187. Coffee in bed

Beckett, while originally terrified by where Alexis might take the conversation about high school – the record so far had not been encouraging – had locked down her own issues and suddenly realised that she could have some gentle fun with Castle, who is totally overprotective about almost everything and particularly his daughter. If she’s teasing him, she can, perhaps, find a level of ease with Alexis which has been notably lacking ever since she met her: not that the reverse is true.   So, remembering his recent horror at the idea of Alexis getting a tattoo, she drops that into conversation.

The reaction is everything she could have wanted. Alexis picks up the cue instantly, and while Beckett doesn’t believe that Alexis has any desire at all to have a tattoo – in fact, she doesn’t even seem to have pierced ears – she does believe that Alexis will take the opportunity to wind up her father. Just like she, Beckett, would have done at that stage, and did. But she needn’t be upset by it. She and her father are at a much better place now, and she needn’t be upset, so she really should untwist her fingers before they twist themselves off. But she can’t.

Until Alexis winks at her, grinning mischievously, and she looks at Castle, who appears to be about to expire of horror and/or failing to breathe, whichever works first, and she realises that this is completely unlike her father’s behaviour at the same stage. Her father would have calmly resorted to his attorney’s techniques to question her, analyse her reasoning, and (about half the time) negotiate her round to what he wanted. (The other half she would get what she wanted.) Castle has gone straight to histrionic horror, which is entirely consistent with his very loud family, theatrical background, and his celebrity-showbiz life in general. It’s really quite sweet to watch, though she does wonder how long it will take him to catch on, and whether it will be before she collapses with laughter.

“What’s your problem with tattoos?” she asks.

“Nothing. As long as they’re not on my daughter.”

“But Dad, you wouldn’t see it.”

“What? No way. You are not getting any tattoos and you’re certainly not getting tattoos in private places.”

He suddenly realises that Beckett is now unsuccessfully suppressing laughter, and his definitely-not-darling daughter has dissolved in giggles.

“I totally pranked you,” Alexis manages. “You don’t really think I want a tattoo, do you?”

Castle growls fearsomely, which has no apparent effect on his errant daughter. Beckett is snickering happily in her chair. Castle doesn’t notice, but her fingers are less knotted.

“You… you…” He turns to Beckett. “And you… you… you subversive! You traitor!”

“Traitor? Subversive? I didn’t do anything except answer Alexis’s question.”

“You’re undermining my parental authority,” Castle wails. “You’re supposed to be on my side. You’re a cop.”

“What’s that got to do with it?”

“We’re the adults here. You’re not supposed to admit to getting tattoos at fifteen.” Something suddenly occurs to him, and his jaw drops. “Hang on a minute,” he blurts. “You don’t have a tattoo.”

“Ewww, Dad! TMI! Totally not appropriate!”

Beckett gives Castle a deadly glare. He cringes, but still mouths but you don’t have a tattoo.

“It was a temporary tattoo, wasn’t it? You had a temporary one to annoy your parents. That’s cheating! And you lied to Alexis about it.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“She didn’t,” Beckett and Alexis say in unison.

“I assumed it was real,” Alexis carries on. “Detective Beckett didn’t specify.”

Castle gibbers incoherently. Beckett takes a delicate sip of wine, and continues to eat her dinner with considerable enjoyment. This is nothing like her parents used to be. She can deal with this. She really, really can.

Eventually Alexis stops teasing her father, dinner is completed, and despite Beckett’s offers of help she is not allowed to assist in the clean-up operation. She is, instead, banished to the couch with her wine.

“Night, Detective Beckett,” draws her out of her reverie.

“Good night, Alexis.”

“I’m really glad you came. Will you bring your dad sometime?”

“If your dad invites him, yes,” Beckett says, without really thinking about it until after she’s spoken, by which time it’s rather too late to retract it.

“Awesome!” Alexis turns round.   “Dad, Dad, Detective Beckett says she’ll bring her dad if you invite him.”

Castle whips round, an expression of considerable amazement on his face. It would be nicer, Beckett thinks, if it weren’t cut with considerable worry. She realises her fingers are knotted together again, and more to the point, that Castle has noticed it.

