109. Picking up the pieces of my life

“A last hot chocolate, Beckett? Before we have to go?”

They’ve not spoken about anything more. Instead, they’ve watched the third Mission Impossible, oohed and ahhed at Ethan Hunt’s exploits, snuggled together and been close. Everything else has been parked. Peacefulness is more important, now: comfort that will carry her through the coming days.

“Yes, please.”

She follows Castle to the kitchen to see if she can discover how he makes it taste so good. She’s sure there’s a secret ingredient. She peers around him, and is tutted at.

“Naughty. Don’t peek. It won’t taste as good.”

“Is that why you keep your eyes shut?” Beckett says in a tone dripping with sex.

Castle chokes and nearly spills the boiling milk.

“Why, Beckett. How totally inappropriate.”

“Inappropriate?” she smirks. “Whenever you put food in your mouth at dinner last night you closed your eyes when you chewed.”

Castle chokes again. Beckett retains the smirk, and keeps trying to spot the magic addition. All her detecting skills don’t help her. Strangely, though, the chocolate mix is in an unmarked tin. This rouses her suspicions.

“I’ve got it!” she cries. “I can’t spot it because it’s already there. It’s in the chocolate.”

Castle smiles in an offensively superior fashion.

“You think?”

“Yep. It’s not ordinary chocolate.”

“Nothing I do is ordinary, Beckett. I’m extraordinary.”

“Extraordinarily something, that’s for sure.”

Castle humphs, and pouts. “You don’t deserve my extraordinary hot chocolate with cream and marshmallows, that’s my for sure.”

Beckett pouts in return. Castle catches her as she sneaks her hand towards the mugs and wraps her into him.

“Oh look,” he says with a complete lack of any surprise. “I’ve caught a thief.” He smiles slowly. “What on earth will I do with her?”

“You could give me my hot chocolate,” Beckett says, from inside his arms.

“I don’t think so. You were nasty to me.”

“You sound like you’re five. And I wasn’t nasty. I said something. I didn’t specify whether it was good or bad. You assumed. Jumped to conclusions. So you should give me my hot chocolate.”

“Or I could give you something else,” Castle says suavely, and then very unsuavely dabs cream on her nose and snickers. “Suits you, Beckett.”

Beckett swipes the cream off her nose and licks it very slowly and lasciviously from her finger. Castle is riveted to the sight of the tip of her pink tongue circling her fingertip, lapping gently.

“Mmmm. Tasty.”

Castle smiles very wolfishly. “I like cream too,” he says. “But I like this better,” and he dips his head slightly and kisses her in a way that brooks no argument or resistance. “Don’t you?”

“I suppose I could be persuaded.”

“Persuaded?” he murmurs. “Okay.”

He starts with tiny little kisses on her lips, followed by a soft nip on the full lower lip that she nibbles habitually, then draws that between his to soothe it. “Open up,” he growls gently. She does, and he takes full advantage, a possessory seduction that leads to total ownership. His hand slips from the small of her back to her ass; the other to knot into her hair and slant her head to give him easier, and then unfettered, access. She curves in and surrenders, sinking into him without a qualm, and the kisses heat up: move from lips to neck to lips again; shirts open and skin meets skin; and he moves a little so that he can turn her very slightly and palm and mould her through the soft cotton and show her that he’s here. She rolls her hips against him and pushes her breast into his hand and the kiss becomes only the first point of mutual insanity.

They don’t have time for this. They should be packing up, drinking a last hot chocolate, putting on shoes and coats. Not frantically sharing breath and tongues, ripping open clothes and letting them fall; not grasping and clasping and gripping or grinding and rolling; not hard strokes thrusting and wet heat opening and he taking and she giving and explosion. Not a mutual movement to the bedroom and the proof that neither can resist the other as they give and take all over again.

They don’t have time for this desperate, wordless lovemaking.

They don’t have time – but they do have need – for a shower; vital clean-up; but that, too, becomes a seduction; the sponge and shower gel smoothing across their bodies until they mutually beg – first words, in all this time they don’t have – make love to me again and this time it’s slow and sensual, the frantic desperation muted.

After, clean but not yet dressed, Beckett lies in Castle’s arms, curled into him, quiet and sated and peaceful. Her eyes and body are soft.

