56. Take me away

Castle’s strong fingers are very comforting as they work the stress out of Beckett’s muscles without hurting at all. It’s hypnotic, and he is not doing anything to pull her out of the cloud of cossetting which is surrounding her.  It dimly dawns on her that the surrounding atmosphere of large, powerful and slightly dangerously sexual masculinity is extremely soothing.  Just what she needs, in fact: someone to keep her safe from the shoals and rocks over which she’s sailing, with the tide going out and no charts or rutters to guide her home.  She’s so tired, and it’s not even late evening: it’s barely after eight.  She should eat, but she’s not hungry; she should probably go to bed, but she’s unable to muster the energy to move.  Truth to tell, she doesn’t want to.  Sitting cuddled into Castle’s broad frame is more reassuring than anything else she might do, and is providing her with some ability to pull herself together.  Therapy, she thinks acidly, is about as soothing and easy as having one’s skin removed with a cheese-grater.

“That’s better. Stand down for a while.  You’ve got the weekend off, haven’t you?”

“Mhm,” she assents.

“Let’s go do something tomorrow.”

“Like what?” she mutters, unwilling to do anything that requires more effort than opening her eyes.

“Something fun. Coney Island?”

“In February?”

“Okay, not Coney Island. How about a trip?”

“Where?” she asks, unenthused.

“Well, anywhere, really, but I suppose you want to be back by Sunday night for work. Niagara?  DC?  Boston?”

Beckett’s lack of enthusiasm is palpable.

“Newport?”   There is a small spark of interest, swiftly doused.

“Bit far for a day.”

“A day? How about the Hamptons?  That’s not too far.”

“The Hamptons?”

“Sure. I’ve got a house there, and if we left early we’d have most of the day.  We could walk along the beach” –

“It’s February. It’ll be freezing.”

“ – wrapped up warmly – you look really cute in those berets you like – and then we could sit round the fire and have hot chocolate and toast marshmallows and there’s this really good seafood restaurant that I think you’d love so we could stay and have dinner – we could even stay overnight: Mother will stay with Alexis: she’s always complaining they get no girl time with me around though I think what she really means is that they don’t get to go shopping on my platinum card which is just not true, so it wouldn’t be a problem if we left again reasonably early and all I’d have to do is call the caretaker and get him to set it up for tomorrow morning and it would be really great.”

He runs out of breath. Beckett is quiet against him.  “What do you think?”

“I think I’m exhausted just listening to you.” He droops.  “I’d need to be back by mid-afternoon Sunday,” she says slowly, thinking aloud.  He doesn’t quite understand the shiver as she mentions Sunday, but he definitely likes the direction of her thinking.

“We can manage that. If we leave after brunch we’ll be here in time, easily.”  He pauses.  “So shall we do that?  Pleeeaaasseee?  Please play hooky with me, Beckett?”

“Okay.”

“Yessss!” He hugs her tightly.  He’d never expected assent. 

“Ow,” Beckett says.

“Sorry, sorry,” Castle says distractedly. “You need to pack.  We ought to leave around seven.”  Beckett makes a deeply unhappy noise.  “Okay, eight.”  The noise becomes less unhappy.  “You’re in before it’s even sun-up most days.  Why are you objecting to getting up to do something fun?”

“ ‘S my days off,” emerges in an disgruntled mutter.

“You don’t take days off.”

“Do too.”

“Only when you’re ordered to.” Beckett humphs.  “You can sleep in the car.  It’s really comfy.  I’ll wake you up when we get there.”

And just maybe, Castle thinks, just maybe being out of Manhattan and completely away from here will clear her head and cheer her up and maybe even relax her enough that she talks a little. That thought is swiftly chased away.  It’s too early for that.  She hasn’t even admitted to having the therapy sessions yet, and he has to wait for her to say that she’s doing it.  He can’t push, and he won’t push, because she is attending, and that is really and truly all that he needs to know.  Unless and until she asks him for something or tells him something, all he can do is be here and be strong enough for her.  Right now, he’s here, and he’s enough.  She’s curled bonelessly into him, slightly sleepy, certainly soft, but still disturbingly pale and devoid of spark.

“Do I need anything except a change of clothes and my washbag?”

“You might want a nice outfit for dinner.” He leers happily at the top of her head, which is pointless since she can’t see it.  “I’ve not seen you in a dress.”

“Really?”

“Really do you need one? No.  Really have I not seen you in a dress?  No, I have never seen you in a dress.”  He grins lazily at her.  “I’ve seen you in undress, though.”  She growls.  He pets her, in the hope that she’ll stop growling, and maybe purr a little.  “Anyway.  Washbag, change of clothes, something pretty for dinner.  That’s all you need.”