“We’ll work that out, pumpkin,” he says smoothly. “Now, don’t you still have homework?”

“Yes. Night, Dad.”

“Till tomorrow.”

Alexis scampers up the stairs. Castle puts the last plate in the dishwasher, and wanders innocently towards Beckett, who is still planted on the couch, wondering what on earth she has just said.

“Coffee? We can have it in my study.”

“Okay.”

“Good. We can share the one you got me.”

Beckett grumbles and grouses and grumps. Castle ignores every darkling mutter with amiable aplomb.

“I said we’d share it when you came here. You’re here. Therefore we are sharing it. Stop fussing. It’s my coffee and I’ll share if I want to.”

Once they’re settled in Castle’s office, it doesn’t take long before he starts on the complaints about the tattoo, which is definitely better than a discussion of her nervousness or a possible visit with her father.

“That was so unkind, Beckett. Ganging up on me with Alexis. You’re not allowed to do that. You’re supposed to be on my team.” He looks more closely at her from his perch on the edge of the desk, noting her still tight fingers and furrowed brow. “Are you okay?” Beckett supposes she couldn’t have expected Castle not to notice.

“Yeah. It’s good.”

“Mmm?”

“It wouldn’t have been like that at home.”

“No?”

“Dad would have tried to argue me out of it – negotiate, as if it was a contract. Mom would have told me to examine the reasons why I wanted a tattoo and whether they’d still be valid in a week, or a month, or longer. Much quieter. You went straight to horrified outrage.” She snickers, but it’s a little forced. “It was fun to watch.” Her fingers lock together. “It was okay.” There’s a pause. “It’s been okay.”

“Really?” Castle asks softly, and sits on the arm of her chair, playing with a wisp of her hair. While Beckett’s thinking and talking about her past, before it all went wrong, and not upset, he doesn’t want to say anything much that might cause her to stop.

“The way you react is just so different from Dad. It… helps me to separate them.” She breathes slowly. Now that dinner’s over, it seems that the implications are piling up on her. “It’s not like it was for me. So it’s not so bad.” She relapses into silence.

“You did it,” Castle points out. “You came for dinner with Alexis and me and it went fine. And you even agreed that your dad should come next time. When you’re ready.”

Beckett doesn’t react for an instant. Then his words hit her brain not simply her ears. “It did.” she says. “It really did.” Suddenly she smiles. “I did it.” She turns round, hauls his head down and kisses him firmly. “I did it – awwk!” Castle has fallen on top of her. Pulling him down to be kissed has unbalanced him to such an extent that she is now painfully squashed. He rearranges himself to be perched back on the chair arm. Beckett stands up to shake herself out and check that she remains in one piece. She is not entirely convinced of that.

When she sits down again she finds that instead of sitting on a cushion she is sitting on Castle, who has sneakily inserted himself into her chair.

“There,” he says smugly. “That’s better.”

“Mm?” Beckett hums questioningly, making herself comfortable.   This involves moving Castle’s arms out of the way, snuggling in, and then replacing them around her, while tucking her head on to his shoulder. He doesn’t seem to be objecting.

“Yep. Now I’ve got you.” His arms lock around her. “You’re not going anywhere now.”

“No?” she murmurs, her eyes sleepy and body languorous. “I’m trained in self-defence.”

“Mm?” Castle rumbles. “What are you going to defend yourself from? This?” and he tips her chin up and round to be in the perfect position for kissing, but doesn’t kiss her. “Or this?” and he untucks her shirt, and tickles fingers around her waist, sending little shivers up and down her skin. “Or this?” Her pants fall open, and are tugged away without resistance. “You’re not going to defend yourself at all, are you?” He leans in, slow and intent, and kisses her: a soft touch of lips, a delicate probe along the seam of her mouth, a gentle, insinuating exploration; until she opens and responds and surrenders with no defences raised at all.

His mouth becomes more demanding, hard and possessive; his hands explore and take and command her response; she turns to him and gives it all back as his fingers slip down, undoing her button-down, trickling heat before them and kindling the blaze behind; gliding further and then lighting the fuse that triggers the explosion.

