34. In the darkness

Castle is unsurprised to find that Beckett has dissolved into soft Kat, open to being kissed and petted and possibly more. He’s dropped one major bombshell idea on her, and that’s definitely enough.  Beckett is not fond of surprises.  If she’s fallen into being Kat, it’s because she’s finally relaxed and feels – well, safe with him.  For now.  So don’t spoil it, Rick. You know what to do – and what not to do.  And what to do is to kiss her firmly and deeply and to let her responses tell him where to take her after that.  It’s already late, and she’s already exhausted, and even if she needn’t go to work tomorrow he’s not an oafish boor. 

She makes a small, contented noise: not quite a purr, not merely a hum; and stays open to kisses and cosseting and petting without taking any action herself that would indicate a desire for anything more. She’s as cuddlesome as she’s ever been, and he is not inclined to refuse her the affection she so clearly wants – and more clearly needs.  Anyway, he’s missed this easeful closeness, the lack of any need to move further or to do more: he doesn’t need to be anything more than her lover; he doesn’t need to perform or show off or prove himself.  In fact, those are all tied up with the feeling of being second-best that had plagued him following the spectacularly good, but slick and meaningless, sex.  He’s always felt much happier after gentle making out and letting that take them where they will.

He concentrates on kissing her some more, deep and possessive, but not rough, not demanding, not overwhelming. Enough to show her how much she should be his, how much he wants her, how deeply he cares; enough to prove that this is – must be – more than physical.  She still fits.  Even now he knows her story – most of her story, maybe not all but enough – she fits in his arms and his mind and, he hopes, will fit into his life.  Eventually.  For now, he needs to be easy and take this easy.  There are enough difficulties already in their way without creating more.

Beckett is happy simply to be kissed. She’s run out of energy, and of the ability to maintain her barriers, so it’s just as well that it’s only Castle here: Castle who’s heard the worst already and hasn’t – yet – run.  She still can’t really believe that she’ll ever be enough, but for now this is enough.  She doesn’t need more.  Only rest, respite, and being moored in the haven of his protective embrace.  Worrying about everything else can wait till tomorrow, when she has the vast empty void of the dank February day, stretching greyly before her: the only break in the void being the unwelcome memory that she will have to see Lanie tomorrow night. 

Seeing Lanie is not appealing. Not seeing Lanie, however, is likely to be momentarily satisfying and then productive only of more trouble.  Lanie is already making far too many ill-tempered enquiries and Beckett has already given away far too much.  She shudders, despite her best efforts not to, and when Castle stops kissing her in consequence, buries her head in his shirt and shrinks back into herself.

“You okay?” he asks. Beckett can hear him not asking anything else, and even through her re-asserted bleakness, appreciates the effort.  Still, she doesn’t look up at him.

“Yeah,” she drags out. “Just… Lanie.”

Castle understands far more from that than he expects Beckett knows or would want. Lanie had been discomposed and somewhat annoyed on Monday, never mind that pointed exchange in the morgue yesterday.  Their lunch had not gone well and Beckett’s been skittish around her ever since.  Castle concludes from the accumulation of small clues that Beckett had said something on Monday lunchtime that either she hadn’t meant to, or that Lanie hadn’t liked, or that Beckett thinks Lanie hadn’t liked.  Which of those options, singly or in combination, it might be is anybody’s guess.

“Leave Lanie be. Come back here instead.”  Castle’s tone has dropped into a deeper register, a little more assertive, a little more seductive, a little more insistent that she should simply stop thinking and start relaxing into him.  It becomes apparent to Beckett that he would be perfectly prepared to help her stop thinking.  She curls back in and lets him take hold of her again, her head back on his shoulder and all her exhaustion breaking over her.  It’s been a long day, and even if it’s not late, she should be seeking her bed.  Alone.  Even if she’d like nothing more than simply to be held, cuddled and cosseted and close; breathing in the indefinably soothing scent of wide, warm male – well, no.  Of Castle – and falling asleep on the tendrils of his cologne winding through the air.

But that is not a good plan. It really is not a good plan.  It’s too much, when she’s so empty.  He could fill up not just her body but her mind and her soul: take over her life and personality.  She’s a flat grey canvas, where he’s in Technicolor 3-D.  It’s too tempting, and too easy, and she can’t.

