96. Words break through your wall

Castle knocks on Beckett’s door, and waits. And waits. And waits some more. And knocks again, and waits. And knocks much harder, and waits mere seconds before pulling out his phone and dialling. He can hear it ringing in the apartment.

“Beckett?”

“It’s Castle. Are you okay? Why aren’t you answering the door?”

The door opens. Beckett is wrapped in a towel and her hair is dripping lather soggily round her head.

“I was in the shower,” she says unnecessarily. “I didn’t expect you. I didn’t hear the door.” She shivers. “Can you make yourself a coffee, while I finish up?”

“I could” –

“No.” She shivers again. The room is not at all cold, even if you’re only wrapped in a towel.

“Okay.”

Beckett disappears back to her neglected shower.

It appears to Castle, not a man ignorant of the stages of women’s showering, that Beckett was less than halfway through washing her hair, at best. That implies that she’s been in the shower for only a few moments. He hadn’t exactly walked at Olympic pace, and for once had obeyed every Don’t Walk sign. Hm. What’s Beckett been doing for the last hour?

He mechanically makes coffee, only realising halfway through that he hadn’t had to think about finding anything: that he hadn’t even had a momentary hesitation in obtaining a mug. The shower is still running in the background, and he prowls around Beckett’s apartment, not allowing minor little details, such as preserving her privacy, to stop him investigating the top layer of papers on her desk. It’s the notes she’d had in the bar, plus a few added extras of generally little import. Except for one matter. He peers more closely, and shakes his head. The smudges had generally not been present earlier. He prods very carefully at the paper and, as he had surmised, finds it to be very slightly damp.

He returns to the couch, borrows a book and makes himself comfortable, and waits for Beckett to reappear, at which time he intends to turn her into cuddlesome soft Kat, snuggled warmly in his clasp and just where she ought to be and he wants her. Questioning her about why she’s been upset over her papers can wait for a little while, and anyway if he cuddles her close and cossets her into warmth then she’s far more likely to talk.

When Beckett finally reappears she’s put on soft, cosy sweats and her hair is damp. A hairdryer doesn’t appear to have figured, which is mildly surprising. She pads over and sits next to Castle, who instinctively slides an arm round her to tuck her in. There’s a small but very definite snuggle in return, and then her head slips on to Castle’s shoulder and her arm slips round his middle. Nothing is said. Beckett’s hand stays softly resting on Castle’s hipbone even as he turns her and lifts her into his lap, whereupon she hums contentedly and snuggles in more positively. Her face is buried almost into the yoke of his shirt, where he can’t see her face. He is not convinced that this is down to either affection or accident. On the other hand, it allows him to smooth firmly up and down her back, all the way from nape to the curve of her backside, in the assertive fashion that she generally likes best and has the best results. When he gets tired of Beckett-petting, he runs his hand up into the wisps of short hair at the base of her skull and lifts her head. There’s a small, cross noise and she tries to nuzzle in again.

“Out you come, Beckett,” Castle says mischievously. “You can’t use my shirt as a towel any more: it’s already damp.”

The answer – if he could call it that – sounds much like a growl.

“That’s not nice,” he says reprovingly – and then notices that in fact his shirt is very damp. He ceases trying to lift her head to kiss her and instead kisses the available option of her hair, wrapping his other arm around her. “It’ll be okay. C’mere.” His tone is smoothly possessive; his grip firm, pressing her into him. Her arms tighten around him in response, though her head doesn’t yet rise. “C’mon. I want to kiss you, and I can’t if you’re hiding in my shirt.”

Her face appears. Castle says nothing at all about the slight redness of her eyes. He doesn’t get the opportunity. His smooth assertion is entirely overwhelmed by Beckett taking hard possession of his mouth and backing it up with a sudden iron grip that would be better applied to taking down criminals than intimate relations. This is entirely not the plan. He does the asserting here. Beckett does the becoming cuddlesome Kat. Unfortunately, though his brain thinks that, his body thinks that Beckett being assertive is very arousing indeed, and right now his body is in full control. Well. Actually, Beckett is in full control of his body. He isn’t in any sort of control at all, which is no doubt why he’s already devoid of shirt, belt, and thought. Beckett’s still invading his mouth, and there’s little room for him to manoeuvre…unless… he surges into action, flips them over and ends up above her on the couch, pressing into her, pushing down to trap her hands in his and taking her mouth to reverse her assault and raid on his own account.

She’s still fighting for control of the kiss as he drives into her lush lips and searches the hot depths to find passionate response, nips on her lip and then sucks it gently into his own mouth to soothe the small sting, and she stops fighting and the edge of frantic desperation eases. As it does, as she does, Castle pulls away and sits back up and brings her up to be held against him, tucked into his warm, bare chest, dropping small kisses on her nose and forehead.

