The entire left side of Castle's face aches, the skin around his eye swollen and darkening. Smiling only makes him more conscious of the pain as his cheeks rise to make room for his growing grin, but really, how else could he react to the arrival of Detective Beckett at his loft while he makes a late breakfast for his family? Her presence is an unexpected delight and he'll take ibuprofen all day long if it means he can easily smile for her now.
His mother has ushered her into the kitchen, and he encourages Beckett to pull up a chair. Though there's some back and forth, Beckett insisting that she's only there to return Martha's jewelry, the tired detective has no real chance against his mother's welcome. He sets a plate full of food in front of her, Alexis pouring the coffee, and Martha eager for a retelling of the previous night's excitement. He knows Beckett hasn't slept yet – neither has he, of course – but she needs to eat and might as well do it here. Montgomery has given her the rest of the day off, so once her stomach is full and she's had the opportunity to unwind, Castle won't keep her from returning to her apartment for several hours of much-needed sleep.
It's a bit of a surprise when she doesn't hurry from the loft once the dishes are cleared and the last of the coffee is gone.
What's less surprising is the sadness that's slipped over her with a sigh, a veil he's come to realize is never too far away and only made more obvious when the added weight of exhaustion pulls it tight around her. Their case certainly hurt her more than the others he's worked in his short time with the NYPD, and he frowns with the awareness that he's rather helpless here. There's a fragility that seems woven into memories of her mother, a layer of the Beckett onion he'd almost rather leave untouched, and he isn't sure what to say now that they've finished breakfast and she's fumbling with the napkin she still holds in her lap.
Fortunately, Martha is well-versed in the nuances of emotion, even those concealed by a downturned gaze, and she twirls her arms dramatically. "Well, you two will have to excuse us. Alexis and I have a very busy day planned and we should really get going."
Castle's grateful his daughter has inherited some of her grandmother's acting ability because she hides her questions well, scooting off her chair and agreeing with whatever has just been sprung upon her. "Bye, Detective Beckett. It was great seeing you again."
And after a flurry of waving hands and hurried exits, he and Beckett are alone with a silence that should be uncomfortable and isn't at all. He waits her out, keeping himself busy with juice that has to be returned to the refrigerator and dishes that need to be washed; she's staying with him for a reason, but he's uninterested in playing Freud any more than he already has.
"I went to see Joanne this morning. Just before I came here."
He sets the last of the plates in the rack to dry and rubs his wet hands down the front of his pants, then makes his way around the counter to where she sits. "The victim's daughter."
It's not really a question, but she nods anyway. "There was a locket in evidence with her mom's things, and I thought she might like to have it. It's not much, but…it's something."
There's so little he can do to make this better, but like Beckett, he needs to do something. He pulls the napkin from where it's crumpled in her hand and tosses it on the countertop before helping her stand. Then he cautiously spins her around and slides her jacket off; he knows she's still in a daze when she doesn't bother to stop him. She doesn't protest when he threads his fingers through hers either, so he guides her into the living room and toward the couch.
He has every intention of letting her settle there alone – there's no shortage of other places for him to sit – but she won't let go of his hand and he falls beside her, their bodies close and their fingers entwined atop his thigh. Last night they'd danced, his warm palm pressed against her back, so much skin revealed to him in a fairytale setting, but this morning is already more intimate. She's decided to trust him with a moment he knows she wouldn't normally share, and whatever happens next will never make an appearance in one of his books. She must understand; he doesn't think she'd be here otherwise.
She's staring at their hands when she speaks again, her voice barely above a whisper. "When I was nine, I had to have my tonsils taken out. I was out of school for the summer, but my mom took time off work to be with me, and we curled up on the couch with applesauce and mashed potatoes and pudding and ice cream and we watched countless hours of Temptation Lane. You know, the soap opera?" She glances up to make sure he's with her, so he nods for her to go on. "It was such a silly thing. Stupid maybe. I don't know. But I loved being able to spend that time with her, just the two of us."
It's a lot to absorb, this timid confession of a week spent watching guilty pleasure tv with her mother. She has softened in the narration of her story, her already sleepy body even more pliant against his, and it makes him want to scan his television for an episode or pull up clips online for her to further immerse herself in her memories.
As it turns out, he doesn't need to do anything but continue to listen.
He hears about the summer she was 11, when her family was vacationing at their cabin upstate, and little Katie Beckett was busy showing off for the boys and proving something to herself by flinging herself off a tire swing and into the lake. Each turn, she became a bit more creative and a lot more reckless, until she finally attempted some bizarre spin that landed her in too-shallow water with a sprained wrist and knees covered in small cuts that never healed perfectly. Apparently the pain wasn't nearly as bad as the 'I told you so' she got from Johanna, but Beckett smiles as she traces a mindless pattern over the top of her jeans and the constellation of scars on her skin, the mark of such a simple time in her life.
By the time she's made it through her quiet recollection of many mother-daughter dates, including clumsy ice skating, a predictable amount of shoe shopping, and about a million cups of hot chocolate, he's let go of her hand and has wrapped his arm around her instead. Once she's offered up the embarrassing time she was busted by Johanna after sneaking out to a midnight screening of The Rocky Horror Picture Show – 'Katie, I could have dressed up and gone with you' – her ankle boots have been kicked off, her legs tucked out of the way as she leans against him.
He hasn't spoken in several minutes, only humming his encouragement when it seemed appropriate and brushing his lips over her temple when complete silence was better, and now Beckett turns with a sort of drowsy appreciation for whatever it is he's done for her. But just as he thinks she might be ready to leave, her bed beckoning her home, she flattens her palm against his chest and nudges him downward until he's on his back and she can make herself comfortable next to him. Or around him. And kind of on him.
It may not be what she'd meant when she'd smirked that they 'could always just cuddle,' but he's more than satisfied with where they've ended up. Reaching up for the pile of blankets folded on the back of the couch, he drags a fleece throw over them and adjusts the pillow beneath his head.
She nuzzles into him as they get closer to surrendering to the demands of their fatigue, but there's another story she wants to share and he fights to be attentive.
"After my mom's funeral, everyone came back to our house for a reception, but my dad and I were miserable there. I mean, I guess that's obvious, but it was even more suffocating than we had expected. So, we left and went to Coney Island instead, walking up and down the beach together, just talking and enjoying what we could of the day. We even made a little stick figure out of the twigs and twine we found, and I keep it in one of my desk drawers at the precinct." She sighs, her breath warm as it falls on his chest. "I appreciate having that weird and perfect reminder…the promise that even on the worst days there's the possibility of joy. I just hope that Joanne can find her joy."
He wants to assure Beckett that it will happen, that the motherless young woman will be happy again, but it's a platitude that will leave her cold, so he bites it back. There's no promise to be made, and he murmurs the only thing his tired mind has left. "I hope so, too. You both deserve nothing less."