129. Alone in the moonlight

Beckett had woken up cosily snuggled into Castle’s wide, warm chest, surrounded by the comforting size, scent and general aura of Castle-ness. Unfortunately, all of this does not stop her brain staying awake, rather than returning to the sleep which she would definitely have preferred. After a few moments of resolutely un-somnolent brain, she realises that she will shortly begin to toss and turn, which will be – even in this cruise-liner sized bed – disturbing to her companion. She delicately extracts herself from his grasp, and slips silently out of the sheets. There is enough ambient light sneaking through the window for her to consider first her kimono and, more helpfully, Castle’s enormous, fluffy, somewhat worn robe, which has the huge advantages over her kimono of being much warmer and smelling delightfully of Castle’s cologne.

She tiptoes out of the bedroom to avoid disturbing Castle’s gentle whiffling and sound sleep, pauses in the study, decides that she’d rather be further out of the way, and betakes herself to the main room and the couch. About that point, she also realises that she would like a glass of water and that – unexpectedly – she is peckish. She remembers how delicious the pork was, and also the amount of chocolate dessert remaining. Both are in the fridge, and it’s not difficult to find that in the kitchen, seeing as it’s the size of a house. If she’s really lucky, she’ll find some bread. Suddenly a sandwich seems like a really good idea.

With the assistance of a small side light, switched on in the main room, Beckett locates everything she wants with less noise than a ghost would make but – seeing as she is not ectoplasmic but corporeal – considerably more enjoyment and success. She settles down with her illicit midnight feast in a more pensive and less fretful mood than the one which had roused her from her – er, Castle’s – bed in the first place. Each bite is just as delicious as earlier. Cold slow roast pork is excellent, she decides, and munches slowly to extract every last morsel of deliciousness. When she’s finished savouring her sandwich, she starts to think back over how it had felt to come to the loft.

She had been very, very nervous about coming here. Absence of family in person or not, the loft is full of family atmosphere: photos, bits and pieces of decoration, and so forth. Albeit the toys in the study are Castle’s, it is, despite its location and value, a family home at heart, and she had not been at all sure, standing in the front doorway, that she could even manage to cope with that. But she’d taken the first step: to come inside. Only she knows how appallingly desperate her desire to turn round and run had been.

But she had overcome it. Fought herself and won. Though, standing a foot inside the front door and producing a stunningly accurate imitation of a statue, she’s not at all sure that she would have held on to the victory if Castle hadn’t – at just exactly the right time – pulled her in and kissed her in that particularly masculine, assertive, I’ve-got-this-and-you-too fashion which lets her know that it’s fine to stand down, that there’s respite and surcease, that someone has her back.

But then she’d been almost equally statue-like not ten minutes later when asked to put bread on the table, as if it were commonplace, normal, usual. As if it were something that she did, or would do, or could do, every day. The assumptions contained within it were amazing: broadly, you’re here, so you can be treated like one of the family; I don’t need to stand on ceremony, Beckett, and do everything myself as if you were a first time guest. Even if he wouldn’t let her help tidy up.

She’d nearly spooked again at the prospect of staying. And that was just plain dumb, because Castle’s stayed with her plenty of times, and – well, she likes sharing a bed with him, not just for the obvious reason. It’s comforting, and makes her happy. And again, he’d brought her safely past the wrecking rocks, by going back to the simple question that had reminded her why she was doing this. She did want to be able to stay. That, after all, was the whole point of all of this. Then he’d simply held her till she stepped forward, and only then swooshed her up into his arms (which he really does far too often but it’s just so good when he does) and carried her to bed. It could only have been better if they hadn’t both been so tired that anything – er – enthusiastic was entirely out of the question.

She stops at that. Castle, who normally appears to be as capable of managing without sleep as she is, and who has never obviously been tired even when she’s been exhausted, had been tired. Hmm. It looks like all this mess is taking a toll on him too. All the more reason to sort it out. But she managed to come here, and stay here, and she hasn’t yet had to leave because she can’t cope. Though she’d never have managed it if Martha or Alexis were here. Even the thought makes her stressed and shiver. She concentrates firmly on the small victory and buries her nose in the soft robe to remember exactly why she’s doing this, one tiny, tiny step at a time.

And one more consideration, apparently small but in fact saying much more than it did: which side? Usual one. They each have a usual side. They’ve been together enough to have usual sides. This is really getting quite serious.

Good.   She wants it to be serious. Very serious.

Her thoughts wander from the sleeping man two full rooms away, back to the problem of her own father. That requires fuel, and comforting fuel at that. She goes to investigate a substantial slice of chocolate dessert and an equally substantial covering of cream. Since there is a second and indeed third canister of cream in the fridge, she doesn’t feel in the slightest scrap guilty about it. (She never feels guilty about eating chocolate dessert, and anyway there is plenty left for tomorrow. It would have fed a dozen, not just two, with some left over. Eating some more of it is positively her public duty.)

