186. Dining out

Castle betakes himself off to Beckett’s apartment and finds her sunk in contemplation, though not in unhappiness. He plonks down on the couch next to her, curls an arm around her shoulders and enjoys her automatic movement to snuggle into him.

“How’d it go?” he is now confident enough to ask.

Beckett turns to him, and creaks. “Ow,” she says. “Shouldn’t have spent so long on the mats.”

“Espo?” Castle asks.

“Yeah. Ow.”

“You okay?”

“Yes. Nothing too unusual, but he really didn’t like the theatre.” She smirks. “Worth it,” she says.

Castle isn’t quite so convinced, but if Beckett isn’t complaining he’s not going to start a fight. “So what about Burke?”

“We went back to compromises,” she says.

“Oh?” Castle dimples at her, which he knows to be irresistibly adorable. “I hope that means that you’re seeing my side of the story.”

“I guess,” Beckett says slowly. Castle dimples some more, and his eyes twinkle.

“See, I’m always right. You should listen to me and do what I tell you.”

“You what now? Do what you tell me? Is this 1950 and I didn’t notice?”

Castle sniggers nastily. “It would be an interesting change. You never do what I tell you.”

“You never tell me to do anything,” Beckett says, and adds quickly, “and if you did I’d only do it if it matched what I wanted to do.”

“Oh?” says Castle in a slow drawl. “So if I found something that you wanted to do I could tell you to do it and you would?”

Beckett looks full at him at the change in his tone. “You could try,” she says, huskily inviting. He smiles lazily, and the atmosphere around them alters. She nibbles her lip, and then self-soothes it with her tongue. He tightens the arm around her, still smiling that lazy, predatory smile.

“I want,” he drawls some more, “you to go to your bedroom, put on one of your pretty scraps of nightwear, and come back so we can play.”

Beckett raises an eyebrow. “And you think that’s something I might want to do?”

“I think there’s a pretty good chance.” His hand runs down her arm and turns her towards him. His gaze drops down over her chest and lingers there. The other hand collects her legs and drapes them over his thighs. “Because if you did that, I’d be able to do this,” and he strokes along the length of her legs, “or this,” and he pets down over her collarbone and southward to the soft curves. She wriggles and curves and sighs, and then he leans over and kisses her hard. “And that,” he says, after a moment.

“But you could do that anyway,” she says seductively and very provocatively, accompanying her words with a wicked flick of her fingers over some very sensitive areas.

“I could,” he replies, and leaves the unspoken but I won’t hanging in the air.

Beckett wiggles, and with an immense effort of will he doesn’t react. Somehow he eludes her next trick, too. She snuggles back into him. “I’m comfy here,” she says, unconvincingly, smirking.

“You’d still be comfy there. I’ll keep you warm.” Heat you up joins the words in the air.

“Will you?” she husks. “I’m nice and warm now.”

Castle flicks the buttons of her shirt open in six fast movements, tugs it off and throws it over the back of the chair before Beckett can react. “Really?” he smirks.

“What did you do that for? I was nice and warm!” She glares. Castle is entirely unaffected, mainly because the glare is completely failing to conceal the desire in her face and the heat in her eyes.

“I want my own way,” he says, sounding like a toddler and looking very adult and hotly male. “And you want it too.” He kisses her again.

“I suppose I could be persuaded…” Beckett suggests, and moves in a sinuous fashion without actually going anywhere.

Without further ado or indeed input from her, her pants disappear. They’re probably playing hide-and-seek with the shirt. Or maybe Sardines. She might be playing Sardines with Castle. She’s certainly close enough.

“Are you persuaded yet?” Castle growls, after another scorchingly assertive kiss and accompanying grasp.

“Might be,” she breathes, “but I’m stuck.”

Castle’s tight clasp releases, and Beckett slithers off his knee, making sure that she trails across him in an utterly obscene manner as she does. Disappointingly, he doesn’t just haul her back. How unfair. She sashays off, simply to ensure that he can’t take his eyes off her. If he’s going to play, she’s going to retaliate – shouldn’t that be reciprocate, she wonders, and then thinks that no, retaliation is definitely the order of the day. She can feel his gaze burning into her back. Well, her swaying ass. If he thinks he can have it all his assertive own way… well, okay, he can. In a little while. She’ll just have a little fun first, and then he can be as delightfully, satisfyingly assertive as he likes. As she likes. Tonight, she likes assertive. She’s liked a softer, more cosseting variety for a little time now, while she’s been so roughed up by Martha, but that’s solved and she doesn’t need to be cosseted tonight.