“You always know. Even when I don’t. How do you know?”

“I’m… outside. You’re too far in to see. Sometimes the onlooker understands far more of the game.”

“Cliché,” she ripostes, but gently.

“Doesn’t mean it can’t be right.”

“You feel outside?”

There’s a note of uncertainty that makes Castle hesitate and consider the wording of his reply more carefully than he might otherwise have. His arms stay round her, ready to lock if she tries to flee.

“Not an outsider” – he emphasises the last syllable – “but outside. You and your dad are all tied up emotionally. I’m not part of that. Just like O’Leary isn’t, or Ryan and Espo, or Lanie.” He takes a breath. “You and me are a different thing. Your dad’s not part of that.”

Beckett snickers, swiftly killed. She eases down against his chest again. “Okay. I get it.”

“We ought to pack up. It’s nearly eight.”

“Yeah…” Beckett does not sound enthusiastic. “I’d rather stay here. Never go back.”

“I…” Castle stops, before that thought can exit his head. I’d happily keep you here forever is one thing, granted Alexis would need to have decided to leave home first, but I thought you wanted to sort it all out with your dad is probably not helpful. Not while she’s curled into him and more-or-less at peace. He draws little patterns on her back: a mandala of affection. “We can come back here,” he says instead. “Often, if you want to. If it helps.”

“It helps. Thanks, Castle.”

Traffic is light: late March not being peak season for weekending in the Hamptons. Castle drives fairly sedately, hoping that the concealing darkness will encourage Beckett to say something more. His hopes for words are in vain, but not long into the journey she lays a hand on his knee, as if she’s drawing strength or hope from him. He has plenty of that to give. Her hand stays still, as she looks out the window, watching the road pass by.

“Will you be at the precinct tomorrow?” she asks, about halfway.

“Sure.”

Silence redescends. It lasts for another while.

“I’ll tell Dr Burke you’re coming to Tuesday’s session.”

“Okay.”

And that appears to be that. But her hand hasn’t left his leg since she put it there. It’s not pressing or teasing or doing anything interesting at all, but now that he thinks about it she hasn’t actually been out of contact with him for more than a moment or two since… since she stared out over the sea and then turned back to him and agreed to keep seeing Dr Burke. Detective Kate Beckett doesn’t cling. But soft Kat might, very pleasurably. However, this is neither Beckett nor Kat. Certainly it’s not a Katie.

That had hit Jim harder than almost anything else. Don’t call me Katie. I’m not Katie. My name is Kate. If Alexis were to say don’t call me pumpkin… that would be hard. What’s in a name? In this case, a whole lot of history. A whole family’s history, and all the memories that broke on Jim’s whiskey bottles; all the love bound up in their past that had – so it seems – dissolved in alcohol and death.

Castle thinks about that, and names, all the way home. He’d changed his, after all. Richard Rodgers had become Rick Castle. Scholarship geek with no real friends had become megastar celebrity playboy who’d been the toast of the town. And then he’d become Castle! with that peculiarly irritated, snarky tone that only Beckett could ever produce, and then after a few weeks of that he’d become Castle in a whole variety of tones from furious to orgasmic. She’s never used his first name, that he can remember, though he’s called her Beckett (mostly); Kate (when she’s really upset) and Kat (when she’s soft and pettable in his arms and bed).

Nothing has been said for an hour and more, as both Castle and Beckett are lost in their separate thoughts. Finally they pull up at Beckett’s, and Castle extracts himself and then Beckett’s bag from the Mercedes.

“Coffee, Castle?” she asks.

Castle flicks a quick glance at his watch. Relatively sedate or not, they’ve made good time, and he can easily afford a stay with Beckett.

“Yes, thanks.”

He stretches, and as he relaxes back manages to twine his arm around Beckett. She hadn’t been far away, though. More of this odd need for contact with him. He wonders if she’s actually aware that she’s doing it. Whether she is or isn’t, though, he certainly likes it. She needs so little: she’s so incredibly self-sufficient and so capable – most of the time – hard ass, hard-headed and tough; but now she needs support, and she needs him. She loves him, and she said so, too. Maybe that’s why she feels able to be so tactile. Maybe that’s who his underlying Kat-Kate-Beckett ought to be, wants to be: cuddlesome and pettable off-duty; soft and loving. He snugs her in more assertively, and they proceed to the elevator and Beckett’s apartment without losing the close contact.

