A co-authored fic by chezchuckles, griever11, and jstar1382.
"Double sinks in the bathroom. You'll need it. Trust me."
"Castle."
"So you don't have to wait your turn!"
She's going to pull a muscle if she keeps rolling her eyes, but Castle is insufferable. Not for the first time today, she regrets ever allowing him to come apartment hunting with her.
"I live alone. Why would I need to wait my turn?" she mutters, checking the text on her phone to make sure they're heading in the right direction.
It's the fifth apartment they've gone to look at and she's ready to throw in the towel. She's tired, hungry, Castle is grating on her nerves, and if she's being honest with herself, nothing will ever live up to her last one. She spent so much time making it hers, decorating it with little reminders of the life she's lived over the years, and now everything's gone - blown to smithereens - what's the point anyway?
Castle makes a noise and she turns to him, only to be met with a suggestive leer. "For now. You live alone, for now."
Right. She presses her lips together, takes a controlled breath. That's the point. Find an apartment so she doesn't have to suffer through Castle's constant looming presence in her life. He's around in the mornings when she wakes up, he's around when she gets to work, and of course, they go home together. Even though he gives her space at night, he's always around.
And it's stifling.
She's so busy lamenting about her unfortunate living arrangements that she doesn't notice the light at the crosswalk has turned red. It's only when Castle's fingers close around her forearm, pulling her back roughly, that she's jolted back to the here and now, the soles of her boots scraping along the curb as she narrowly avoids getting side-swiped by a manic cab.
"Okay, I know I've called you an invincible superhero before, but can you make a little bit more of an effort not to get killed on a daily basis, Beckett?"
He's chuckling good-naturedly, but she detects a trace of genuine concern in his words. She blushes. "Doing my best here."
Okay, maybe she wasn't being completely fair to him earlier. She does appreciate it, really. He's provided a roof over her head without a second thought, and he's even said she can stay for as long as she wants. Plus, the man can cook, and she hasn't once resorted to take out. Gone are the days of the Styrofoam temple.
It might be an unspoken rule that he's in charge of their meals, but she's come to look forward to dinner in the Castle household. And breakfast.
In fact, one morning last week she was greeted by the sight of him puttering about in the kitchen in nothing but a loose pair of pajama pants. She nearly tripped down the stairs. For a brief moment she even imagined creeping up behind him and wrapping her arms around his torso, palms against the warm skin of his chest, placing a kiss on his shoulder, lips skirting the top of the broad expanse of his back.
"My back? What?"
His voice startles her out of her memories and warmth creeps up her cheeks. He's smirking at her - oh god.
Okay, this is why she needs to find her own place. Soon. Prolonged exposure to Rick Castle is clearly messing her up.
(...)
If he's being honest here, Castle is doing it on purpose. Sabotaging her field trip.
He inwardly cringes at the silent admission, but he can't help it. What sane man would want to help the woman he loves (lusts after) leave his apartment? No one can blame him for making her apartment search an almost impossible endeavor.
He doesn't want her to leave.
In the mornings, seeing her in those floppy shirts she pulls on to hide whatever scanty silk she wears to bed, in the afternoons at the Twelfth, daydreaming about when they'll knock off and go home together, in the evenings-
God.
In the evenings.
There is just so much Kate Beckett in his life and he can't go back to how it was. He has skin and smiles, far away looks and intense conversations, teasing, innocent touching, not-so-innocent touching-
He's traveling a dangerous road, especially with Beckett at his side and scowling like a bulldog at the apartment building they've approached.
"Really, Castle?" she hisses.
"I swear it's better on the inside." His lips quirk; he wonders if she's seen Doctor Who, if the joke will go right over her head, if he can convince her tonight to slump in the office couch with him and watch a few episodes. If she'll put her feet in his lap and silently demand another foot rub, if he'll be able to press his thumbs into the curves of her calves under the pretense of releasing tension.
"It better be," she mutters. "My feet are killing me."
Foot rub it is. "There's an elevator in this one," he promises, pitching his voice into a chipper tone to hide the rough burr of sensuality that's taken up residence. He reaches for the door but she's already there, disallowing him the pleasure of chivalry once more. "See? I told you so. No more walk-ups for you."
She doesn't comment, striding purposefully for the lone elevator in the middle of a long brick entry. The floor is high-polish wood, probably recently sanded and re-stained, and the elevator has been painted a flat matte black.
"Interesting color choice," he remarks, unable to stop the string of useless but faintly damning comments he's had all weekend. He doesn't want her to leave, but he does realize that she'll have to eventually.
She'll have to.
But he won't make it easy on her.
He will fight for her, even if that fight is passive aggressive.
Rick Castle is superb at passive aggressive.
Beckett punches the call button and stalks back and forth before the doors, her irritation not yet diminished. He knows if he had a better attitude, she would as well, but he can't get there yet.
He should try. He really should. Besides, this converted warehouse building is nothing at all like the whimsical traditional touches of her old place. It's not like she'll actually sign the lease for all this industrial steel and brick. She's not exactly into steampunk.
He can do better.
"The commute would be minimal," he offers. Commute would be minimal? How lame. He can do better. He can. "And it's an up and coming neighborhood."
Beckett responds immediately, her shoulders coming down. "And 24 hour Chinese just down the street."
"Oh, God, Beckett. Your standards are woefully pathetic."
She slaps at him, the back of her hand connecting with his stomach. "Shut your mouth. Not all of us have time to be world class chefs, Castle."
"Really?" he asks, pleased. The elevator has begun to whine as it makes its way from some higher floor. "You think I'm a world class chef?"
"I was being facetious," she deadpans.
And with Beckett, that's the thing that always gets him - that deadpan. She might be teasing, she might be serious; he just doesn't know. She's a mystery, even still.
And the only way he can unravel that mystery to his heart's content is by having her in his loft for all time.
(For all time?! Wait. Hang on-)
The elevator groans and the doors crunch as they begin to slide open. Both of them turn in alarm to the elevator's arrival, watching in trepidation as the doors part with all the whimper and heaving of a dying animal.
The car is empty. Wood paneling can't hide the age of the former service elevator, and though appealingly wide and broad, the metal floor with its convenient runnels for (bodily) fluids isn't at all encouraging.
Beckett clears her throat, gives him a look of shared wariness.
He grimaces. "After you?"
(…)