She riffles through her lingerie drawer. He’s seen the green set, but there’s a deep crimson baby-doll set that she’s pretty sure will leave him utterly brain-fried. She pulls it out, examines it, is satisfied, and puts it on. Then she finds her old, warm, and very unlovely robe, which she never, ever wears because it is too tatty even when she’s alone (she keeps meaning to throw it in the trash and somehow never quite does) and puts that over it. Then she walks – slinks – back out.

Castle doesn’t notice for an instant, seemingly lost in thoughts: her bare feet make no sound on her floor. When he does notice, he looks first disappointed and then, clearly realising that she’s messing with him, predatory.

“That doesn’t look like a pretty scrap,” he rasps, deep in his chest. “It looks like a picnic blanket.” Beckett smirks. Smirking stops abruptly when Castle stands up, takes two fast strides to where she is, and whips it off, very assertively indeed. “That’s better,” he purrs.

Then he actually absorbs what she’s barely wearing.

“That’s a lot better.” His voice has dropped half an octave into a fur-lined full baritone. It’s really quite disappointing that he can still articulate. “Told you you’d want to.” He runs his gaze up and down her form. “I certainly want you.”

“I can tell.”

“So come here, then.”

She smiles wickedly, and doesn’t move an inch. She expects precisely what occurs, which is Castle’s large, firm hands encircling her waist and smoothly, but inexorably, bringing her into him; one hand then moving up her spine, pressing her in as it goes; that same hand settling in her hair and holding her head for him to take her mouth with no hesitation or apology or indeed anything but boldly assertive possession. Perfect. She flows against him and curves bonelessly and soft, receptive Kat comes out to play. It’s so good to be held like this; to melt into a – no, Castle’s, only ever Castle’s – strong body; to feel safe and protected and cosseted and loved.   It’s so good to be able to kiss him as she wants to, whether that’s softly or deeply or possessively in her turn; to touch and tease him; to show him without words (for words are his business, not hers: she deals in deeds) how much he means and how much she loves him.

She pulls his head down as he shifts a little away and kisses him very hard indeed, locking her hands behind his neck and putting everything into it. Castle ignites, losing whatever control he’d thought he had and becoming harder, much more forceful and just a little rough. She surrenders to the sensation without a qualm, and gives back exactly as she wishes to: as lit up as he is. Her hands drop down to slide under his shirt and grip the broad muscles of his back; he tugs them both back to the couch and pulls her down on to him.

After that, there isn’t much talking. Shortly, there isn’t much clothing. And not long after that, there’s only silence in the living room, and the sounds are all coming from the bedroom, and then there’s only soft, slow murmurs and quiet breathing.

There is still nothing notable about Thursday, or indeed Friday. The team is getting antsy again, with nothing new to play with. Cold cases remain utterly boring and, though no-one would actually say it out loud with Montgomery on the prowl, a nice new Beckett-flavoured murder would be just the thing. But not at 4.30 p.m. on a Friday. Esposito waxes almost lyrical – for him, which in practice means ten words – on the subject of the weekend’s baseball; Ryan has apparently got a date and has a movie and dinner all planned out.

Beckett is trying not to think about the evening ahead because if she thinks about it she’ll freak out and never leave the bullpen. Castle isn’t even there. He’s gone home to cook. Beckett would settle for out-of-date luncheon meat and soggy salad with plain, cheap vanilla ice-cream for dessert, if only he were there in the bullpen right now to reassure her. He wouldn’t even have to know that he was doing so: his presence would be enough.

The clock hits five-thirty, and there is no more time for excuses or worrying or hoping for a murder or locking herself in the restroom and never, ever, ever emerging. She can do this. She really, really can do this. Everyone thinks she can. She thought she could. She stands up, puts her coat on, and leaves for Castle’s loft.

