Chapter Four : Night and Day
She hums tunelessly in her sleepy haze, slowly swimming back to the surface, and he greets her with a kiss to the temple that doesn't seem to register over the dark aroma of the coffee he has sitting at the side of the bed, which is more likely the cause of her stirring than anything else. Mumbling and twitching in her sleep, he realizes she must be stuck in a dream, and suddenly his boxers are tight because she's shifting under him, grinding back against him, wriggling and pressing and making these fascinating little noises, ones he could spend a lifetime decoding.
"Castle," she mumbles, small and needy and thick with the remnants of whatever dream she's chasing.
"Right here," Castle chances as he hovers over her, needing her awake, "right here."
"Hmm," slowly, the twitching in her limbs ceases, and her over-large eyes blink up at him as the sleep clears out, leaving the storm to remain and call to him.
It's a gamble, but what about the last twelve hours hasn't been? Sitting up, he gives her a cautious smile around his mug, passing hers over, and it seems to have been the correct move. She takes it without thinking, eyes never leaving his, like she can't quite figure out why she's here and the coffee is her anchor to everything normal and real.
Her eyes slide closed again at the first sip and some of the tension eases out of her, and he thinks maybe she's still not Beckett because she hasn't swerved into any of the variety of emotions he's come to expect from her when faced with a situation she cannot control or does not understand: anger, panic, despondency, cynicism or disdain. Instead, she stretches her arms out in front of her like a lazy cat, flexes, tests out her limbs and takes inventory, but makes no move to escape. Or murder him. It's cause for cautious optimism.
"Good morning," she remarks primly, if still tiredly.
"Good morning," he wants to add, 'Kate,' but he also doesn't want to send her running out the door, and since Kate was most definitely not on the menu (though he did get a taste anyway and oh, that thought is one he will be revisiting over and over again) last night, he elects to not press his luck yet. She's too easy to spook and he's too eager for her company.
Quite uncertain of what to do with this version of the woman he's known for over two years now, he waits for her next move, but finds her staring back at him expectantly, as if looking for direction. This is certainly new. At the precinct it's always, 'Castle, no!', 'Castle, do this!,' or 'Stay there, Castle!' Outside the precinct, at least in the last few hours, she's considerably more… amenable? It's not a description he's ever credibly applied to her, but he can't figure out what else to call it. She was all too willing to let him take control the previous night, even let him pull her close and tell her not to leave. That's not to say that she wasn't an active and enthusiastic participant – she initiated it, after all – and didn't make her preferences known, but she was so docile. So… un-Beckettish.
There's no question that he wants her (again, and again, and again). He has since the day they met, though his desire has changed considerably.
As they sip their coffees in silence and trade playfully distrusting glances at each other, as if they're at the precinct over a casefile rather than both half naked in his bed after cheating on their respective boyfriend and girlfriend-ex-wife with each other, he considers his first fantasy about her.
The first night, he went home, wrote the first chapter of Heat Wave, and couldn't get to sleep until he brought himself off thinking about tying the sharp little detective up. He played it out in his mind: putting her in her own handcuffs, making her submit to him, making her scream over and over until she was gooey and yielding and would do whatever he wanted, would tell him anything he wanted to know. He dreamed every night for weeks about it, about how she'd eventually give in, about how he'd show her how good it could be and make her wonder why she ever resisted, until he showed her she could call the shots at the precinct but that he'd have her everywhere else and he'd be in charge.
Somewhere along the line, the fantasy changed.
Oh, he still thinks about tying her up. A lot. It still features prominently in his dreams, his fantasies, and in the private writings he churns out when he can't find relief any other way. But beyond the basic framework, the more recent incarnations bear little resemblance to the rough draft.
The cold police cuffs he wanted to use against her have turned to soft scarves or playful leather cuffs. Almost imperceptibly, the dialog has mutated too. The lust-driven words he imagined saying and hearing have shifted word by word to affirmations of trust, of willingness, of affection and finally and maybe forever. He wants to tie her up as badly as ever, to see her submit, but he wants to earn it, to deserve it, to inspire her trust and approbation so deeply that she doesn't even hesitate to give to him what he once wished to take.
