81. Who are you?

“Beckett’s surrounded by big and/or tough men. The only girlfriend she’s got is Lanie, and that’s a bit shaky, like I said.  I think it’s because that way she never gets asked to talk about anything.”

“Does she ever try to talk about any subject?”

“She sometimes talks to me. But that’s only when she’s really upset.  Even then, she doesn’t say much.  She only started doing that when I stopped asking questions.  Any questions.  Any time anyone does, she shuts down.”

Dr Burke nods, slowly. “However, she is talking to me.”

“Because she’s really upset and because she’s decided to fix this. Even if she isn’t deciding to fix all of it.”

Dr Burke decides, in the few minutes which remain, to ask the question which is perturbing him rather than return to the question of how Mr Castle persuaded Detective Beckett to interact with him. “Mr Castle, given Detective Beckett’s discomfort with talking about her issues with anyone, which I must presume extends to anyone else discussing them, or her, especially given her reaction to the concept that you might have used her father in one of your books; please would you explain to me why Detective Beckett has instructed me to be open with you, and why you are here?”

How strange. Mr Castle does not like that question at all.  He is quite clearly trying to find a way to avoid answering it.  Dr Burke waits.

“You asked,” Mr Castle eventually says, resignedly. “You told Beckett that her father had been abusing her.  I guess you must mean emotionally, since if someone physically abused Beckett – even at nineteen or twenty – I reckon she’d have ground them up like raw beef.  She didn’t exactly take well to that idea.  Actually, she was downright mad.  So” – he hesitates – “she’s decided to prove you wrong.”

Dr Burke’s eyes widen. “Hm,” is all he emits, however.  Detective Beckett has missed the subtlety that he had not, in fact, said that.  He had said that her behaviour exhibited similarities.  However, that is not relevant to Mr Castle at this time.

“And she’s enlisted me. But that worked out really well because she’s said I can talk to you and to her dad.  I can do anything I need to.  What I actually want to do is get Jim and Beckett in the same place, with you” – Dr Burke feels that his eye sockets may shortly fracture, if his eyes become any wider – “so that someone can clear this whole mess up properly.  I can’t do it, but after today I’m pretty sure you can.”

“Oh,” Dr Burke mumbles. This is really wholly irregular.  Most peculiar.  On the other hand, he is not aware of any case where a psychiatrist has successfully treated alcohol induced trauma in this way.  It would be a considerable feather in his professional cap.  He collects himself.  “And what might your honest view be?”

Mr Castle is again very uncomfortable. “I don’t know anything about it, except what I looked up earlier, which wasn’t really very coherent.  But it’s possible.  A lot of it sounded like Beckett, except she’s anything but a victim.”

“So. What do you intend to do?”

“Fix Beckett and Jim. Well.  Try to.”  Mr Castle looks directly at Dr Burke.  “Are you going to help?”

“Of course. As I have already said, the only way in which Detective Beckett will recover is by resolving her issues with her father.  I presume that you intend to speak to Mr Beckett in the near future?”

“Yeah. That’s not going to be any fun.”

“I strongly suggest that after you do that, you ensure that he speaks with his sponsor, preferably face to face.” Mr Castle acquires an air of I-had-already-thought-of that which Dr Burke appreciates.  “I shall be at your disposal should you wish to discuss any part of this situation.  The authority Detective Beckett has given will continue until she revokes it.”

“Thanks. I expect we’ll be talking soon.”

“We will be. I still wish to know how you and Detective Beckett reassociated, but I have an appointment this evening.  We will reconvene in the near future, although I suggest that you make an appointment for a time after you have met with Mr Beckett.  Your help is welcome, Mr Castle.  I wish you good fortune with Mr Beckett.”

Mr Castle takes his leave, and Dr Burke sighs. To cut the Gordian Knot may be the only way forward, but it is quite likely, and indeed almost certain, that there will be a number of highly emotional scenes in the course of resolution.