Castle had gone home not long after lunch to make his preparations: at least, those which he has not already made. One of them was a very careful discussion with his mother to establish that she will be at the theatre from six until eleven. Following that was a very careful discussion with Alexis to ensure that she is neither overly terrified of conversation nor overly questioning about difficult areas. Castle absolutely does not want a repeat of the last two meals, though progress has been made from both of them. Said discussion also involved a gentle suggestion that after dinner Alexis’s presence will not be required for long. Alexis had regarded him with pitying amusement and gently suggested that she didn’t want to be a third wheel, which, while Castle had reminded her that he was the parent here and that was rather too close to the line of what he’d allow her to say, was likely a pretty fair point.

He absolutely would want Beckett to stay, but that won’t happen. Not with his mother still here. In a week or so’s time, however… and maybe they can have a discussion about that after dinner tonight, once Alexis has departed for her own room. He hums happily and tunelessly to himself as he prepares the food and ensures that the table is set. The wine stands in the middle. It had taken him some time to track it down, mainly because he’d only heard the name and his mangled pronunciation of that had not assisted any of the liquor store staff in finding it. He is fairly certain that his tongue does not twist in the right fashion to pronounce that name. Unfortunately that thought leads him to consideration of how beautifully his tongue does twist around Beckett’s tongue, and other parts of Beckett, and how her tongue can twist in return, which really doesn’t help his concentration at all. He forces his errant mind back on track, promising it the pleasing prospect of Beckett later if it lets him stay focused now.

By the time Beckett arrives (and why don’t they use the keys they swapped? He never does, if she’s in; nor does she. How odd. Maybe it’s just one step too far when they’re not quite that casually connected yet.) everything is ready. Castle opens the door, and instantly recognises that same tight-strung Beckett that had appeared both at her father’s and in the pizza restaurant: the one who wants to take another step forward but is scared that the rope might sway and throw her balance off. She’s brought chocolates, which is always good. He draws her into a gentle hug, which gains him a soft kiss, after which her fingers stay locked into his.

“Hey,” she manages, being too busy examining the table and sniffing hopefully at the aromas emanating from the oven to talk extensively. “What’s for dinner?”

“It’s a surprise,” Castle says, twinkling at her in a ridiculously adorable way. “You’ll find out when I serve it up.”

“I know it’s from the recipe book I gave you.”

“We’ve been eating recipes from that book all week,” Alexis says from behind Beckett, who jumps, and drops Castle’s fingers as if they burned her. “Hi, Detective Beckett. It’s a really nice book. And Dad hasn’t tried to experiment once with it.”

Beckett tugs the trail of memory. Ah yes. S’morelettes. Ugh. “Good,” she replies to Alexis, who is very obviously not looking at Beckett’s hands but her face.

“Would you like a drink?” Castle asks. “I got the same wine you did to go with the food” –

“Kindzmarauli,” Beckett says smoothly.

“How do you even say that?”

“Practice,” she says smugly. “No, I’d rather drink it with the food. It’s not great on its own. May I have a soda, please?”

“Sure. Pumpkin, could you get Detective Beckett a soda, please?”

Alexis hunts down a soda in the well-stocked fridge, and produces a glass without being asked.

“Go and sit down, Beckett,” Castle says. “I don’t want you peeking – or worse, trying to help. This is my kitchen. I’ll be done in a minute.”

Alexis follows Beckett to the living area, but seems unusually short of conversation and her normal lively personality. Beckett tamps down her own nervousness and stress. She has to make some effort here.

“You said you were studying A Midsummer Night’s Dream?” she asks. It seems like a safe topic to start with. “We talked about the version your grandmother’s directing, but what’s the school telling you?”

“Nothing,” Alexis says bitterly. “Deconstructing the words, that’s all. Nothing about staging it or how it might be done or anything interesting. We don’t even read the whole thing, just key scenes.”

“But you’d read the whole thing,” Beckett says, drawing her out a little.

“Yeah, but Dad and Grams know it inside out and we could talk about it. You can talk about it. This teacher doesn’t want to go anywhere interesting.”

“He’s not going off-script?” Castle says from over her shoulder.