“It won’t help, you know.”

There’s a long silence.

“You’re the only clear thing I’ve got,” Beckett eventually says, dropping her eyes and trying very hard to hide. “I can’t… I wish we were in the Hamptons right now,” she says miserably. “It was all so much easier there.”

“Mmm?” Castle hums.

“Everything’s right on top of me here. No space. No space to think. I know what the facts look like but I know there’s more and I just can’t work it out here.”

Wishful thinking, Beckett. There isn’t more.

“You don’t have to do everything on Friday. It’s not time-limited. You can do some of it and then think about it over the weekend. Can’t you?”

“I just want it done. Answers. I want to move on. I don’t want him messing up my life any more. I put it on hold for him for years and look where it got me. I’m not doing it again. Don’t I get a life?”

“Sure you do,” Castle says, and doesn’t add right here with me. “But, you know, it doesn’t have to be black and white. You could just let the past lie. It’s gone. Just accept that the facts are what they are and not worry about it, fix what your dad said and then move on.” He strokes her dark hair softly. “Couldn’t you?”

“I can’t. If I don’t fix it it’ll be there poisoning everything. Just like it is already.”

“Uh?”

“Still can’t deal with your family, can I?” she says bitterly. “How’s that supposed to work? ‘Hey, Alexis, I’m dating Beckett but she can’t stand seeing us together so she won’t come here.’ Like that’s going to go down well. I couldn’t even sit through Sunday brunch. You come as a team. Team Castle Family. So it’s fix it or watch it fail. Eventually, you’d walk.”

Castle can’t truthfully deny that. After all, it’s why he’d tried to walk away the first time.

“But…” he says, “why can’t you just accept the facts? Everyone agrees what they are.”

“I wasn’t abused. If I’d been abused the first therapist would have said so.”

“The first therapist who fucked it all up?” Castle emits furiously. “That’s who you’re going to believe? Someone who was wrong about everything and you’re taking that as gospel? Wake up and smell the coffee, Beckett. You’ve been working on a false premise for years. You have to go back to the beginning and rip that therapy apart. It was wrong, and until you get through that nothing’s going to be on a firm footing.” He forces her face up to look at him. “Everyone who’s got half a brain who’s seen the facts – me, O’Leary, Dr Burke even if he is a pompous arrogant jerk – can see that even if it wasn’t abuse because your dad never meant it it’s had the same result. You can’t have it both ways. Either it was like abuse when he was drunk or it was like abuse when he was sober. You just don’t want to believe it. Whether he meant to or not your dad hurt you, and trying to pretend he didn’t won’t help.”

He takes an infuriated breath, completely devoid of filter or control. “If you’d only tell your dad the truth about what he said then you might fix this. If you’re going to mess around trying to pretend it’s something different and hiding the truth you never will. It’s up to you, Beckett.”

She wrenches herself away from him, halfway across the room. “Mess around? Is that what you think this is? If I’d told my dad the truth he’d have gone straight back to the bottle and then he’d be dead. I lost my mom. I thought I’d lost my dad. Some days I wished I had. At least then it would all have been over. Instead he crawled out and I thought it was because he loved me. So how could I kill him? I might as well have put my Glock to his head and fired.”

“And that’s not what you’ve done now? You haven’t even told him why you won’t talk to him. How’s it going to make it any worse? If he isn’t head down in a bottle right now why’d you think he will be? He’ll already be thinking the worst. So you might as well tell him it because I can absolutely guarantee it won’t be any worse than what he’s thinking. Anyway, since he’s seen Dr Burke he’s probably already worked out that it’s all down to when he was drunk and since your dad isn’t dumb chances are he’s nearly got it anyway.”

“So what’re you saying? I’ve killed him anyway?”

“No. Listen, Beckett. He’s not drunk even though he thinks you’ve given up on him. He’s strong enough to take this.” Castle takes a breath and prays. “And it’s not your fault whatever he does. You can’t control him. You never could. Say what you have to say and move on.”

Her little bird is in her hands, twisting and twisting over it. Castle’s terrified that her restless hands will snap its fragile beak, or a leg: she keeps turning it until she realises what she’s doing and puts it down; only to pick up the little red stone and start again. She says nothing, just keeps turning and twisting and staring sightlessly at her hands.

Castle rises to cross the room to her, standing behind her and then wrapping her into his arms. “Just for a change, think about what you want.”

“I know what I want. I just don’t get what I want. Why bother asking? I can’t have it till I get over my dad.” She sounds hopeless, and defeated. “It would have been better if he’d never got dry and never come back. At least then I’d never have thought he cared.”

“What do you want?”

“I want you,” she whispers, after a long silence in which Castle has plenty of time to reflect that he shouldn’t have asked.

