Close Encounters 2

"We camping out?" he murmured, curled around her body. "I like camping out with you."

"So after you doubled-back," she said, poking him with her elbow. "What happened then?"

"It wasn't a guy I recognized. I took a picture, sent it in to the office. Turned out to be an American NSA agent."

"Seriously?" she asked, turning over in his arms and pushing her fingers against his chin. He pulled back, watching her carefully. "Castle. The NSA. . .aren't you on the same team?"

"Not always."

Beckett sighed and that adorable frown was creasing her forehead, pursing her lips. He drew his hand up her back, over her shoulder so he could get to her face, stroke his fingers over that spot.

"Stop petting me," she muttered, catching his hand with hers and squeezing tight. But she shifted in bed, her knee lifting between them, and she came in closer, almost unconsciously. "So what's this about, Castle? NSA following you - me, as well?"

"Could be. I'm not sure what it's about," he said quietly. He dislodged her hand and curled his fingers at her neck, tangling in her hair. Her face was screwed up in concern, in concentration, and he leaned in to kiss her, lips so soft and giving, so good. She was so good.

Her hand came up but instead of pushing him away, she came closer, mouth open and seeking his. "When you find out. . ."

"You'll be the first to know," he whispered back, rolling forward to cover her body with his.

Beckett took the call from Montauk - the area code gave it away, her hand clenching around her phone.

"This is Detective Beckett."

"Detective? Oh my. I thought - well, you emailed me, Detective Beckett?"

"Yes. This is Harriet Rodgers?"

"It is. What is this about, Detective?"

"Just a few questions. Your name came up in an. . .on-going investigation," she said smoothly, lying but also not lying. She saw Esposito give her a look and she resisted the impulse to turn her back to him.

"An investigation? Oh my. How can I help you?"

Beckett cast her eyes down to her case notes, entirely unrelated to this, but she felt better having the support of her job around her - the creaky desk, the loud fan of her computer, the notes on the double homicide she'd nabbed this morning.

"Mrs. Rodgers, your husband, Baugh?"

"Baugh," she confirmed with a laugh. "Old family name, yes. His mother's."

Kate felt that hit her like a punch to the gut, knowing this snippet of Rodgers family history that Castle had absolutely no idea about. His grandmother's family name was Baugh.

"Baugh Rodgers is an only child?" she asked, pressing her lips together.

"Yes. I mean, no. Well, it's complicated."

"I have the time."

Kate heard her sigh over the line, and then her grunt of disapproval. "I'm sorry, Detective, what is this in relation to?"

Relation. Exactly. "Just asking a few questions, ma'am. I can't get into specifics. Mrs. Rodgers, what can you tell me about your husband's family?"

"Well, his parents are both dead. Baugh has taken over the business and our sons are set to follow in his footsteps. All very mundane stuff, Detective. Of course, his aunt hates the lot of us, but who doesn't have a crazy old aunt?"

"Aunt?" she breathed out.

"Althea Dixon. She's a massive pain in our necks - but all that went down before my time, really. What is this about, Detective?"

"I can't discuss it. Thank you. I'm sorry to have taken up your valuable time. I'll let you go."

Beckett ended the call, staring down at her phone.

Althea Dixon hated the rest of the Rodgers family? Then that was exactly where Beckett needed to start.

Castle pressed his palm to the engine of the black Kia, but the metal was cool to the touch. He frowned at the parking permit in the lower corner of the windshield: Department of Defense NSA Northeastern Region.

Were they really being so obvious? And right in front of Beckett's apartment building?

Castle juggled his grocery bag and pulled out his phone, thumbing in the passcode. He huffed out an involuntary laugh when he saw the main screen; Beckett had taken a photo of herself sticking her tongue out at him and she'd set it as the desktop picture.

Jeez. When had she gotten his passcode? He shook his head and glanced around the sidewalk, calling his father. When Black answered, Castle went right to it.

"I've got an NSA-tagged Kia in front of Beckett's apartment."

His father grunted. "License plate?"

"Kilo Whiskey Tango. Seven Zero Four Seven. New York plates."