Castle exits Dr Burke’s office with a feeling of some satisfaction that at last there might be a way through this mess that doesn’t involve him getting shot, mutilated or having a full-scale nervous breakdown. It’s faintly possible that he might get Beckett through this mess without her having a full-scale breakdown too, now.  Dr Burke seems to have her number, and more importantly had struck Castle as emphatically not being the sort of person who will let her slide through this without actually opening up.

Unfortunately his satisfaction is short-lived. He will have to talk to Jim.  He doesn’t actually want to talk to Jim right now, because he wants to digest his meetings with Dr Burke and the conclusions that Dr Burke had rapidly drawn.  He turns towards home, at which point his phone rings.

“Rick Castle,” he says relatively cheerfully.

“Castle?”

“Beckett!” he bounces happily. “What would you like?  Ice-cream?  Coffee?  Me?”

“You.”

It occurs to Castle that Beckett is not bouncing happily. “What’s up?”

“I just want to find out how you got on with everything today,” she says, in a good facsimile of normal briskness. Castle is not deceived.

“Okay,” he says. “I’m not far away.  Will you put the kettle on?” he entices.  “I’ve not had any coffee for hours.  If I don’t get some soon, I might fall asleep on you.”

“I’m not a pillow.”

“Oh, I don’t know. Some bits of you are very pillowy” –

“Stop that thought right there.”

“Really? I thought you liked it when I plumped up your pi” –

“Shut up. Now.”

Castle smiles widely to himself, startling a passing panhandler, as he cuts the call. Back to Beckett-normal snark, at least until he gets there and discovers what’s really going on.  He’s sure that she will want to know every last detail of his discussion with Dr Burke, but he intends to censor that slightly.  It’s not going to be good for his health for Beckett to discover that Dr Burke knows her game plan.  Anyway, since something unspecified isn’t entirely right, it’s quite possible that Beckett can be distracted from her pursuit of Dr Burke’s head on a stick into being Kat.  In fact… mmmm.  Yes.  Indeed.  Distraction.  In a very particular fashion, which he spends the short cab journey developing.  How lucky that it is a short journey.

When Beckett opens the door, Castle doesn’t bother with pleasantries. He shoves it shut behind him, catches Beckett before she can take more than a half-step towards the kitchen, and smoothly draws her into him to bend and kiss her with considerable authority and only a modicum of softness: owning her mouth and taking everything he wants.  She softens and curves under the demands of his hands that she be closer, pressed into him and knowing how much he wants her; under the demands of his mouth that she simply give up and give in to him.  And she does.  His hands are untucking her shirt, sliding up over smooth skin: forceful pressure to keep her against his body, caged in his clasp.  She flows into the mould of his frame, melting under his possession, and finally mews softly into his kiss.

When he hears the soft noise that means she’s definitely Kat-not-fretful-Beckett Castle relaxes his grip just enough to hoist her up and walk them over to the couch where he can sit her down and stroke her into soft compliance with his assertive, possessive touch. Gradually he shifts his movements to delve into the knots in her back and untwist the stress nodules in her muscles: she pushes back into his strong fingers and eases down, left lax in his lap.  In all this time neither of them has said a word.  Castle kisses Beckett-now-destressed-Kat again, still assertive, but no longer the controlled possessive passion of moments ago, now gentler.

“Hello,” he says suavely.

“Hey.” She wriggles into a comfortably snuggled-in position and rests her head on his shoulder.

“That better?”

“Mm,” she assents, and a hand creeps up round his neck.

“Wanna talk now?”

“Mm,” but she doesn’t say anything more, for a moment. “I just can’t get past it.  Every time I tried to think about something else it crept back in.  He’s wrong.”

And yet it’s eating at her mind, Castle notes. If she were that sure Dr Burke was wrong she’d have dismissed it without a thought.  Even Beckett secretly thinks Dr Burke is right, or at least partially right.

“You need a nice new messy murder.”

“You shouldn’t wish people dead, Castle,” she chides gently.

“It would still take your mind off it.”

“Yeah…” she sighs.

“I could take your mind off it,” he murmurs deeply, and traces small circles at her waist, under her untucked shirt. Very unkindly, she bats at his fingers.

“What did you manage today?”

“I wrote two whole chapters,” Castle says provokingly.