Afterwards, he keeps her clasped tight against him: simply enjoying having her here: in his arms in his office in his loft; kissing the top of her head softly, as she is soft in his lap, her own arms embracing him and her mouth gentle on his skin. Gradually he realises that she’s whispering into his neck: the words inaudible, the tone, however, unmistakable. Love you.

It’s too late, too close to his mother coming home, to pick her up and tuck her into his bed; too early to take that step; too soon for his mother to be gone to her own home. If only this were a few days later.

But she came here: coped with dinner with his daughter here in their family home; another step on from coping with dinner in her father’s home; and she didn’t run, didn’t hide; there were no gut-wrenching moments of vicious tension or crippling misery. Granted, it’s not yet easy for her; but yet it’s not nearly as hard.

She snuggles in a little more deeply, holds him a little more closely; but then straightens up and starts to pull away.

“I have to go home,” she says: a little rueful, a little resentful.

“That’s usually my line,” Castle says, likewise rueful. “I don’t like it any better when you say it,” which is likewise resentful.

“Nor do I.” She snuggles closer again. “I want to stay here.” Her face twists. “But I can’t deal with your mother.”

“I get it. Anyway, you did the main thing. You came here, and had dinner with Alexis and me, and you still haven’t run away screaming or shot me. That’s a definite win. Never mind my mother.”

“Yeah.” She nestles some more. “I did it.” Her smile lights up the room.

“You sure did.” He smiles back at her. “My Kat. Knew you’d make it.” He pets down her back, and she curves into the touch, in a very feline fashion.

“Next time… maybe I can stay?”

“Yeah,” he says, without spoiling it with an ill-timed joke or flip remark. “Next time, you should stay.”

Stay always.

She slides off his knee, retrieves pants and buttons her shirt again; buttons his for him with a wicked little wander of her fingers; slips her feet into her heels and runs fingers through her hair to tidy it. Castle stands up to escort her to the door, where he’s rather hoping to sneak a few extra kisses.

Extra kisses are indeed snuck. By Beckett, who basely and unfairly gets in first and reduces him to a quivering mess with a few carefully concealed hand movements and an extremely possessive ravaging of his mouth. He would have ravaged right back, and made a few gestures of his own, but it’s rapidly approaching the witching hour of his mother’s potential return (not at all an accidental phrase) and he isn’t prepared to risk everything they’ve won over the last couple of weeks for one more kiss, no matter how desirable. He lets go of her, opens the door, and watches her step through.

“Till tomorrow, Beckett.”

She looks startled. “Huh? Not at the precinct tomorrow. It’s Saturday.”

“I know. I’ll call you.”

“Okay,” she says happily. “See you tomorrow.”

Beckett gone, Castle wanders back to his study, collecting a coffee along the way, and contemplates the evening with considerable satisfaction, which merges seamlessly into considerable inspiration, which in turn produces a considerable quantity of excellent writing.

Beckett picks up a cab, having looked very carefully around to ensure that there is absolutely no chance of bumping into Martha, and goes home on a thick layer of relief. She got through, and having done it once, it will never be as difficult ever again.

She falls asleep as easily as a happy child.

“I’ve arranged the moving-in date and the movers,” Castle says over breakfast, of which his mother appears to be partaking from the wrong end of the day. “They’ll be here next Saturday, and you get the keys the same day.”

“Yes, darling,” Martha says abstractedly. “I’m sure you’ll take care of it all.”

“No, Mother. You have to pack. Or at least, you have to tell the movers what to pack. The piano will wait for the specialists, on Monday.”

“But Richard, I have a matinee performance on Saturday. I can’t possibly miss that.”

“You don’t have to. I knew you wouldn’t, so they’re arriving at eight. As long as you tell them what to do, they’ll be finished with you by eleven, and Alexis and I will make sure that everything’s done the way you want it. They’ll deliver to your new apartment, and then come back on Sunday afternoon when the theatre’s dark so you can tell them where to put everything.”

“Well,” Martha says. “You certainly seem to have it all in hand.” She doesn’t sound entirely approving.

“You still need to decide some things, Mother.”

“What? You’ve done it all.” That is definitely not approving.

“I thought you wanted a housewarming party,” Castle says mischievously, twinkling at his mother. “I have a list of planners for you. Don’t you want to look at them?”