“ ‘Kay.” She curls in closer.  Castle pets a little more, until she seems happier. 

“Are you cold now?”

“No. I wasn’t cold.”

“Oh. You were shivering.  I thought you might be cold.”

“No.” She doesn’t explain the shiver, simply nestles in.  “But you’re nice and warm anyway.”   She tugs on his hands till his arms have become wrapped around her in an evidently more satisfactory fashion, and drops her head back on his shoulder.  “There,” she decides.  “That’s better.”

Castle thinks it’s better, too, but then he currently thinks that almost any situation in which Beckett decides by herself that she should be snuggled up to him (with, or preferably without, clothes) is an improvement on a situation where she is not. His fingers stroke very gently at her waist, encouraging her to stay close, and he discovers that her cheek is in a very kissable location.  Naturally, he kisses it.  What else should he do?  She hums.  So he kisses her again, knowing that hums are likely to turn into purrs and her head is likely to turn up so that he can kiss her full lips and investigate her beautiful mouth and then she’ll purr and be Kat and be eased.  He falls into a blissful reverie during which his kissing Kat gently produces something that moves closer and closer to a purr and moves her inexorably into his lap, where she is much more pettable and much more kissable and very much easier to hold close and protect.

Eventually he has to leave. He was out all night last night, and he can’t do it again tonight.  Alexis deserves his attention too: he can’t neglect one adored responsibility for a new one.  That’s not fair and won’t help.  It also won’t help anything when (please let it be when) Beckett feels able to come back to the loft.  Family is still very, very important to Castle, and he won’t damage that for anything or anyone.  Beckett doesn’t question, quibble or argue about it: and he realises that it’s never been about his love for Alexis, it’s always been about her father’s feelings for her, and how seeing how he is with Alexis shows her what she doesn’t have with Jim.  It’s a fine distinction, and a difficult one to spot, but it makes an enormous difference.

Oh. Jim.  Oh.  Beckett goes to see her dad for dinner every Sunday she can.  So… oh, he knows this: she’ll be going this Sunday, which is why she needs to be back by mid-afternoon.  Ah.  The shiver is explained.  Beckett hasn’t seen her dad since – oh shit – since she walked out of Julia Berowitz’s apartment.  In between, there’s been at least one very emotional phone call which left Jim scared silly for his daughter, three calls from Jim to him, and one call about which he knows between Beckett and Jim in which Beckett lied through her teeth all the way, covered or buried every hint of truth about how she felt, and said that she’d go over on Sunday.  There might have been another, he guesses, in which Beckett would have confirmed going over on Sunday, and he would bet his next month’s royalties that she lied through her teeth throughout all of that call, if it happened, too.

If Beckett weren’t at least going to therapy, he thinks bleakly, he’d be on the phone to Jim right now. Since she is, he won’t.

His mother is, as predicted, delighted to have a weekend with both Alexis and free run of the better boutiques, on Castle’s dime.

Beckett feels a lot better for Castle having shown up, cuddled her, cosseted her and generally provided her with a most unusual and very reassuring sense that someone’s looking out for her. She hadn’t felt able to ring anyone on her way home, but he’d turned up at just the right moment and held her in just the right way and then made a really good suggestion (even if she will have to get up on a day-off morning).  She performs her bedtime routine, packs swiftly and includes a rather pretty soft crimson cashmere-mix dress which is both extremely flattering and – vitally – warm, and sets her alarm.  She snuggles up to her pillow, which still retains a very faint scent of Castle, and is asleep far more swiftly and deeply than she had expected to be. 

She wakes unexpectedly well-rested, and with the view that a trip away would be really very nice, even if it does start a little too early. It’ll give her something else to think about.  She puts on jeans, flat boots and, over a t-shirt, the green angora jumper that Castle had definitely liked, digs her warmest coat out of the closet and adds a dark emerald wool scarf and matching beret and gloves.  Just before eight (ugh, ugh) Castle arrives and declines coffee, at which she humphs unhappily, having had none herself.

“We’ll get some on the way, Beckett. If you’re awake.”  She harrumphs, being one decibelic (he is sure this is not a word but he likes it) step beyond a humph.  “C’mon.  You won’t need your coat in the car.  It’s lovely and warm.  If we go now we’ll be there in less than two hours.”

“I am not bailing you out if the traffic cops stop you,” she grumps.

“You won’t have to. I’m a very careful driver.”

“Hmph.” Beckett rolls her eyes. 

Castle grins at her, unintimidated, and hugs her. “I really like this jumper,” he says.  “C’mon, let’s go!  The Hamptons await us.  Walks on the beach, toasted marshmallows, roaring fire, fur rug” –

“You wear a wig?”