She can’t even watch him with his family. She has a brief vision of how he is with his daughter, in the welcoming warmth of his loft, and still cannot face watching it for real.  Even now.  It’s too much like what she once had and doesn’t have and even if now that her father’s a touch more fatherly she can’t get past the last ten years just like that.

None of her thoughts show on her face. “I need to sleep,” she half-yawns.  Castle cuddles her in and does precisely nothing to help her with moving away from her nest in his lap.  Rather the reverse, in fact.  Moving means effort, and effort means that she’ll have to sit up straight, and unfold her legs, and stand up, and walk.  Even making the first movement involves pushing against the static resistance of Castle’s clasp.

Oh. Castle is moving.  Well, that saves her the trouble.  He rearranges himself to the edge of the couch, although strangely she’s still on his knee, and then stands her up as he himself does.  He manages this feat without ever letting go of her, and when they are both standing, he’s caught her against him in a smoothly powerful grip which is swiftly followed by a smoothly possessive kiss, both of which, she is sure, are designed to show her just how much strength he can apply at times when she wants – or is it needs? – it.  And she does want it (him), and she does need it (him) – but it’s still a very bad plan, though it’s difficult to remember why that should be so when his tongue is in her mouth and his hands are keeping her pulled into him and his hard body is pressing into hers.  Everything’s on offer, but she doesn’t have the emotional capital to purchase it.  Her self-view that she’s simply no longer capable of giving any emotions back is stopping her moving forward.  She’s been locked into her own frozen world for so long that she doesn’t know how to get out.  She doesn’t even know that she needs to find a way out.

She pulls away, diminished and slumped. “Stop.”  He does, immediately, loosens his grip and looks down at her, concern sliding through his eyes. 

“It’s okay, Beckett,” he says.

“It’s not okay. You shouldn’t be wasting your time here.  I can’t even face going to yours.  Can’t bear seeing your happy family.  It’ll never be enough.  I’ll never be enough.”  She steps away from him, white and drawn, pain in her eyes; forgetting her resolution to try. 

“You’re doing it again. Trying to make me run away.  I told you that you don’t need to worry about this.  You don’t need to worry about anything about this.  If I think you’re enough that’s up to me.  If you don’t want to do this, that’s different, but that’s not what you’re saying or doing.  I’m all grown up and I know what I want and what I’m doing.  And what I want is you.”  He takes the single long stride that’s all he needs to reach her again.  “Now come back here and stop being unhappy,” he says firmly, tucks her right back in and kisses her without a hint of doubt.  She yields under his certainty: cedes control and lets him take as he pleases.  She doesn’t want to fight it: wants to slip under the radar and be soft Kat who can stop supporting everyone, only for a little while.  Only for now, while he still thinks he wants her.  So she sinks into his kisses and curves into his body and lets her mind dissolve into sensation.

Castle wants to kiss Beckett or Kat right into her bed and then move on from kissing to considerably more intimate connections: trying to find her under the layers of icy unhappiness, trying to find her, find where she’s hiding from him.  He’s not sure she knows that she’s hiding at all: everything she says indicates that she thinks this shell is who she now is: poured out till she’s empty.

But life’s not like that: people don’t stay empty, they refill, restart. Love is endless, infinitely replenished.  It’s a river, not a pool, flowing continuously.  It’s only that Beckett pours out too much, too fast, and has nothing – so she thinks – poured back in.  Drawing too much from her aquifer, and not waiting for it to refill.  Not letting it refill, because she’s not letting herself absorb anything from anyone.  Love may be infinite, but if it’s only going one way the flow will fade to a trickle.

He wants to kiss her right into her bed and make love to her.  He’s going to do the right thing, the hard choice, kiss her the way he wants to but then step back and leave.  It wouldn’t be making love: he’s not sure it ever has been making love, and he is no longer going to be satisfied with anything less.  So tonight he is going to go home, and think, and tomorrow, not too early, he is going to come back round and they are going to talk through his plan to detach Beckett from Julia Berowitz by use of Jim Beckett.

Still, he kisses her smoothly, deep, sure and still wholly possessive as she’s painted over his body, all his confident stability and strength at her disposal. For all her trained muscles and honed fitness, she’s very soft right now.  Slow strokes slide over her back, firm mouth takes hers until he has to stop, because more will mean they won’t stop.