Was it really just hours ago that he thought perhaps, with Gina and Josh out of the way as he hoped they eventually would be, that they may be on that path? That he was earning her trust again as her partner and her friend, after whatever went so wrong at the beginning of the summer was behind them? He's worked harder than he ever has at anything, trying to deserve her approval and regard, trying to be smart enough, knowledgeable enough to be of genuine use to her at work. And he has. They've just settled back into this comfortable thing at the precinct, the tenuous friendship beyond it. She even held his hand when that fucking psychopath escaped his grasp, praised his cleverness at getting himself and Ryan rescued instead of berating him for losing the dirtbag in the process.
Now… now he doesn't know where they stand any more. She probably doesn't either. Reasonable assumption: that's why she hasn't come to herself and run yet.
"I'm on call," she says conversationally. "Providing a body doesn't drop, we don't have to go in…"
The words are all Beckett, but the tone is the same throaty Nikki Heat one he heard last night, and he doesn't know what he's dealing with. It's as if she's locked her normal persona in a box and labeled it Kate, and that's the only way she can let this other side of her out. It's troubling. Deeply troubling, and definitely not what he wants to see. There's something wrong about her demeanor, something so checked-out that it turns his stomach the more he looks at it, looks for his friend and partner and almost-lover and doesn't find her. It doesn't bode well for any kind of future if it's kept up.
He thought he could play along with this Nikki Heat act – call it roleplay, perhaps – if she was still transparently Beckett, the way she was when she jumped him in his office the night before. But this is something entirely new and wrong on top of wrong. This isn't his Beckett. It's a shadow with Beckett's face.
He needs her back before they do anything.
"Kate," he insists, and watches her flinch, but she's not running yet, "we need to talk about this."
To his surprise, she nods.
"Yes. But not now," she replies. "Let's just enjoy our morning before the body drops and we have to haul out."
There's a bit of Beckett in that. Not enough, she's not nearly sensible and snappy and snarky enough to be herself. But it's a start, and he can work with a shard of Beckett if he has to.
"We'll enjoy our morning later," Castle insists, drawing on his reserve of patience and resolve that apparently abandoned him the night before. "Right now, talk."
He waits patiently as she picks at a thread on her shirt, looking anywhere but his eyes.
"I get it, we can't do that again," she states and it's another punch to the gut, "I'm sorry I dragged you into this, I don't-" she draws a rattling, shaky breath "- I don't know what came over me. I just wanted the tension gone."
He doesn't buy it, doesn't want to believe it.
"And how's that working out?" Castle asks, watching her closely to delineate Kate from Nikki because it seems like that's going to be a thing for a while at least, watching her fire stoke back into life and she's all Kate for a moment as she rises to his bait.
"If you'd just stop touching me all the time!"
Castle snickers. Gotcha, Beckett. "I touch you? You're the one who can't keep your hands to yourself, Beckett," and excellent, she's too riled up to object, "stroking my ear, playing with my hair, holding hands in the car."
"You're deranged," she bites out, though there's a hint of a smile cracking through, "you mean pulling your ear, slapping your head and stopping you from playing Starsky and Hutch with the police scanner in the car?"
"Any excuse to get your hands on me, Beckett."
She makes a noise of frustration, a curious combination of a sigh and a suppressed scream, and he presses his luck. Rising from the bed and setting his nearly-empty coffee aside, he offers her a hand.
"Shower. In the interest of the environment and time constraints, I suggest we collaborate. I'll give you a few minutes…"
Fortune favors the bold, for once, and she considers him with an expression that says she's going to hit him (an empty threat - if she was ever going to really hit him, it would have been years ago when he was still more jackass than smartass) before replying.
"Fine. For the good of the environment."
Oh, it's more than fine. It's way more than fine. He watches her swing those stilts off the edge of his bed and rise very carefully, relying on him to steady her before padding off into the attached en-suite as he stares after her, loving the way her legs look, bare and slightly less steady than her usual gait. He's never been happier to have her snap at him, to see her stomp away from him like she always does, just this time, she's stomping straight into his shower. When he hears the water switch on, he thinks he might just have her. Right start or wrong, he will have her and he'll slowly bring her back to Beckett and this whole Nikki episode will be a distant memory.
Once finished cleaning up in the upstairs bath, Castle gives Beckett a few more minutes alone while he checks his phone.
7 new messages.
Alexis: staying at a friend's. Check.