He splutters disgustedly. “No!  Fur rug in front of the fire, perfect for lying on na” –

“Shut up, Castle.”

“Let’s go. Time is fleeting.”

“Madness has clearly taken control,” Beckett says dryly, but consents to take his hand and be tugged enthusiastically along to the elevator, out the door, and into a very luxurious Mercedes.

Shortly after that, they’re rolling smoothly out to the Williamsburg Bridge and then on to the I-495 eastbound. There are no traffic cops.  This is fortunate.  Castle’s definition of I’m a very careful driver stopped at the start of the I-495, after which he’d opened up the engine and the car had moved.  Beckett, no respecter of interstate speed limits herself, simply snuggles into the exceedingly comfortable seat and starts to plot the best way to ensure that she gets to drive back.  They are slowing down at the Hamptons in considerably less than the time that the journey should have taken, and Castle returns to being careful.  He is grinning like a loon, however.

The reason for the mile-wide grin becomes apparent as the big car pulls round and Castle’s – quote – house is… is… hell, it’s a mansion.  Beckett is speechless.

“Here we are,” Castle bounces; and further bounces out of the car, round to the passenger side, and tugs Beckett out. “C’mon.  It’s sunny.”

“And cold.”

“Bring your coat. The beach is the other side of the house.  Let’s get your stuff out.”  He’s rootling in the trunk to get the bags out.  Beckett manages to overcome her amazement for long enough to close the car door (and her mouth) and then simply stares for a while.  Castle finally puts his bag down, pokes her in the ribs, and starts her moving to the door.  He puts the bags down again, unlocks the door, swings it wide – and swings Beckett up into his arms and inside.

“What was that?”

“Fun.” He smirks.  “I’ve convinced you to come to my isolated abode, where I shall have my wicked way with you and” –

“I thought you wrote thrillers and murder mysteries, not bodice-rippers? And if there are no marshmallows there won’t be any wicked ways, either.  You promised me marshmallows.”  She peeps up flirtatiously. 

Castle smirks some more. “So as long as there are marshmallows I can have my wicked way?  Good to know.”  He is not disappointed in the eye roll he receives. 

He whisks the bags out of the way, whisks into his own coat, scarf and hat, checks his pocket for gloves and then turns, intending to induct Beckett into her own coat. He’s unreasonably disappointed that she’s standing like a stump in the middle of the hallway.  “C’mon, let’s go to the beach.”

“Yeah,” she says slowly. “Okay…” 

“You need a coat.”

“Oh. Yeah.  Right.”

“Beckett, what’s up with you? You’re acting like someone hit you over the head with a pry bar.”  Suddenly enlightenment hits.  “You’re not overwhelmed by the house, are you?  It’s just a house.”

“Castle, it’s a freaking mansion.  Practically a castle.”

Castle splutters with laughter. “Castle’s castle?”  Beckett humphs, and seems to shrink a little.  He pulls her back to him, firmly, and kisses the top of her head.  “It’s just my house, Beckett.  Nothing to worry about.”  (It might be our house, a little voice tells him. Sometime.)  “Let’s go.  I’ll show you round later.  Prove there are no monsters under the bed.”

“Only in it?” Her usual snark has suddenly returned, but she’s still a little uncertain in his clasp.

“Grrr,” he ripostes, and makes a dreadful face. She sniggers, and appears to return to normal.

It’s – enormous. Gigantic.  She could lose the Twelfth’s entire Homicide squad in here.  Hell, she could lose the entire Twelfth in here.  Of course she’d known Castle was wealthy, but this is… this is well past wealthy and heading for super-rich.  It’s too much.  It’s – scary.  He can have anything he wants, up to and possibly including buying medium-sized Caribbean islands.  And he wants her?  Walks on the beach and marshmallows?  Shouldn’t he want supermodels and Nobu and the high life?  Not someone who’s in therapy and just a cop and who can’t even be honest with her family – what family?  An alcoholic father in remission and she, that’s all: duty visits on a Sunday when she’s not on shift; duty phone calls where they don’t talk about anything.  At that point Castle interrupts and she answers without thinking. Castle?  That has to be the worst word choice ever, and sure enough Castle seizes on it.  At least it lets her get herself back together.

Castle holds her coat for her in a very gentlemanly fashion and she slips into it, wraps her scarf round her neck, and makes sure she has her beret and gloves. They embark on what seems to Beckett to be a half-hour trek through an ever-more intimidating series of beautiful rooms: perfectly decorated but still somehow warm and welcoming.  There are no fur rugs in evidence, which rather than reassuring her only convinces her that there are yet more rooms that she hasn’t seen.  She preserves a bravely cheerful countenance and marches on.  Eventually they exit the rear of the house almost directly on to the beach.