“Time for me to go,” he murmurs.

“Yeah,” she says. “See you Monday.”  She’s completely neutral: not asking for anything.  Clearly, she’s not expecting anything.  It’s all up to him and she isn’t going to ask.

“No. I’ll be by tomorrow, around eleven.”  She looks up, quickly, down again.  “We’re going to talk about Mrs Berowitz talking to your dad, a bit more, when we’ve both slept on it.  Make sure that it’s still a good idea in the morning.  And,” he smiles, “I wanna see you tomorrow.  Off duty.  See what my Beckett does in the daytime when she’s not detecting.” 

She’s gaping at him. He takes advantage of her befuddlement, kisses the tip of her nose and escapes before she realises that he’s completely contradicted her suggestion – and more importantly before she realises what he has just said.  That had just… slipped out. His Beckett?  Ooops.  Even if it had felt totally natural and amazingly good on his tongue.  He’s most of the way to the elevator before he hears what sounds like a muffled – that’ll be the door muffling it – squawk.  Best to be out of here.  He can’t outrun a bullet, unlike he can a squawk.

His loft is quiet and peaceful: comfortingly happy and cheerful even without the noise and bustle of his eclectic family, all bouncing around and off each other like affectionate pinballs. He pours himself a glass of wine and repairs to the couch to ponder his idea.  The more he ponders, the better he likes it.  Jim and his daughter may be completely uncomfortable around each other – and both hiding it – but Jim hadn’t hesitated to push him, Castle, very hard indeed and clearly isn’t nearly the clinging vine that his daughter thinks he might be.  Neither, too, is Beckett the strong-rooted oak her father believes her to be.   Hm.  This idea might have more advantages than simply showing Beckett that her father is stronger than she thinks.  It might just show Jim that Beckett is in trouble of her own.   He doesn’t think he’ll mention that, though.

Beckett doesn’t think at all. She puts herself to bed and is instantly asleep, exhaustion overtaking her.  She doesn’t wake, and if she dreams she doesn’t remember that either.

She wakes slowly, unwilling to leave her cocoon of bedclothes for the empty stretch of the day and the extremely unpleasant thought that one way or another she’ll have to put up with Lanie’s unspoken but obvious condemnation and intrusive questioning. Still, it’ll be the only time.  By the end of their evening Lanie’ll never come near her outside work again.  Lanie’s going to try to force her to talk about it, and she isn’t going to, and after about an hour Lanie’ll lose it, and she’ll go home, and that will be that.

She drifts in and out of sleep for a while, until she realises it’s after nine and remembers that Castle promised – or threatened – to arrive at eleven. She lurches out of bed and into the shower and then into jeans and a soft, warm green jumper of which she’s particularly fond.  Coffee helps.  Coffee always helps.   She texts Lanie a time and place – at least that way she’s in control of the timing and Lanie will not come barrelling round to force a fight here where the only option will be throwing her out bodily.  Not discreet, quiet or controlled, that.  Not at all.  She can get through this without being anything other than cool, calm and polite.  She forcibly puts it out of her mind.

When Castle shows up, she’s quietly reading and sipping a third cup of coffee; not thinking about anything else at all. The rap on her door is somehow happy and bouncy, very much like Castle used to be right up until Christmas, has been since a little after he’d met her father on her doorstep.  She opens the door with her normal sardonic personality firmly in place.

It doesn’t last past the first minute. Castle tidily closes the door behind him, hangs up his coat and scarf, and almost in the same movement grasps Beckett by the waist, tugs her inexorably towards him, and when she lands up where he wanted her runs his hand up into her hair, angles her head for easy access, and takes silky possession of her mouth before he’s even said hey.

“You taste of coffee,” he smiles. “I could get used to that.”

“Really?” she says cynically. “You can get coffee on every street corner.  Or if that’s not enough for you, you could move to Seattle, where it’s every second shop.”

“This is much nicer. Shop bought coffee doesn’t taste like this.”  He bends a little and takes her mouth again before she can complain further.  Far too late for her composure he stops.  “That’s much better.”  He strokes her hair down where he’s ruffled it up, and continues down to the soft green angora of her jumper.  “That’s nice, too.”  He grins happily.  “Very strokable.”