“Oh!” Martha says, much more enthusiastically. “Well, now you’re talking, kiddo. Where’s this list?”

She bustles after Castle, who congratulates himself on distracting her from the about-to-be difficult subject of moving her out. The actual packing might get a little – er – emotional. Not to mention appallingly histrionic.

“Here you are, Mother. Three of the best party planners in Manhattan. Just choose one, after you’ve had a discussion with each of them.” She starts to speak. He holds up a finger. “There are a couple of ground rules. No more than fifty people on your list. Plus Alexis and me.” He smiles. “And I get to invite up to ten of my own.”

“Ten?”

“Yes, ten.”

“There’s room for sixty people in my new apartment?”

“It might be a tiny bit crowded, I guess. But you always told me that a party wasn’t a party unless it was too crowded to reach the bar.”

“That, kiddo, was to stop you sneaking Scotch when you were six.”

“Oh,” Castle says, deflated. “So you don’t want a big party, then?”

“Wash your mouth out,” his mother snips. “Of course I do.”

“Discuss numbers with the planner. But I get up to ten invites. Okay?”

“As you like it.”

“Is that your next production?”

His mother produces a tinkling laugh. “No, darling. Not until this one closes.”

“May that day be long delayed.”

“I’ll certainly drink to that,” Martha says.

“Not at ten a.m., please. Not a good example for Alexis.”

“Pish-tush. You’re both so straitlaced.”

Castle declines to comment, on the grounds that being dead is not a good look, and ushers his mother out of the study.

Alexis is still picking at the pancakes and bacon when, having despatched Martha upstairs, cooing over the prospects of an enormous party, he returns to the table and the coffeepot, of which he is still much in need.

“Why do you want ten invites for Grams’ party, Dad?”

“Just in case,” he says vaguely.

“Hm.” Alexis sounds extremely sceptical. “That sounds like Detective Beckett and her team, and her dad, and your poker buddies.” She pauses. “Are you going to invite her therapist again, Dad?” she asks rather hopefully.

“No,” Castle replies very bluntly. “This is a party. We want to enjoy it. Do you really think that introducing a shrink to fifty theatricals is a good way for us to enjoy it?”

“Call it performance art and sell tickets,” Alexis smirks, in a very teenage smart-ass manner. “We’d make a fortune. You could save it for my college fund.”

“I think I’d need it to meet your Grams’ bail,” Castle ripostes. Alexis snickers. “Now, be off with you. I’m going out and you said you were going to Lauren’s to study with her and Paige.”

“Yes. We’ve got a science test on Tuesday.”

Alexis disappears. Martha re-emerges, swishes grandly downstairs, announces that she has to go and shop for a suitable outfit for a housewarming party, and leaves Castle lamenting his credit limit, which had looked perfectly reasonable only ten minutes previously.

To alleviate his sudden expectations of poverty he sees Alexis off and promptly departs himself, seeking out Beckett. Maybe he can test out his idea on her this morning. He thinks it’s a good plan. He always has good plans. But… he is certainly not going to sandbag Beckett with surprises relating to his – or her – family.

He thinks that it would be a good idea to invite – as his rather-too perceptive daughter had guessed – Beckett, her father, and her team to the party. It would not be a good idea to ask Dr Burke, amusing as the results might be. Burke would be nearly as popular as a fortune-teller would be, and for much the same reason. Every actor there would want analysed, though why Castle has no idea. He doesn’t like it when Burke washes his brain out. It’s invariably discomposing. Or possibly decomposing. In addition, if he invites his poker pals – both sets? No, maybe just the writers. Adding Montgomery isn’t going to improve anything – then at least he’ll have someone to talk to if Beckett won’t spend the whole evening glued to his side. It won’t exactly provide the same level of protection – after all, Beckett’s gun is glued to her hip – but it’ll keep the worst of the thespian sharks from circling.

Still, he’s not going to start down the line of inviting the precinct team without talking to Beckett first. He suddenly smiles widely. Esposito’s face on being invited to his mother’s housewarming should be a sight to behold. Not, perhaps, a pretty sight – but a very amusing one.

He bounces up to Beckett’s door and rings the bell.