12: Time's a wastin'

"Dad, Dad – hi, Detective Beckett – Dad, I'm going over to stay with Paige tonight, okay?"

"Okay," Castle says, thinking that it's very fortunate that he had let go of Beckett on hearing the outer door open, as answering a series of interested questions about why he was holding her at all was not in the plan. "Usually you just call. What's different?"

"I needed some books I didn't have," Alexis says rapidly, and disappears up the stairs in a missing-vital-study-time rush. "And you need to sign a permission slip for the camping trip next week, and pay for it," she adds as she returns equally quickly.

"I did that weeks ago."

"No, that was a different trip. That was the trip to the forensic lab on Monday."

"When do you ever actually do school work in school? You spend all your time on trips," Castle grumbles.

"You just want to go to the forensic lab yourself," Beckett points out sardonically from the foot of the stairs, where she is avoiding the Alexis whirlwind. "It's all because Lanie won't let you play with her toys." Alexis snickers, and exits. Castle humphs.

"It's not fair," he says sulkily. "I'd be careful. I'm sure I'd be useful."

"Well, she has seen you round the precinct," Beckett smirks, but then takes a slightly deeper breath than she should have and Castle can see the wince from the other side of the room.

"Upstairs, Beckett. Now." It's not until after she raises an eyebrow that he realises he's – oh god, he is about to die – given her an order. "I-didn't-mean-it-like-that. Please go and rest like the doctor said?" She lowers the terrifying eyebrow and edges up the stairs. She's really sore around the ribs, he can tell, still breathing shallowly. Some few moments later she returns, which he really had not expected, with a book.

"I can't lie down and be comfortable," she complains.

"I thought you were going to sleep?"

"Naps are for babies and toddlers. I might not move any faster than a toddler right now but I'm not napping." Castle looks at the drawn lines of her face and the crease in her forehead and thinks very privately and quietly that whatever Beckett thinks she doesn't need, she'll be asleep on his shoulder before another hour is out.

"Come and sit down," he says instead. "If you tuck yourself into the corner, the couch'll prop you up." She flicks him a quick, uncertain glance. "I'm going to get my laptop. I can write here too, you know. But you have to promise not to peek. No spoilers, Beckett. Not even for you."

"Why won't you prop me up?" she asks petulantly. "You're comfy." Ah. Painkillers kicking in already, Beckett?

"Because I type with two hands. Not like your hunt-and-peck with two fingers variety. I can touch type." He really thinks she's about to stick her tongue out at him. Sadly, she thinks better of it before he can comment. He installs her in the corner, collects both his laptop and a book in case inspiration should fail him, sits down next to her and then hoists her magnificent legs up over his lap.

"What d'you do that for?"

"Well, Beckett," he says wickedly, "new research proves that men shouldn't have laptops on their laps. Damages their assets. You wouldn't want me to have damaged assets, would you?"

"So it's okay for me to be damaged?"

"I don't think that's likely, Beckett. Not unless you're a medical miracle. There is nothing in your legs that's going to be damaged. And the laptop will keep them warm." He smiles slowly and wickedly. "I wouldn't want your legs spoiled," he murmurs, and strokes a hand over them.

Beckett retires behind her book. Castle turns to his laptop and is soon lost to anything other than his fictional world, himself soothed and inspired by the warm weight of Beckett's legs over him and her soft presence next to him. Soft, that is, in a rather metaphorical sense. She's as taut as whipcord and as sharp as a sword, but next to him and – he casts a discreet glance sideways – half asleep, she's softer. It's a nice change, though he wouldn't like it all the time.

When he next looks up, she's asleep, the book fallen on her lap, her head on the back of the couch, quiet, slow breathing and her face smoothed out and peaceful: younger and softer than she ever is on duty. Dark hair spills around her head, and Castle reaches out to touch it, remembering how it feels against his face and shoulder. Stroking her hair leads to stroking her cheek, when she emits a funny little noise and presses into his hand.

The laptop is put aside, he rearranges himself and stands with her still in his arms, and conveys her to his room and bed. She seems to like it there, and besides which he can't carry her upstairs without her waking. He'll suffer the inevitable argument later. He does resist the temptation to undress her. That would be creepy. He takes her watch off, and the chain, and puts them on the nightstand; removes her shoes. He wouldn't want the bed linen dirty. And then he summons all his self-control (minimal) and self-preservation (maximal) and leaves, closing the door gently behind him.

He's making dinner when he hears ominous movements behind him.

"Why was I in bed?"

"You were asleep."

"I didn't want a nap."

"Maybe you should have thought of that before you fell asleep," Castle says annoyingly.

"You should have woken me."

"What, so you could shoot me? I didn't want to die today." He doesn't. He thinks that he's very likely to have a Beckett snuggled up to him tonight, and he doesn't want to miss out on that. So much nicer than the teddy bear he'd had when he was small. Though given that she's coming to him for comfort maybe he's the teddy bear? He casts a quick glance at his midriff. No, it's still perfectly toned and his biceps firm. Definitely not squishy. Other bits need not be squishy either.

Beckett is peering round him at the counter. "What's all that?"

"Food, Beckett. This is food in its natural state, before it's cooked. Have you seen real food before?"

"Yes," she snips. "Of course I have."

"Just wondering. I couldn't have told from your fridge the other day…" his sentence trails off as he remembers that there is no longer a fridge, or the Styrofoam temple he'd teased her about. From the look on her face she's remembering that too. He turns round and hugs her.

" 'S okay, Castle. What's for dinner?" He can take a hint when he's hit in the face with it.