When she’s finished with the chocolate dessert, which is even better for being part of a midnight feast, she begins to think about the session with Dr Burke. Specifically, she thinks about her father. Food, some sleep, and managing to overcome her demons long enough to come to the loft and stay there, even when she wanted to run, has put her in a rather better place to consider what had actually occurred there.

She thinks it over for a while, consciously trying to assess her father as she would a neutral witness. She wasn’t a neutral witness: but she’d not lost her temper – lost control of her tear ducts, but not of her temper – and she’d got the core of the problem out between them. Her father had been so passionately desperate to say that he didn’t blame her, that he’d abandoned her first…

If he’d been a witness, would she have believed him? She tries, very hard, to take her emotions out the equation, and doesn’t exactly succeed. She can’t quite see past her own hurt, guilt and pain – and can’t quite manage to believe her father’s absolution of her – to analyse properly, calmly.

She sits for long enough to stop her emotions spilling over, and then quietly creeps back into bed, to curl close to Castle’s frame and hold him to her, or her to him, and fall back to sleep.

In the morning, she is not wakeful at all. In fact, she is so sleepy that she emits an offended growl when Castle untucks himself from her, then firmly re-closes her eyes, snuggles deeply into the pillows, not incidentally covering her ears, and pulls the comforter up to her eyebrows. Seconds later she’s breathing deeply and sound asleep again.

Castle, in need of both his bathroom and some coffee, avails himself of both and then looks with first confusion and then amusement at the minimal but still telling detritus of a solo midnight feast. He investigates the fridge and finds that a substantial chunk of chocolate dessert has clearly disappeared into the Beckett maw. He’ll tease her about that, but for now he’s merely happy that she was comfortable enough in his home to go seeking late night snacks and that she’s eating enough, even if it is at odd times.

He tidies the plates and glass into the dishwasher from where they’d been left in the sink, meditatively sips at his coffee and concludes that Beckett had done some food-fuelled thinking in the small hours of the night. That’s probably good, at least so he assumes because she’s still here, and explains why she’s still asleep. He wanders back into his study, collects his laptop, and puts himself back into bed, propped up on a pile of pillows, and starts to write. Of course, he also casts regular glances at Beckett, procrastinates, glances at Beckett, looks at all his favourite websites, glances at Beckett, wonders if Beckett would notice if he peeled back the comforter to be able to glance at Beckett and confirm in daylight what he is sure is her emerald babydoll nightwear, contemplates a simile, pulls his fingers off the edge of the comforter, glances at Beckett, and eventually gives up and simply stares at sleeping Beckett.

Finally she wakes up, about an hour later: stretches and yawns and emits a murmurous little noise that has no words. Castle instantly slides down (the laptop having been put aside long ago) to catch her in, kick the comforter away from her, and finally finally finally get to see properly (not just a peek) what she’s chosen to wear.

It is indeed the beautiful emerald green babydoll, covering a beautiful, just-woken Kate Beckett, who stretches again and slinks against him.

“Hey,” she purrs into his neck.

“Good morning,” he says happily. “C’mere.” He pulls her over him. She wiggles sensuously.

“You’re pleased to see me,” she says unnecessarily, and wiggles again.

Castle smiles lazily, and pets her hair in such a way that her head comes down and her lips meet his. He takes immediate advantage, surging into her mouth: taking and owning it, and she sighs contentedly and concedes. She lies soft over him, breasts pressed into his chest, the thin silk the only thing between them. He rucks it up over her back, and glides his hand over smooth skin and then down over soft silk, teasing delicately by moving the fabric without touching anything else, because that makes Beckett squirm and wriggle and flex against him, which he could stand more or less several lifetimes of her doing. Of course, when she wriggles like that – oh god do it again – it makes him push up into her and clutch her tighter and – oh god more – she really does not need those teeny weeny briefs which are just in the way so they go in one swift movement and – yes mine now – he rolls them and takes her and it’s all her, fitting around him as if some bountiful God had made her specially, all her and here and his and Kate!

He rolls on to his back, taking a lax, purringly contented Kat with him, and blurrily thinks that they could simply stay here all day, with occasional forays as far as the shower and kitchen. She’s finally here, again; for the first time in his bed not hers. Okay, that’s only happened because his family aren’t here, but she hasn’t passed his door willingly – oh. Probably ever before. He’s no longer sure – scrap that, he is dead certain – that any of the previous times were because she wanted to be here. This time, he’s dead certain that she did, and while he’s also pretty certain that she had several wobbles about it, she got past them. She’s here, this time, because she wants to be here. He cuddles her close, and a last tiny little piece of unrealised worry dissolves. She really meant it. She really meant all of it.

“I love you,” he whispers, and all his heart is in the words.

“Me too,” she murmurs into his collarbone, and very possessively, “mine.”