“You know what I mean. Did you persuade Dad to see Dr Burke?”

“Not yet. But I went to see Dr Burke.  He wasn’t what I expected.”

“And?”

“He’ll see Jim.” Castle doesn’t mention that Dr Burke will see Jim with Beckett.  That might be part of a second or third meeting.  Since Beckett isn’t grilling him about the meeting, he’s not going to spill the beans, either.  He has no confidence that this will last.

“Great. Thanks.  Does Dad know?”

“No. I’ll call him tomorrow.  I’ll see if I can meet him after work.”

“Will you come round after?”

“Only if it’s not too late. Otherwise I’ll call, and I’ll be round on Friday anyway.”

Castle thinks that, strangely, it might be good for Beckett if he says he won’t come round tomorrow.  That way, she might realise that he’s perfectly able to say no if he wants to, or needs to.  She needs him, he realises, to be clear about his boundaries… oh.  Because she never set any with her father, and never set any with Julia till Montgomery set them for her backed up with threats of suspension… and she doesn’t believe that she isn’t asking too much and he’ll resent it silently rather than simply say a breezy no, not today, Beckett.  Okay.  And, helpfully, she’s not tensed up.  She’s snuggled back into his shoulder and is nicely wrapped around him.  He wonders idly if a Beckett-scarf would suit him.  Unfortunately that leads him rapidly to thinking of several parts of Beckett which could be wrapped around his neck – in a very good way – which leads her to realise that he’s – er – springing into life, and then she wiggles against him in a come-hither fashion and shortly after that he’s devouring her mouth.

Beckett’s couch, however comfortable, is probably not the place for this. Which thought is possibly a bit late when his mouth is otherwise occupied and his hands are busily undoing her buttons so that his mouth can be occupied all over her, as her hands are wickedly occupied all over him oh fuck don’t do that Beckett!

Enough. He executes a manoeuvre that only his thrice weekly gym sessions and his overwhelming desire to have Beckett somewhere he can ravish her thoroughly allow him to manage, and drops her flat on her back on her bed.  She is not co-operating.  She’s supposed to let him retain enough brain function and physical control to make her feel very, very good; and she isn’t.  She’s evil.  If he doesn’t hang on to her hands this will end shortly, messily and not well.  He’s supposed to be smooth, suave and sophisticated, and she likes him assertive, possessive and forceful – and she’s destroying him stop that Beckett!

She’s giggling. Giggling!  No.  He will not be giggled at.  He wrenches her button-down up her arms and traps them together in the sleeves, over her head.  This reveals a rather pretty cream bra and, now that she is not driving him insane and he can remove her pants, matching very brief panties, their centre somewhat darker than the bra.  The giggle mutates to a smirking purr as she tugs against his grip.

“Got you,” he growls. “Think you can pull that trick?  No way.  You’ve done enough mischief for one evening.”  She flexes, and the wordless purr drips desire.  “Let’s find out what you like today.”

“I like you,” she drawls, and flexes again, not really trying to break his grip, more to test his hold.

“That’s good. I like you too.  Today, I like you all stretched out and purring when I stroke you.”  He runs a finger lightly straight down her centre from neck to just above her core.  “I like this pretty bra, too.  Especially the lacy bits.”  He slides the very tip of his finger over the lace.  The lace is about an inch above where his fingers ought to be playing.  Her noise could only loosely be described as a purr.  More of a slightly irritated growl.  She tugs harder against the encircling hand.  Castle tugs back.  Since he’s bigger and in a position to exert rather more leverage, he wins.  He rubs over the lace again, straying slightly.  The purr returns, only slightly edged with that’s better in a very do-as-you’re-told intonation, somehow managed without a single word.  Castle has no intention of doing as he’s told.  He’s also pretty damn certain from Beckett’s darkened eyes that she knows this, and is perfectly happy with it.  Of course, the note of satisfaction in her purring helps, too.