“Here we are. A beach all to ourselves.”

“It’s a bit cold for paddling.” She shivers.  The wind coming off the Atlantic is biting.  Castle automatically slings an arm around her.  “Even if there’s no-one else around.”  There is a rather embarrassed silence.  “This is yours too, isn’t it?”

“Er… yes.”

“Oh.”

“It’s still me, though. The one who brings you coffee and hugs you and lets you stand down.  Don’t make this a problem.  It’s only stuff.  It’s… it’s like you having a shoe collection that would restock Saks.  It’s not you.  It’s just stuff.  This is just my stuff.”

“Yeah, but you could fit the Saks building into your stuff.”

“Now you’re being silly.” It’s affectionate.  He turns her round and into him, tips her face up to his and brings his head down to kiss her possessively.  “Still me, Beckett.  Still you.  Stand down and stop worrying.  How many times do I have to say that I know what I want and it’s you?  All your little foibles included.” 

He kisses her some more, till she’s breathless beneath it: nipping her lip and then soothing, taking possessively and keeping her tightly against him, shielding her from the chill wind blowing off the sea, and the chill wind blowing through her soul. Gradually she eases.  He thinks idly that were there a watcher, in some small boat out in the whipping white waves, they’d see a big man protecting a slim woman from the wind, and never guess that actually she’s the one who normally does the protecting: the hard-ass cop with the gun and the shield.  Here and now, it’s reversed, but it’s still them.  Cop and writer, writer and cop; protector and protected both ways round.

“Shall we go on, or are you cold?” he asks. She curls closer, cheeks whipped rose-red by the raw wind, scarf an emerald contrast, the green blazing against her dark coat and dark hair.

“A little further,” she replies, and stays within his arm as they begin to move, falling into step as easily as if they did this every day, sliding her arm around his waist. The flat boots make the height difference apparent: fitting her neatly into the firm grasp around her.

They walk along for maybe a quarter-mile, up to a smart little boundary post for the next oversize property; turn around, and walk back. The tide is rising, and the wind has not dropped.  Storms ahead, Beckett thinks, and doesn’t necessarily mean either the weather or indeed Castle.

“Let’s get inside. It’s chilly, and we can always come out again after lunch, if you want.  We could go shell hunting, or skim stones.”

“Okay. Coffee?” she asks hopefully.  There hasn’t been any coffee, and she’s feeling the lack.

“Oh my good golly gosh!” Castle says theatrically and ridiculously, making her laugh. “How could I forget to caffeinate you?  Are you okay?  Do you need the ER?  Will you faint, or fibrillate, or otherwise flatline?  More to the point, will you explode and kill me along the way?”

“No,” Beckett says firmly, to stem the tide of silliness. “None of the above.  But coffee would be really nice, please.”

Castle rustles up excellent coffee, pokes around for a moment, and also produces with a congratulatory ha! some Danishes.  “I knew Joe would come through,” he says happily.  He leads Beckett to an as-yet undiscovered family room with a fireplace which is sized to roast rhinoceroses (definitely plural) and in which the fire is already laid.  There is a fur rug, on which Texas would fit quite nicely with room to spare for a pretty border to surround it.  There is a plump couch, on which four giants would sit comfortably, some large armchairs, perfect for reading, and a coffee table.  Castle puts the tray of coffee down on the table, wanders to the fire and competently lights it.  A few moments later, it’s blazing cheerfully, and Castle and Beckett are comfortably ensconced on the couch.

“This is nice.”

“So my stuff has some advantages?”

“Mmm, suppose so,” Beckett murmurs. Her socked feet are curled up on the couch with the rest of her, blissfully comfortable and warm.  The fire warms her more deeply than she’d expected, and the house – or at least this room – carries the same faint aroma of cologne that Castle’s loft does.  She drains her mug, and shifts to snuggle into Castle’s broad body.  It’s all beautifully cosy.

“This was a really good idea of yours.”

Castle smiles affectionately at her, and in his warm blue eyes, here where there are no memories of any sort, she thinks she sees more than she has before: nothing distorting her view.

“I’m full of good ideas.” And this, he thinks, was definitely a good idea.  After that initial shock – maybe he should have prepared her, but he’d (childishly) wanted to surprise her – she’s all snuggly and soft and definitely Kat-ish.  He loves this peaceful togetherness, casual conversation about what to have for lunch, maybe another walk before dinner, the discussion opening out into books and movies and simply finding out about each other.  He doesn’t ask about anything triggering, and the remains of the morning pass by in undemanding, unassuming closeness.