They don’t make it out of bed for some time, after that, and when they do it only takes them as far as Castle’s gigantic shower, in which they spend long enough to resemble a pair of prunes. Washing is not the only activity in which they participate. First Castle washes Beckett’s hair – though to be fair since she was already kneeling and his hands had found their way into her hair it was a natural progression – and then she returns the favour, though in that case she’d been lifted up which allowed her to reach, and the rise and fall had resulted in a very satisfying head massage for Castle and a very satisfying – er – outcome for both of them shortly thereafter.

By the time they’re dressed, it’s practically lunchtime.

“I’m hungry,” Castle smirks, “after all that exercise.”

“Exercise is good for you,” Beckett points out, sanctimoniously.

“As is eating.” His eyebrows waggle at her, and he licks his lips. The food in the fridge is not obviously the first thought that eating has brought to Castle’s mind. Beckett wanders over to the fridge and investigates.

Castle watches her affectionately, and fails to remark on her complete comfort in his loft as of this morning. That would be a considerable error. He prowls up behind her, snugs his arms around her waist from behind, and peers over her shoulder at the contents.

“Still some left,” he says, “despite your midnight ravages.”

“I do not ravage,” Beckett says awfully. “I was merely a touch peckish.” She’s put on the cut-glass tones of a grand society dame.

Castle grins. “A touch? Sure, there’s plenty of meat left, but I’m sure there was a lot more dessert than that last night.”

Beckett blushes beautifully, but attempts to carry it off in style. “You wanted me to make myself at home, didn’t you?”

And then she realises exactly what she’s just said, scarlet sweeps across her face, she turns away – and Castle flips her round and kisses her hard and picks her up and carries her to the couch, without stopping his conquering of her mouth, and sits with her on his lap.

“Yep,” he growls deeply, “and you have no idea how happy I am that you did.”

“Oh, I think I might,” Beckett purrs, and wriggles against his very evident happiness.

“I wanted you to feel at home here, just as much as I feel comfortable in your apartment.”

“You raid my fridge, Castle? I thought it was a mouse stealing all my takeout. Maybe I should take my key back,” Beckett says mischievously, and has her hair tenderly tugged to bring her face up for a sound kissing in revenge.

“You will not,” Castle says forcefully. “I wouldn’t give you it back if you held me at gunpoint.”

“Could be arranged,” Beckett says even more naughtily, and is soundly and extensively kissed again. She could keep playing this game all day, if Castle will. She can cope with kisses, and the more kisses she gets the more she can cope with his loft.

“Lunch?” she asks hopefully.

“But you had breakfast. You might have had it at three a.m., but you had breakfast.”

“How did you know I was up at three?”

“Woke up,” Castle says laconically. Beckett stares at him.

“You woke up? And you didn’t come out to see where I was?”

“No. You weren’t leaving, so if you wanted to think” – Beckett squirms uncomfortably, which leaves Castle uncomfortable in a rather different way – “I wasn’t going to disturb you. Anyway, you came back to bed and snuggled in and your face wasn’t damp, so you weren’t mad or too upset.”

“You were still awake?”

“Ummm… only just.”

“I want lunch, please.”

Beckett changes the subject. She would rather like some food before Castle asks the obvious questions. Apart from anything else, she really is hungry.

“Okay. Cold pork, salad, bread.”

“And chocolate dessert.”

Castle grins evilly. “You already had yours.”

Beckett glares. “Try and stop me.”

Castle recognises both the futility of trying and the inevitability of pain if he does try. “Okay, okay. You can have as much dessert as you want.”

Beckett slithers off his knee, leaving Castle to take a moment to be able to stand comfortably, and aims arrow-straight for the fridge. By the time Castle’s joined her, the meat, the butter, and the chocolate dessert are all on the counter, she’s rootling out the bread, and the only things that are missing are the salad, which Castle produces from a different drawer of the fridge, and the canister of cream. Knives, plates, and condiments appear rapidly, and shortly thereafter both of them are digging in.

Lunch proceeds through the chocolate dessert, during which Castle asks not one question about why Beckett had been up thinking in the middle of the night, and Beckett emits not one word about it.

Once they’ve tidied up, got coffee and put themselves on the couch, Beckett looks around, slowly. She deliberately reviews the photos on the piano, and on the shelves dividing this room from Castle’s study. She takes in everything, forcing herself to notice the family nature of the room, to accept it. It doesn’t entirely work.   On the other hand, although Castle’s arms are close around her, they haven’t tightened: he isn’t encouraging her head down on to his shoulder, or pulling her into his lap. She concludes that the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach is not apparent, and further concludes that her reactions are therefore far less severe than previously. It wasn’t as if she was trying to conceal them. This is hopeful. Hardly the final outcome, but hopeful. The thought of Alexis or Martha or both walking in right now, however, causes her to shudder – and it’s not that she’s snuggled up to Castle, either. It’s just the thought of the whole family atmosphere.

Still, she hangs on to the main points: she got here, she’s stayed here, and she isn’t running screaming right now even though she’s looking at the family photos.