"Huh. Running it. Call you back."

Castle pushed his phone into his pocket and headed into her building, using the key he'd made months ago, back when he'd been following her for information on his espionage case. He'd been keeping his skills up by picking her lock, but he felt the need to get in quick.

He checked her mail, old habit, put it back in her brass box lining the hallway, then started up the stairs. The bag of groceries was a surprise; he was seriously going to master this cooking thing. But she'd sounded distracted on the phone.

Which meant she was holed up in front of her mother's case. He'd checked her case log at the precinct, which yeah, okay, he should really stop poking his nose into her business, stop hacking her work computer; he knew that. She was going to find out and be so very pissed off at him for it, but it was seriously hard to stop being a spy.

He trusted her; he did. Even though it looked like he didn't.

Castle shoved his key into her lock, twisted the knob, and pushed open her front door. For a few seconds, he couldn't see her. The apartment was dark, poorly-lit with one pale bulb in the kitchen - a light that didn't extend much past the front entry. Castle dropped the grocery bag on the counter and shrugged off his jacket, heading for the living room.

"Hey, there you are," he murmured, finding her at the dining room table.

Spread out in front of Beckett were the elements of her mother's case. She had a sharpie in one hand and a second package of note cards open in the other. The contents of first package were strewn across the table, a scribbled mess of sixty different ideas, suggestions, questions. . .

"Kate," he said softly, coming up behind her.

She startled, dropping the notecards, and he pressed his fingers into the tense muscles at her shoulders.

"Hey. What are you doing here?" she asked, clearing her throat when her words came out rough and raw.

"Thought I'd make you dinner."

"I'm not really that hungry."

"It'll keep," he murmured, glancing across the mess of her dining room table with a flickering frown. She shrugged out from under his fingers and slid another card out of the stack - this one bright blue. For some reason, he'd been telling himself that the colorful notecards were a good sign, a positive thing, a symbol of cheerful hope.

But they were just notecards she'd had on hand, nothing more.

His phone vibrated and Castle brought it out again, unlocking it, his heart twisting at the silly picture of Kate on the screen.

A message from his father. He opened it and frowned. Kia was registered to an Albert Green. Fake name if he ever heard one. "Beckett, anyone been hanging around today?"

"Castle, what do you think about this?"

He lifted his head from his phone and saw the green note card she'd held up to him. Scott Murray, Johanna Beckett, Diane Cavanaugh, Jennifer Stewart = Take Back the Neighborhood?

"I don't know. I don't think trying to connect these victims is the way to go. I think we'll get further on the forensic details. Learning their stories. . .eh, it's nice, sure. But the real leads are in the medical examiners' reports, the knife wounds, the hard evidence."

She dropped the card and buried her hands in her hair with a moan that kicked him in the gut. Castle pocketed his phone and reached out for her again, wishing he could get back that woman on his screen - sticking her tongue out, happy, a little silly.

He kneaded her muscles with his fingers, felt the actual knots in her neck, the way her body shuddered at his touch. She dropped her head a little more and he ran the hard edge of his knuckles against the muscles that lined her spine, dug in.

"Shit, that feels good," she moaned.

He pressed his thumbs into her back, working his fingers into her shoulders, lowering his head to breathe a kiss to the nape of her neck. She shivered this time, goose bumps erupting, and turned her head into his cheek, one hand coming up to his face, fingers curling at his ear.

"Come lie down," he murmured softly, kissing her again and drawing his hands down her arms, tugging her up by her elbows.

Beckett dropped the marker, her fingers trailing over the notecards as she rose, and drifted towards her couch. He meant to have her on her bed, but this might be better, might be more of a help to her. She didn't need sex, she needed some actual sleep for once.

She sank into her couch gracelessly, and he wondered if she'd slept last night either; he couldn't even be sure she had slept the night before that, when they were together. He had the tendency to drop into unconsciousness the moment he was curled around her, so he couldn't be sure about her.