Mother: sleeping it off in her studio and off to scavenge the post-Halloween costume sales for the school's wardrobe department. Check.
Remaining messages?
Gina. Gina. Espo. Gina. Gina.
Fuck. It's only 9:30 too.
Scanning through the texts, he doesn't know whether to be relieved or more concerned that they all basically say "where are you?" and "call me."
They're no different from her usual messages. Personal or business, she is brief and commanding. It's a quality he liked about her once upon a time.
It's not that he dislikes her at all. He wouldn't have stayed married to her for 6 years if he didn't get along well with her, however twisted their version of "getting along" is. It works. It's… acceptable. Sometimes, it's even pleasant. But it's always been acceptable.
Not any more. He's unacceptable. She doesn't deserve what he's done to her, not now and not since they've been back together, frankly. Sure, last night was the physical betrayal, but how long has it been emotional?
She deserves better, ex-wife and annoying publisher or not.
But there's nothing he can do about it right now, so he quickly taps out a note to her ('Late night. On call w/ cops. TTYL.') and shoves it forcefully from his mind, focused on the more immediate problems and prospects in his shower.
What's one more nail in the coffin?
Entering the en-suite, he sees her outline through the foggy environment, watches her move, methodically washing herself, and he takes a moment to just look. Stepping in behind her, he knows she knows he's there, but she doesn't halt her bathing ritual, scrubbing her shoulders with a cloth, and oh, she knows exactly what she's doing.
"That's my job, Beckett," he grumbles, grins wolfishly. Good. She's not reacting to Beckett any more.
Seizing the cloth, he picks up where she left off, not missing the ghost of a smirk he catches over her shoulder. Currying over her skin, he notes the light bruises forming on her hips and waist, a surge of guilt mixed with the claim inherent in the mark that makes his blood pound. When she turns, falling lazily into his soapy embrace, his last thread of control snaps and he captures her mouth, tugging her close and wrapping his arms around her.
"We can't do this again," she protests weakly.
"Please," he chokes out, "we're already here, and you're…"
He doesn't have time to think of or tell her what she is, because her mouth is on his, warm and desperate and searching, her hips seeking his, the cool water sliding in rivulets over their heated bodies, and he can't even think, can't preemptively regret this. Her hand guides his down between them, closes it around him.
"Show me," Kate requests, "show me how you touch yourself, when you think about her, me."
He wants to tell her it's always her, that she's not Nikki and that the whole act is really fucking confusing, but she's standing in his shower and her hand's on his, and she's looking up at him like that… it's just not worth arguing with her.
"You first," he growls, and to his delight, she complies, bringing her free hand to her thighs, stroking her skin with the back of her hand and her knuckles and shit that's not an image he's getting rid of any time soon. Teasing herself, she gives his hand a squeeze and he absently starts stroking, adding a twist here and there, but all his focus is on watching her.
"What do you want me to do?" And that's a question he could spend a lifetime thinking up creative answers for, now isn't it? But his creativity has abandoned him now, replaced by sheer need, and just about anything would do it for him now.
"Tell me what you want me to do. Use your words, tell me," he gasps as her hand squeezes around his, and her dark eyes glimmer with mirth and arousal and Kate.
"Okay," Kate agrees, up for his game, up for anything. "I want you to kiss my neck," and she hasn't finished saying it before he's there, sucking and kissing and tasting, dragging the flat of his tongue over her skin, savoring the faint taste of her diluted by the streams that surround them.
"Keep going," he orders, and she does.
"Feel how wet I am, Castle," she gasps as he drags a finger through her, abandoning himself and letting his erection bob between them. "Touch me," his thumb circles her, but she pulls back, whining at the loss in spite of herself and he nips her clavicle, works his way up to the underside of her jaw, sucking on the pulse point, "not there, not yet. I want your finger inside-" her command cuts off into a moan when he complies eagerly, pushing one digit in to the knuckle, groaning at the feel of her contracting around him, so wet and hot in contrast to the tepid water around them, the slick, cool slide of her skin, "-yesss," she hisses.
"More." He adds another finger, scissoring them inside her and she keens, rocks her hips against him while he stretches her, and he feels her short nails claw at his ass and lower back, feels the pride in the marks she's leaving on him.
"So good," she breathes, "deeper- yes," he thrusts his fingers into her all the way, hips lightly mimicking the action, loving the way she's biting his jaw, but he needs her to keep talking.