Both Beckett and Alexis groan, and exchange a put-upon look. Castle notices Beckett’s tension level drop.

“No. None. It’s so boring.”

“If it’s boring, let’s not talk about it. Dinner’s pretty much ready. Come and sit down.”

Everybody does. Much to Beckett’s amazement, Castle has produced Georgian food which, while not quite as good as hers, is very acceptable. It’s only taken him a week to try it out sufficiently to be really nice. It took her a good while longer.

Conversation has lapsed. The longer it’s discontinued, the less Beckett can think of a good – by which she means non-painful – subject. A Midsummer Night’s Dream has been exhausted, she has no intention of mentioning Martha, and there are no interesting cases. She racks her brains. Castle asks Alexis about school – but not her English class – which is at least unthreatening. However, she has nothing to contribute to that discussion. She looks around her, noticing once more the family aspects of the loft. Her hands clench in her lap, as Castle and Alexis continue to discuss the day at school. Her mother used to do that, and her father. Both of them, together, over dinner.

Her fingers bite into each other. She forcibly untangles them, and takes a mouthful of her food. Then she very deliberately listens to the conversation, and doesn’t block it out. It’s… not as hard as it might be. Castle’s parental input is a very different animal from her father’s.

But it is still not easy.

She eats quietly, and listens. Gradually, she realises that she is not becoming any more tense. The ghastly ratcheting up of her stress levels on the occasion when she and her father had been here is not occurring. Of course, any lowering is not happening either.

She manages to make a few sensible comments about organisation and the need for a good foundation now so that junior and senior year aren’t so stressful. That ice broken, she points out that there’s no need to worry about senior year when Alexis is only just finishing freshman year. Then she takes another mouthful of dinner and stops talking. She’s said quite enough. Alexis doesn’t look reassured.

Castle watches Beckett, listens to her lack of conversation-starters, and thanks his stars that she turned up at all. He’s unreasonably relieved when she joins the discussion, even for a short period. Alexis is still fretting, though. He’ll deal with that later.

“Detective Beckett, didn’t you do really well at high school? Mr Beckett said you did. What did you do in freshman year?”

Oh God no. Castle can see Beckett’s fingers twist. Her face, however, stays perfectly cool. There is a half beat pause, and then…

…a smile? He didn’t expect that smile, he expected a nasty pause as Beckett is forced back to memories of her pre-alcoholic father. He knows that smile. That is the patented Beckett I-am-going-to-make-you-squirm-Castle smile. Oh God. He has no idea what Beckett was like in high school. He only knows what happened next. He should have grilled Jim when he got the chance.

“In freshman year,” Beckett grins, “I had a lot of fun.” Castle’s heart sinks. “Sure, I worked hard.” It rises again. “But I had a lot more freedom – except I had to be home at a set time each weekday, if I went out after dinner – and I enjoyed it.” His abused heart falls out of the bottom of his feet. Beckett shouldn’t tell Alexis any of this. Alexis wouldn’t get ideas, of course not, but still… what if she did? “I went out with friends, to movies, the mall” – Castle suddenly notices that for all her mischievous expression and smooth, confident tone her hands are still knotted in her lap. Alexis hasn’t noticed a thing. “I had boyfriends.” Castle chokes on his eggplant. “Mom” – Castle hears the hitch, but Alexis remains totally oblivious – “used to kill them with kindness. Dad just wanted to kill them.”

Alexis snickers. Castle looks pained. He’s suffered quite enough of Jim’s boyfriend-killing tendencies.

“And then there was the tattoo.”

“Tattoo?”

“Tattoo?” Castle almost shrieks.

“You got a tattoo, Detective Beckett?” Alexis says, astonished. Castle detects a hint of admiration, and his already high panic levels rise to life-threatening levels.

“You are not getting a tattoo!” he says before his brain has anything to do with his mouth. Beckett exchanges a glance with Alexis, which, if he had only been less panicked, he would have applauded. There’s no pain, difficulty or stress in that glance from Beckett, only a considerable amount of wicked appreciation.

“Why not?” Alexis asks innocently. “Nobody would see it. You’d totally never know about it.”

Castle turns a suffused shade of purple, and doesn’t notice the wink that Alexis drops Beckett.