"Lie down, Beckett," he murmured, nudging her shoulder. She drew her legs up into the couch like a child and laid down, stretching out slowly, her cheek resting on the back of her hands. Her eyes slipped shut the moment he touched her shoulders.

Kneeling on the floor at her side, he spent a moment tracing the edges of her back with his fingertips, feeling her ribs beneath her shirt and seriously starting to wonder when she'd last eaten a real meal. Dinner when he'd brought pasta last Monday?

"Castle," she grunted, shifting slightly like she was going to get up.

"Take off your shirt," he said instead, already sliding it up her back.

She shivered and her dark eyes turned to his, arousal and lust and something so very black in them.

"No, love. Just a massage," he murmured.

She sat up to slip her shirt off, apparently saw the answering need in his eyes, and went for her bra, undoing in a second and staring down at him.

Castle swallowed and pressed his palm into her shoulder, pushed her back down to the couch. "Lie down, Beckett."

She huffed but he ground the heel of his hand into the curve of her back, right into the hard slope of her muscle. She groaned and sank into the couch and he lowered his head to press an open-mouthed kiss to her skin, just to keep her interested and willing beneath his hands.

A little deception to keep her there.

"Stay right here," he breathed out, stroking the hair away from her back. "I'm going to hunt up some lotion."

She hummed and turned her head to look at him. "It's in my bath-"

"I know where it is," he winked, couldn't help touching another kiss to her cheek, breathing her in. Sweat and desperation and a hint of cherry. "Be right back."

Beckett was only in black leggings, dressed for a night in, and she could feel the hungry roam of his eyes over her when he returned. She swallowed hard and pressed her lips together, but couldn't quite open her eyes. She'd curled an arm up at her side, her fingers on her lips, and behind her eyes ran tantalizing dreams.

She wanted him. So very badly. But she was so tired.

She heard the bottle of lotion opening, smelled its scent when he spread it over his hands. Castle kneeled down beside her again, and she opened her eyes to him, watched him attempt a smile. It was one of those that were usually so charming and disarming at the same time, but he had ceased to blind her with them for a few weeks now. She saw past the smile.

She frowned, opened her mouth to ask him what was wrong, but he reached for her, pressed his fingers deep into the muscles at her shoulders, and all thought ceased.

She groaned as his hands worked at her, the slick slide of lotion between their skins, the rough callous of his thumbs catching on her neck. She should be cold, topless on her couch, but her skin was on fire, her body heated from the inside out.

"Castle," she moaned, struggled to open her eyes, but it was so good. Too good. She couldn't resist.

His hands skied down her back, knuckles digging in so tight, so penetrating, and she writhed, her hips pressing against the couch, her breath caught in her chest. He used his elbows as well, leveraging into the top of her ass, the taut ridge at the side of her spine, and then back up again. Every push into her back made the air in her lungs escape on a pained breath, the slick slide of lotion and skin creating wonderful, amazing friction.

She melted into the couch, unable to move, unwilling to stop, and wished only, for some strange reason, that he would climb over her, let his body press her down deep, deep, deep.

Castle found the pair of sweatpants he'd left here last week, tugged them on, then stripped off his dress shirt so he could sleep in his undershirt. He brushed his teeth with his finger and her toothpaste, made a note to ask her where her extra toothbrush was. Later.

He scraped wet fingers through his hair, pushed it off his forehead, and then turned towards her bed. Throwing off the decorative pillows, he pulled down the covers to get it ready, then headed back to the living room and the sleeping Kate. Sometime after he'd gone, she'd curled up against the cold, both hands under her chin, and he stood over her for a moment.

He'd make her dinner whenever she woke, even if it was for breakfast.

Castle bent over and slowly depressed the couch cushions so he could slide his arm under her neck, then the other at her knees, and stood up with her. She mewled and shuddered on a slow breath but stayed asleep.

He walked slowly with her - to keep his balance and also to prolong the moment - and when he got to her bed, he laid her down carefully. She rolled into her pillow, her back to him, and he came in after her, curled up behind her, sliding his arms around her and pressing his forehead to the nape of her neck.

