in his arms and spread across him, right where she belongs: together with him. She squirms into a more comfortable position, and settles peaceably, arm around his chest, head tucked into his neck.

A while later, she tries to escape. This is not the plan.

“Don’t move, Beckett. Stay here.”

“I want a shower.”

“Do you?” He smiles, sleepy and sexy.  “I guess you might need some help to wash your back.”

“I can wash myself,” she says, not particularly emphatically. The invitation is obvious.

“You can, but why would you want to?” The sleepy smile is still much in evidence.  “Much nicer if I do it.”  Suddenly his eyes grow wide.  “But only if there’s hot water.”

“There should be now.”

There is. There is hot water, and then there is hot, wet, slippery Beckett, and then there is them.  And finally there is slipping into bed with Beckett, and cuddling up, and falling asleep with the best bedtime companion ever.

Castle wakes slowly with the extremely pleasant addition of a curled-in Beckett to his general morning happiness. Since she is sound asleep, and a brief glance at the clock tells him that he is a few moments ahead of the alarm, he indulges in some focused viewing of her relaxed face, so that he knows what it looks like.  It’s not something he normally sees.  Then he snuggles back down and simply enjoys having her there.  This time, she hasn’t detached herself.

His blissful state is shattered by Beckett’s nuclear-attack-warning volume alarm, which jerks him to sitting up and sheer terror. Beckett emits a semi-groan, pulls a pillow over her ear, tries to hide under the comforter, and eventually, after a full twenty seconds of the horrible earsplitting noise, forces her eyes open.

“Ugh,” she says, hits the alarm, and flops back. The eyes droop, and are eased open.  Castle mischievously improves the moment by tracing fingers over a sensitive area.  Beckett squawks and is instantly fully awake.  “Ugh,” she says generally to the world at large. 

“Good morning,” Castle says happily.

“Not till I get coffee.” She looks at the clock.  “Ugh,” she repeats.  “Time to get going.” 

She staggers out of bed before Castle can make any of the considerable number of better suggestions playing in his hindbrain, and aims approximately for the bathroom. He runs hands over his face, grimaces at the stubble (it might be good for his PR but it itches), and sets out to discover where his clothes might be so that he can go home, shower, shave, and clean his teeth – and thereby not be trailing Beckett into the precinct at far-too-early-o’clock in the morning and letting everyone know that there’s more than merely shadowing going on. 

His clothes turn out to be in the bathroom, where they’d been – ahem – forgotten. He reluctantly dresses, spending far more time watching Beckett do her make-up – it’s a lot faster than stage make-up – than getting dressed, then watches her get dressed, which will provide him with daydreaming material all day regardless of what else happens, manages to stop her morning autopilot for long enough to kiss her very thoroughly, get his ass swatted for ruining her lip gloss, kiss her again with considerable seduction and technique (if he’s going to be uncomfortable, so is she) and the precaution of hanging on to her hands since the lip gloss will need redone anyway, and leaves just before she shoots him for delaying her.  Though Castle thinks that early-morning Beckett couldn’t hit a barn door before the first gallon of coffee, whatever Esposito says about her ability when she’s fully engaged with the day.

He goes home, reasonably content with the way in which matters seem to be progressing. Beckett at least believes that he’s firmly in her camp.  Something will evidently need to be done about Lanie, but that is emphatically not Castle’s problem unless invited; something will need to give between Jim and Beckett, ditto.  Both of those are issues for another day.  He pulls himself together, undertakes his own morning routine which, once the absence of make-up is accounted for, is surprisingly similar to Beckett’s (men should be groomed, after all), and has his first cup of coffee while pondering Beckett’s likely therapy schedule.  More research is clearly required.

Coffee done, he bounces off to the precinct to see what the day might hold. When the answer turns out to be cold cases (come on, Roy, surely it’s time to let Beckett have a nice new homicide) he bounces out the precinct again, pregnant with the information that Beckett is busy this evening.  Her words and tone had been entirely bland and uninformative.  The tiny, acid twist to her mouth as she told him, and the small creases around her expressionless eyes, had told him everything.  Therapy tonight, Beckett.  Followed by some considerable provision of comfort.