“I didn’t put it on just so you could compensate for not having a pet rabbit when you were a child.”

“Aw. You should have.”  He strokes over her shoulder and down her back.  “You’d be ample compensation.”

“I am not a pet.”

“No,” he says amiably. “Pets are small, soft and fluffy.  You’re tall.”

“And not soft or fluffy.”

“That too.” He carefully doesn’t point out that under his kisses and hands she can be very soft indeed, and that the jumper is the closest thing to fluffy that she could be wearing except for live angora rabbits.  Which would be silly.  They’d probably run away, and then she wouldn’t be wearing anything at all… This is not a good line of thought.  He pulls his errant mind back on to a track where it won’t get him committed or arrested, and where they won’t be ending up in bed in around…ooohhh… five minutes or so.

“Did you think about what I said?”

“Do you want coffee?” Beckett says, completely ignoring his words.

“Please.” He gives her that concession, but once they’ve sat down with the mugs, he begins again.  “I thought about it some more, and the more I thought the more I think your dad could really help Mrs Berowitz.”

“Why?” It’s her work tone, not quite interrogative, more the one she applies to any moderately recalcitrant witness.

“Well, she’s not listening to you, even though you’ve” – he hopes this isn’t about to go horribly wrong – “been where she is, so maybe she’ll listen to someone who’s been where her husband is and who’s come through it. See that it can be done – and how.”

Beckett stares into her coffee mug. It had seemed like a possible idea last night.  But in the cold light of morning, she wonders if this isn’t just shirking her duty to help: passing it off to someone else because she doesn’t want to carry on.  She’s already said no to Julia once, and it’s still squirming guiltily in her gut that she did.

“She’s not Dad’s problem,” she says. “It’s not fair to drag him into it.”

“She’s not your problem either,” Castle points out very bluntly.  “You shouldn’t be dragged into it either.”

“She needs me.”

“No, she needs help. It doesn’t have to be you who gives it to her.  You’re helping her try to find the right help, but that isn’t you.  She’s not listening to your experience so you’re not the right help.  Besides which, I think your dad might be happy to help you out.”

“He shouldn’t have to.”

“How d’you know he wouldn’t want to if you don’t even ask? He can always say no.”

“Yeah, right,” she says bitterly. “Because his history of saying no is so good.”

“That’s not fair. He’s said no for five years to his addiction.  If he can say no to that every hour of every day, he can certainly say no to this.”

Beckett subsides. Put like that, she is being unfair to her dad.  She winces.  She’s just let slip that she really doesn’t quite trust him, still, after five years’ sober and counting.  She hunches around her coffee cup.  After a moment, Castle’s arm arrives around her shoulders.  She retreats further into herself.

“So what do you think?”

She shrugs. Castle clearly has every intention of getting his own way again.  But it’s she who will have to pick up the pieces if it doesn’t work.  Though she’s the one who’s picking up the pieces of Julia Berowitz anyway. 

“I don’t know. It’s not Dad’s problem.”

“Let’s not do it, then.” Perversely, Castle’s caving in to her objections sends her down the path of thinking why not?

“But… you just said it was a good idea.”

“Yeah, but he’s your dad. If you don’t think he can handle it, you know him best.”

She stops on that. Does she really know what her father can handle?  He can handle those conferences, albeit he calls his sponsor and he calls her every time he needs to.  But he’s a thousand miles away, and calling isn’t the same as someone taking the glass away from him.  He has to do that himself, every time.  Maybe… maybe he’s stronger than she thinks.

“Let’s ask him,” she says, still uncertainty in her voice. “Tomorrow.  He’s at work today.”

“We could go ask him tonight.”

“Can’t. I’m busy.”

“Busy?” Castle is shocked.  He’d had plans for the rest of the day and the evening, and it hadn’t involved Beckett being busy.

“Lanie.” Beckett doesn’t sound precisely enthusiastic.  Castle remembers that she’d said to Lanie that she’d see her Friday, in the morgue.  He’d rather thought that it wasn’t going to happen, but it seems like it is.

“Oh. Well, let’s go do something fun.”

“Like what?”

“I’ll buy lunch and then we’ll work it out. C’mon.  I can hear a pizza calling to me.”