He breathed her in slowly, the overwhelming scent of musk and cherry blossoms, and pulled his knees up behind the back of her thighs, framing her. He felt her body sink into his, into the mattress, and he could finally let his eyes close.

She woke suffocated from a dream that made the world disjointed, but the heat of him was so close that her body oriented within moments, curled into it before she was aware.

And then she was. His breathing was heavy, deeper than she remembered, breaths coming so far between that she pressed her fingers to his lips just to make sure. Her hand trembled. The night felt wrong and her mind restless, like she'd slept but hadn't been able to still the questions. Even unconscious, she'd been wrestling with it.

Beckett slid out of bed without stumbling, moved for a tshirt in the darkness and pulled it on over her head, shivering. She padded out to the living room, hesitated at the kitchen, but went straight to the dining room table.

She could used some coffee, get her sluggish synpases sparking, but she hovered over the table, looking at the scattered index cards with dream-dazed eyes.

Take Back the Neighborhood intiative of her mother's. . .was there something in that? She couldn't see how Scott Murray fit into that, but the others - it was possible.

"Couldn't sleep?"

She jumped and turned around, saw Castle yawning as he came for her. She braced herself, but it wasn't enough to withstand the heavy, loose-armed hug that he draped over her, the sloppy kiss at her mouth, the hum in his throat as he stood there with her, bodies pressed together.

Melted togther, her own traitorous body warming to his, and her nose seeking that soft skin at his neck and collarbone, framed by the lines of his bones and the solid, assuring presence of his-

love.

Oh God.

Beckett clutched at his tshirt and buried her face against his chest, felt him sway with exhaustion around her.

"Go back to bed, Castle," she whispered, the raw quality of her voice making her throat hurt.

"What're you doing?"

"Came in for water," she murmured. "Got waylaid."

He huffed a breath of laughter against her temple and pivoted her towards the kitchen. "Then go. Come crawl in with me when you're done."

She felt the little shove at her shoulders and turned to look at him. He was already moving back to the bedroom, rubbing at his eyes with a fist like a sleepy little boy.

Castle wasn't a spy for nothing.

It was a risky move, but-

He waited in her bed, hoping against hope she'd come back on her own, lured here by sleep and him and. . .him.

He'd downplayed it, standing over her dining room table with her eyes constantly shifting back towards her mother's case; he'd pretended that whole going to get a glass of water thing was a valid excuse, that he was cool with it, that her insomnia and her inability to just put it down was okay.

But it wasn't okay. She was scaring him now. She was actually slipping out past the point where he could reach her, and he didn't know how to bring her back.

He couldn't bring her-

And then the mattress dipped under her fist and Kate Beckett was crawling into bed with him, easing into his back with her cold fingers, colder toes, and Castle turned over to meet her, his chest tight with relief.

She had her eyes closed, her head bowed towards him, and he took her lead, let himself dangle over the edge of sleep once more.

His gambit had paid off.

Castle woke with Kate Beckett sleeping on top of him, his heart pounding, his body alert, and the roaring adrenaline of sensed danger singing in his blood.

Gun. Where was his-

He slapped his hand out and crashed into the bedside table, her bedside table, shit-

She grunted and shifted as if waking; he rolled her off of him and dropped his feet to the floor, crouched low as he felt along the top of her table for his weapon.

And then he heard the slow, careful snick of a door opening.

Shit.

Albert Green, my ass.

"Beckett," he breathed out, catching the edge of his holster and lifting it towards himself. "Beckett."

She hummed and blinked awake, the curling fingers of sleep still holding her. He knelt next to the bed and pulled the gun from its sleeve. She gasped and drew her knees up, made to rise.

"No." He hooked his arm around her neck and dragged her out of bed, towards himself on the floor. She found her feet easily, stayed still at his side.

"What's going on?"

"Get your gun," he murmured.

And then footfall, the creak of her wood floors, and everyone froze.

"Fuck," she breathed out at his neck. "Gun's on top of my dresser."

"And my phone," he said back, drawing his arm behind him to grip her waist. He glanced towards the windows, the moonlight spilling through. "I'll get them both."