“I like the contents, too.” He occupies his mouth with the contents, nudging the fabric out of the way.  The satisfaction quotient in her noises increases.  Unfortunately, Castle has made the rookie mistake of letting go of her hands.  Beckett-nearly-Kat has wriggled out of the shirt sleeves which were keeping her from wreaking havoc and is endeavouring to prove that ears can be used for steering.  “Stop that, Beckett.” 

“Make me,” she snickers.

She wants to play that game? Okay then.  He stops suckling, which is unpopular, and very swiftly detaches her far-too-clever hands from his ears, only making pained noises once.  Having caught her hands, though, he now has a problem: he can’t do what he wants, either with hands or mouth, if he lets go, because she’s made it very clear that she’s going to be mischievously playful in any way she sees fit in order to try to tease him into pleading for her to stop.  But if she wants him to make her stop… this is a step further than smooth assertion.  He pauses.

“You sure?”

She looks up at him, still mostly clothed, looming over her – and trust blooms in her eyes. “I’m sure,” she says softly.

And then she takes unfair and instant advantage of his stunned shock and wrestles him flat on his back on the bed as if she were sparring on the mats and while he’s still trying to recover breath strips his shirt and then t-shirt and leaves his arms tangled in both garments. While he’s trying to extricate himself, she finishes denuding him and acquires a ferally predatory expression as she regards the picture before her. 

“Mmm,” she emits. “Verrry prrrrrrrrrrettty.”  She drags the words over her tongue, rolling the Rs lasciviously.  Castle redoubles his efforts to escape, before she traps him again.  He hasn’t quite succeeded when she starts to amuse herself.  Fortunately, she doesn’t head straight southward.  She starts with his pecs, and draws some sensual squiggles with her nails and then with her tongue.  Then she nips a little: sharp stings followed by a soothing slip of her mouth.  Castle makes a noise of mingled delight, desire and displeasure, and tries much harder to untangle his wrists before Beckett can reduce him to an incoherent, incapable puddle on the pillows.   He has no intention of being her plaything, delightful as it might be, nor of being exhausted and emptied.  It’s been an interesting, but difficult, day, and he needs Beckett as much as she needs him.  He needs, rather badly, to be allowed to take her beautiful body, to be allowed to soothe her and ease her and so doing, soothe and ease himself.  And she’s told him where tonight’s limits lie.

On that thought, he finally frees his hands.  He hauls her up from her wicked trail southward and flips her on to her back, stretching her out again, returning her hands to above her head and holding them there, propped up on his elbow to peruse the long, lithe lines of her legs, the hills and valleys of her hips, her chest, the plains of her stomach.  His gaze is hot, hard; and she flexes in his grip again, displaying the effects without the slightest embarrassment. 

“Like what you see?”

“Mmm. Yes.  Very pretty.  Even prettier if I do this,” and he peels away her bra, slowly and with firm strokes over the naked skin revealed.  “But you stopped me, earlier.”  She smirks.  He pins her with that same hot hard gaze.  “So now I’ll stop you.” 

She smirks more wickedly. “You can try.  Catch me if you can.”  She bends and snaps her wrists from his grip – and then discovers that while she’s been doing that, Castle – who is not that stupid and had been expecting her to try that any time in the previous five minutes – has trapped her with his other arm around her waist and has just slid one thick thigh between hers.

“Try? No, no.  I don’t try.  I succeed.”  He takes full advantage of the size difference and some sixty pounds in weight, and transfers all his bulk to be above her.  “Now what?”  He takes one slim hand in each of his far bigger ones, brings them together and catches them into one firm clasp.  She lifts her head and licks a wet line over his chest where it’s above her mouth.  Castle groans deeply, but is not deterred.  “I’ve caught you.  So that means I can stop you stopping me.”  His free hand threads his shirt through the spindles of the headboard: he leans down and kisses her deeply till he’s eliciting little moans and she’s not paying any attention to the cotton wrapping round her wrists until he tugs it tight enough to hold her for – oh, no more than a second or two if she wanted to escape.  It’s an illusion of assertion, a daydream of desire, a smokescreen for seduction.

And in her eyes all he sees is heat and trust and something more than partners, and he hopes she sees the same in his.

He kisses her again, and starts to move downward.