“Good,” he murmurs into her ear, “because I want you too.” His arms tighten around her. “We can talk about that in the Hamptons. But you need to tell your dad the truth. It’s the only way you’ll move on, Kate.” He stops. She’s cold in his grip: shivering. “I’ll be there. I’m on your side, whatever it is.” Her hand comes up to cover his, and it’s cold, too: the red stone hard against the back of his fingers. “You only have to decide if you’re ready. If it’s too soon, it’s okay. I’ll wait. Just so long as you tell me that you need time. It’s up to you. Yes, or no, Kate: ready to talk to him, or not yet.”

He stops. She’s still trembling: chilled and still and silent; her hand has dropped limply away.

“Only yes, or no. Nothing else.”

He holds on to her, and doesn’t say more. Simple choices, simple decisions, and no pressure. He’s said far more than he should have, far more than he meant to, and his only hope now is that he hasn’t pushed too hard. He’s surprised that she hasn’t told him to leave. Even short weeks ago, she’d have thrown him out for this overstepping, and yet here he is, still holding her as she thinks. Dr Burke had thought that there was a chance she’d explode at him, but it hasn’t happened. Perhaps that should be yet.

Here she is, letting him support her.

“I’ll try. Friday. But you have to promise that you’ll get me out if I ask you to.” It sounds childish, asking for a promise, but Castle isn’t at all sure that it is. What she is really asking of him is to be on her side whatever Dr Burke, or her father, try and persuade her to do, but that’s simple. He is, and he will be.

“Promise,” he says, with barely a pause, and she slumps into him, as if that’s all she needs to fall apart. He takes her back to the couch, and curls her into his side: not, now, on his lap. Nothing is said. Nothing happens. When he turns to her, her long lashes are down, and her body lax and dead weight against him. He ponders for a few moments, considering whether to leave or not. Finally he extricates his phone and calls home. His mother is there, and intending to be there all night. He exchanges a few words with Alexis, who is supportive, and swipes off. Beckett hasn’t so much as twitched.

First things first. He repositions himself so that he can lift her without crippling injury, and manages to stand and then pick her up to convey her to her bedroom. He lays her down gently, folds back the comforter, removes her sweatpants very carefully and tries not to swallow his tongue at the pretty, lacy panties beneath, and slips her beneath the covers. He takes off her top equally delicately and is only too glad that he hadn’t known she was braless under it. Finally, he covers her up and retreats silently. In all that, she hasn’t woken, or stirred.

Halfway across the room it occurs to him that he should close the drapes. When he turns, his gaze snags on Beckett’s white face, sleep taking the animation from it and leaving only dragging tiredness and a disturbingly pinched, sharp outline. He’s seen the waking emotion, but he has only occasionally stayed all night with her since her father’s ill-worded comments and so he hasn’t really seen the full toll she’s paying. This really cannot continue. While she may find rest and respite in the Hamptons with him this weekend, much more of this and she will snap. Friday is going to be excruciatingly, exquisitely painful – but this cannot continue.

It’s no consolation at all for Castle to realise that this is precisely the position that Dr Burke had observed. He doesn’t like Dr Burke one little bit, and he doesn’t like crediting him with considerable understanding and intelligence. Unfortunately, Dr Burke has both. Along with an ego a mile high and two miles wide, of course. When this is all done, he will wave goodbye to Dr Burke with intense relief.

He closes the drapes and exits the bedroom, finds a book and then returns. Suddenly, he wants to be close to Beckett, so that even in her heavy sleep she’ll somehow sense him there. He prepares for bed, very quietly, and angles the sidelight so that it falls away from her face. She still hasn’t moved when he slides under the comforter.

He’s been reading for some time, and is thinking about stopping to go to sleep, when Beckett makes an odd little noise and then turns towards him, her sleeping hand landing on his leg. Castle lays the book aside and decides that this is a good time to turn out the light and cuddle down. Almost as soon as he does, Beckett wriggles, still asleep, into him and brings her arm across him. Another small noise exits her mouth, and then resolves into words. You’re here. She wraps herself into him more closely and is again wholly lax.

Castle falls into sleep still wondering how often Beckett has turned over in her sleep looking for him, and not finding him there.   That he knows she understands the necessity doesn’t really help. No wonder that she’d said that he wouldn’t leave if she could only come to the loft. He embraces her, and slumbers.

Deep in the night, Beckett wakes, and is shocked into full wakefulness, rather than the half-waking that would take her to the bathroom and back, by the large, warm, comforting presence – snoring softly, till she elbows him and he turns over – of Castle in her bed. She attends to necessity, and returns to curl into him, an arm across his midriff and spooned into his broad back. He turns over, deeply asleep still, and pulls her in, emitting a rumble that resolves itself into my Kat, c’mere. Beckett falls back into comforted sleep, as close to Castle as she can manage.