"No," she bit out, her hand in a fistful of his shirt and tugging him back down. "Not in front of the window."

He glanced towards her bedroom door. "Got a lock?"

She nodded and scooted forward before he could grab her back, gone in a second and reaching up a hand to twist the lock. She crouched low and came towards him, a flash of teeth as she grinned.

"Bathroom," he said on a breath. Easiest place to defend, that narrow window would afford her escape if it came to it.

She shook her head. "Can't get out of there. Trapped."

"Window," he reminded.

"You won't fit," she hissed, punching him hard in the shoulder.

He narrowed his eyes back at her. "This isn't defensible-"

"I know that," she growled under her breath. "I'm getting my gun."

And without another word to him, she was rising up like a goddess in the moonlight, snagging her weapon and his phone and coming back down to him.

He gasped in a breath and lifted a shaky hand to her, clutched the back of her head by her hair and tugged her in against him. Fuck, she couldn't do stupid shit like that.

"Message your dad," she breathed out against his cheek.

He nodded, wordless and angry and grief-stricken for a thing that hadn't even happened, and fumbled with his phone.

She hadn't been cut down by a sniper's bullet. That two seconds of exposure and she was fine.

She was fine.

Beckett crept forward, felt his fist tighten in her shirt and haul her back. She elbowed him off and turned around to hiss at him.

"I am not sitting here like a civilian while someone ransacks my apartment," she growled, moving to crouch forward again.

He came with her, having her back, and she reached up to quietly turn the knob of her bedroom door. He was breathing down her neck, but he put an eye to the crack in the door and nodded, pulling it open with two fingers so very slowly.

They took the hallway standing up, moving cautiously, but Beckett paused when he did, then saw the outline of her front door closing softly and the shadow disappearing.

"Go, go, go," she hissed, pushing on him to get moving.

They sprinted for her front door, Castle yanking it open in a low crouch, Beckett spilling out after him, weapons raised. No one in the hall.

"Stairs," he said softly, already shifting towards the stairwell door.

They went together, opened up the door only to hear another one closing far off. Too late; he was already escaping.

Beckett took the stairs two at a time, pausing every now and then to listen, make certain the guy hadn't doubled back. When they got to the ground floor, she head checked the lobby and then came through with her gun raised, expecting an ambush.

But there was nothing, and the front door was closed and locked, as usual. Castle came up at her side and they took it together, but there was no one on the sidewalk either.

"He got away," she muttered.

"What was that about?" he said back, spinning slowly as he eyed either end of the street. Beckett put her weapon down, at her thigh, and scraped a hand through her hair. Her bare feet were freezing.

"Let me go see if anything was stolen," she muttered.

"My father messaged me-"

Just then, a discreet black Charger slid into view, another behind it. Out came Eastman - whom she knew - and a coterie of black-suited agents she'd never met before. Castle growled something and stepped forward to greet them.

"Situation contained. I need a grid search for a man wearing a black baseball cap, hoodie, black tennis shoes."

Beckett left him to it, heading back inside her building and for the stairs. She went up as quickly as possible and re-entered her apartment. Standing in the foyer, she swept her eyes carefully over her place.

No mess, nothing overturned. Books untouched. Her father's watch was still on the entry table where she'd plucked it off earlier that night. The guy hadn't even made it to the bedroom to search for valuables.

What was he looking for?

Beckett ghosted the kitchen, not touching anything, imagined she took the same path their burglar had. She remembered how Castle hadn't let her stand up in front of the windows and wondered if he expected assassins and-

Assassins.

Her mother's killer?

She moved quickly for the dining room table, felt her chest tighten as she stood over the timeline.

It'd been moved. A nearly imperceptible nudge here and there to each index card, making certain that every word was visible.

She heard her door open and spun around, bringing her weapon up before she knew what she was doing.

"Whoa, only me, Beckett." He had both hands raised, still gripping his gun, and only lowered them when she relented. "What's missing?"

"Nothing," she said hollowly, turning her head back to the timeline of her mother's case. "But I think he took a photo of the timeline."