"Your words," Castle reminds, "use your words."
"Faster, please," she requests, "right there!" He presses down on the spot his fingers just brushed and she cries out, "Castle!" so he does it again, withdraws his fingers, only to push right back in, again and again until she's writhing on his hand, crying out, spasming and coming apart and calling his name. He continues his ministrations, working her through her orgasm, relishing how her thighs shake and her breathing against his neck has grown harsh and ragged.
"Stop!"
He does.
"Kiss my stomach," she asks, quieter and less demanding, shier and sweeter. He chuckles at her mercurial nature. Sinking to his knees, he blinks up at her, drinking in the sight of her eyes half-closed in pleasure, her cheeks stained red, her dark hair now devoid of the garish dye and curling in wild directions, falling in damp waves and sticking to her face and neck and fuck she's never looked more beautiful. His lips roam across the plane of her abdomen, but he never lets her drop her gaze, waits for her next command.
"Grab my hips," he does; she leans back against the tile, shivering from the cold and the aftershocks of her release, "I want your tongue on me."
Hell yes.
Castle needs no further invitation, diving in and groaning at the taste of her, the exigency of the night before gone, leaving him time to explore and take leisurely pleasure in her, work her slowly and thoroughly with his tongue and his fingers. Her hand fists at the base of his neck, holding him in place (as if he'd go anywhere) by the short, damp locks of his hair. He toys with her clit for a while, but when he can resist no longer, he shifts his angle – knees scraping on the tile below him but fuck it, it's worth the pain – and plunges his tongue deep into her grasping heat, grabbing her thigh and hooking one leg over his shoulder to improve his access.
"Fuck!" she screams, and yes, and there, and the bright, tart flavor of her floods his mouth, coats his face when he presses his thumb to her clit again and feels her body go limp against the wall, still except for the tremors that run through her, radiating out from her center every time he gives her another suck or he passes over just the right spot as he bathes her clean with his tongue.
"Please," she pants, yanking his hair to pull him up, though he gets in a parting lick none-the-less, "I n-need you in me, now. Fuck me now!"
He gives her a naughty smile, delighted when she returns it with one of her own. Game on.
"You're going to need to be more specific."
"Put m-my le-legs, over your h-hips," she stammers, and he does as he gets to his feet, rewarding the effort it's taking her to speak at all, "l-line yourself – fuck, up," he drags his tip through her swollen core, teasing her, not giving her the satisfaction she wants before she tells him exactly – "please, Castle! I want you in me! I w-want you to thrust all the way into me, all at once."
His second's hesitation at the memory of how it hurt her last night when she took him costs him dearly, as her expression falters, like she's done something wrong, said something she thinks will displease him. It's borderline unsettling, how she always seems to be looking for the right answer, the one she thinks he wants to hear; how quickly she changes when she thinks he's unhappy with her, how insecure. It's definitely not how he knows her outside this context.
He'll fix it. He'll show her that nothing she does or asks for here will come with judgment or derision; that she doesn't need to worry about it ever, ever again.
On one long stroke, he pushes into her, unrelenting until he bottoms out and stills, grasping her face with his large, rough palm, thumb rubbing circles just under the soft flesh of her ear, forcing her to look at him, trying desperately to show her how completely not-unhappy he is with her, with anything she'll share with him. It calms her down again, her sly smile returning, just Kate.
"Tell me what you want," he repeats raggedly, "tell me how you like it," resisting the urge to close his eyes at the feeling of her so tight and grasping around him, the sight of her looking to him like nothing else exists at the moment; like he could do anything and she'd love it.
"Hard, Castle. Hard and fast," it comes out less of a command and more a question, and there it is again - this searching for the correct response, like this is some kind of test she's supposed to pass and she's uncertain of her comprehension of the material. He doesn't move, doesn't comply this time even though she's done what he asked and used her words.
"Is that what you really want, Detective?" he uses the title purposefully, not wanting to use the wrong name and upset her when she's clearly feeling vulnerable already.
If he thought there was nothing worse than hurting her the night before, he was wrong, because the expression she gives him – confused and wary and almost awed – tells him all he needs to know. The truth is mean and horrible when he gets it at last, when all the pieces of her behavior add up to the heart-clenching suspicion that no one's bothered to ask her before.