He still hasn’t lost contact with her in any fashion when they’re sitting on Beckett’s couch with coffee. She’s – he thinks – a little sleepy, a little soft: it’s almost sweet. He plops a kiss on top of her head, since it’s there. After the hell of Friday, he’d expected her to be tense when they came back: forced back into her chestnut-spiky shell that protects her – protected her – from her history. If she is intending to try to force herself back into her shell, it’s not apparent right now. She murmurs contentedly and lays her head on his shoulder. The Hamptons may not have resolved everything, but it’s certainly cleared up one mystery: Beckett’s feelings. If he’d been asked if he’d take a clear statement of I love you on Thursday lunchtime – he’d have bitten the offeror’s arm off.

Beckett is tired. The weekend has helped enormously – well, Castle has helped enormously, though it wouldn’t have worked if he hadn’t taken her out of Manhattan – but it’s not really enough to bring her ravaged emotions under full control. She still feels very fragile: as if another shock will shatter her. She curls into Castle and murmurs formlessly. He’s her safety and her shield, right now.

“I’ve finished, Beckett. It’s time I went home.” His sleepy, lazy smile twines through his baritone and into her ears. “Time for a goodnight kiss.” She feels one large hand cup her chin, the other removes her cup to the table and then, on its return, catches her legs to swing them over his knee and follows up by shunting her into his lap. This has, without her active effort but with her active appreciation, brought her into the perfect alignment for kisses. His lips skate over hers, his tongue requests she let him in, his wide span spreads across her back and curls round her neck, the possessive grip leashed and restrained, for now.

“I don’t want you to go,” she manages, before his kiss takes all the words away.

“I don’t want to go either, but I need to. You know that. I’ll be there tomorrow.” He punctuates each sentence with a searching kiss.

“I know.” But her grip is painfully hard on his shoulders, and her breathing has a ragged edge. Castle doesn’t comment on either, simply kisses her again, and again, and again: forcefully assertive and making it clear in every thrust of his tongue and firm stroke of his hands over her back that he has her, and will keep her, and will relieve her of any need to slay dragons, right now. Dragon-slaying will wait till Tuesday.

“I’d like a nice new murder,” he says hopefully.

“Me too.” She pauses. “We shouldn’t wish for murder.”

“Keeps us both in work,” Castle says mordantly. “Maybe some lowlife who deserves it could be dead. That way you don’t need to be upset.”

“Mm,” she assents.

He stands up, perforce standing Beckett up too, and manoeuvres towards the door. She lets go, reluctantly.

“Night, Castle.”

“Till tomorrow, Beckett. I’ll be there.”

Monday morning early finds Beckett at her desk, which does not differ in any noticeable respect from the state in which she had left it on Thursday. The coffee mugs are beginning to grow cultures: a caffeine-fuelled Petri dish. She repatriates them to the break room, before she can catch some vile disease. She has no hope that the algae will have any useful properties, such as solving cold cases, or at least eating the paperwork.

“Yo, Beckett. You done skivin’ off with so-called flu?”

“Maybe you should eat healthy. Take vitamins. Do a bit of exercise.”

Beckett thinks fast. Montgomery must have made an excuse for her. She grins evilly.

“Give me a day or two, and I’ll ram those vitamins right down your Irish throat, Ryan. You want a sparring lesson?”

“No,” Ryan says very rapidly. Esposito sniggers.

“Your pal called me.”

“Huh?”

“O’Leary. Y’know? Big guy, knew you back when?”

“Oh?” Beckett is moderately suspicious, but hides it well. “What’d he want?”

“Sparrin’. He said you should watch. Learn something. Agreed on Thursday.” Beckett splutters furiously. Esposito unobtrusively studies her. He hadn’t been at all convinced by either Montgomery’s flat statements or O’Leary’s explanation for his call, and to his eye Beckett isn’t showing any signs of actual illness. He can’t see anything, in fact. Not being dumb, however, and having already had several weeks of strange goings-on and barely-there explanations from Castle, he is pretty sure that Beckett’s flu was imaginary, and that Castle’s outright terror when she hadn’t been there – that man can’t act worth a damn, and he hadn’t managed to hide it at all – had hidden much more than he and Ryan knew. O’Leary’s call had just been the frosting on the cake, really. Castle and O’Leary seem to know an awful lot about what’s going on. Question is, does he want to know? Or does he just want to treat Beckett like normal? On balance treating her like normal is safer. For him. That O’Leary is a bit too big for him to take chances. He’d been nearly as protective as Castle, when they’d been sorting out Lanie.

“I’ll bring the popcorn,” Ryan says happily. “Anyway, Beckett, you won’t be up to sparring for a day or two. How’s that wrist?”

“Fine,” she says automatically, and circles her hand to prove it. “Now, if you’re finished asking questions, don’t we have any new murders to solve?”

“Not yet. We’re next up, though. Don’t wanna wish anyone dead, but I’m fed up of cold cases an’ paperwork.”

“Still nothing?”

“Still nuthin’.”

“Ugh,” Beckett says, and starts to sort through the files on her desk. They are in no way improved from Thursday. Coffee does not help them. A slow hour, and then a slower second one, passes by. Espo and Ryan discuss basketball. Other detectives wander past. Montgomery occasionally peers out of his office. The phone does not ring.

By the time Castle turns up, Beckett is ready to chew the legs off her desk with boredom.

“Coffee service,” arrives happily over her shoulder, followed by her usual order.

Esposito, still unobtrusively studying, notes the change of Beckett’s expression, the speed with which she conceals it, and the way in which Castle starts to move a hand towards her and then stops, and draws some very accurate conclusions which he has no intention of letting past his lips. Not even to Ryan.

Not ten minutes later Beckett’s phone rings and they have finally got a new case. She only just doesn’t cheer.

“C’mon, boys. Body drop at a building site on Rivington. Let’s go. Castle, with me.”

When they get there, Lanie is directing CSU and poking gently at the body. It’s revoltingly suffused about the face, the reason for which is not entirely obvious.

“What’ve you got, Lanie?”

“Not sure yet, but I think he suffocated. Looks like carbon monoxide, but I’ll have to run tox. No obvious GSW, doesn’t look like he got bashed on the head. I’ll need to check for stabbings.”

“ID?”

“Driver’s licence in his pocket.” Lanie hands it over. “Riccardo Belvez.”

Beckett looks it over. “Okay. You work your magic and get me a cause of death. Ryan, Espo, you guys get talking to the men on the site. How’d they find him?”

“Dug him up,” Espo says bluntly.

“Ooohhh, grave-robbers!”

“I don’t think so. Unless Burke’s got a sideline,” Beckett snarks – but only to Castle’s ears.

He snorts. “That’s cruel, Beckett. But funny. We should find out if his best friend” –

“I bet he doesn’t have any friends,” Beckett bitches –

“is a Hare.”

“More like Hannibal Lecter.”

“Maybe you should give him a packet of fava beans as a farewell gift.”

“Rather give him a bullet,” Beckett snarks, with enough viciousness for Castle to cast her a glance. She looks a little shamefaced. “I don’t like him.”

“I’d never have guessed,” Castle says very dryly, and, unseen by the others, skims a hand over her back.

Back in the precinct, Beckett’s running the ID and finding that Belvez lives out in Brooklyn. He’s not married. He doesn’t appear to have any girlfriend. This is not helpful. A little further digging reveals that he only moved into Brooklyn two months ago. The landlord is relatively forthcoming, once Beckett tells him that if he doesn’t spill his guts (actually, she says talk to me in tones that imply that not talking would be a really big mistake, but Castle’s so happy to see her on a case and enjoying herself and normal again, that his authorial filters have defaulted to Dashiell Hammett) she’ll have him brought in by the two biggest cops she can find.

“So he moved here from New Mexico? Did he say why?”

“Dunno. Expect he needed a job,” the landlord grumps. “Paid me on time, though. Deposit, too.”

Beckett makes a note.   Check bank.

“Any visitors? Girlfriend? Boyfriend?”

“I don’t have none of that shit,” the landlord says angrily. “Ain’t having no boyfriends round here.”

Castle’s eyes widen.

“Okay. We’ll need in. I’ll be over in” – she checks her watch – “half an hour. I’ll need the spare key.”

“Okay.”

“Road trip?” Castle asks happily.

“Yep. Let’s go.”