"Chicken chasseur, salad, rice. Ice cream."

"Sounds good. Can I help?" Castle strangles his instinct to say no, just rest, let me do everything, or alternatively you never cook and I'm not letting you practice on me and passes her mushrooms and a small knife. Then he watches open-mouthed as Beckett turns them into perfectly evenly sliced mushrooms in no time at all.

"How… what… where did you learn to do that?"

"Friend who's a chef. She taught me." She smirks smugly. "You thought I couldn't boil an egg, didn't you?" Castle nods, sheepishly. "I can cook, I just don't when we're on a busy case." She looks at the knife. "Nice equipment you've got here."

"All my equipment is top-class, Beckett," Castle leers.

"You can buy equally good equipment" – she twists her tongue round the last word to make it perfectly clear that she is not referring to kitchen knives – "in some very specialist shops." Castle's throat momentarily closes. Then he recovers.

"I'm sure you can. But nothing beats a skilled user."

"And you think you have the necessary… skills?"

Castle slowly runs a hot gaze up and down Beckett. "Oh, Beckett. We both know I have the skills." That's better. She's blushing now. He runs a finger down her cheek, and stops it just at the corner of her lips. Her tongue peeps out, provocatively, so he slides the finger along the seam of her mouth, pressing just a tiny fraction, enough to pique her interest and darken her eyes. "Such a shame you have to take it easy for another couple of weeks." Her glare and splutter of rage would be worth a ticket price. "Still, anticipation is the best sauce."

"Sauce, darlings?"

"Mother?"

"Of course. Where else would I be eating if not in my" – Castle coughs, to no effect whatsoever – "my own house." He gives up. There's a small amused snigger from Beckett's direction. "How are you feeling, Katherine?"

"Better, thank you." Beckett's blank interrogation face is fully engaged. Castle has a feeling of impending dread as his mother smiles. That smile only appears when she's had a "good" idea.

"That's lovely, darling." He thinks he's the only one who can see Beckett's nails run into her palm at being referred to as darling. He might use that, later. "I was talking to some friends today" –

"Friends? Cronies, Mother. Besides which, you often tell me there are no friends in theatre. Your last comment on the subject was that you kept your competition close and your enemies closer."

"Friends," his mother says in Lady Macbethian tones. "Anyway, Katherine" – Castle's feeling of dread intensifies – "one of them, Doug, is off touring in a week and needs an apartment-sitter, so I thought of you. I know how much you like your own space, so I told him you might be interested. This is his number, so you can talk to him." She looks thoroughly delighted with her good idea. Fortunately, Castle has turned away so his mother can't see his look of appalled horror. Beckett can't leave. Looking at her stunned expression, that wasn't what she expected to hear.

"That's… really interesting," she says, completely flabbergastedly. Castle looks at the shutters over her eyes and the white-knuckled grip of her hands out of sight and notes with crippling relief that Beckett is not at all happy at the suggestion. He is, for the first time he can remember in a very long time, really, truly angry with his mother.

"Mother," he says, in icy tones, "don't you think that suggesting Beckett without even asking her was a little presumptuous? Beckett can stay here as long as she likes. This is my apartment, whatever you think, and it's up to me and her how long she stays. Not you."

His mother bridles. "Well, I thought it was a good plan." She turns to Beckett. "Don't let Richard blackmail you into anything you don't want to do, darling." Beckett stabs her nails into her palm again. "He can be a little overwhelming."

"Don't let my mother blackmail you either, Beckett," Castle grits out. Beckett looks at both of them, and stands up.

"Excuse me," she says, and makes what looks to Castle like an escape from a situation that's rapidly escalating into a row. It's probably for the best.

"What did you think you were doing, Mother? You had no right at all to do that without speaking to Beckett."

"Oh, Richard. It's clear she doesn't want to impose. She's just being polite by staying." His mother looks at him far too closely. "Oh. I see. You don't want her to leave. Have you tried asking her what she wants?"

"I'm sure Beckett would tell me if she didn't want to stay. Why are you trying to push her out? She's not borrowing your bedroom."

"I'm not pushing her out: I like Katherine. So much better company than your previous…friends. But Richard, she can't be comfortable here. You pushed her into staying" –

"She had nowhere else to go. What do you suggest I did? Let her go to a hotel with a mad serial killer after her?"

"Well, no, but Richard" –

"No, Mother. For once in your life butt out of my business. I don't complain when you bring your friends back, so stay out of it."

"It is my business when you're forcing the poor girl to stay here" –

"He doesn't need to." Beckett's clear, sharp tones cut through the impending explosion. "Castle knows what I think. I'm very grateful for your consideration, Martha, but I'm quite happy to stay here." She smiles, though Castle recognises the edge of danger in her expression.

"Oh. Well, if you're sure, Katherine."

"I'm quite sure, thank you." Castle gapes at Beckett. "Castle's been nothing but kind. If he's happy to let me stay, then I'm happy to." Beckett said what? His fury evaporates under her words. His girl. Sappy, but true. His heart skips a beat and then throbs happily in his chest.

His mother fusses and bustles and looks from one of them to the other. Suddenly her face clears. "Oh! You should have said, darlings! Now don't worry about me. I sleep like the dead. And Alexis wouldn't notice anything." She sashays off, much to Castle's relief. Beckett is sliding towards the couch, crimson from hairline to shirt.

"Is she always like that?" she says weakly. Castle sympathises. His mother is a force of nature. Possibly a hurricane. Actually, possibly a super-cell. He comes to sit with Beckett, who for once appears totally nonplussed.

"Yes. Ignore her. I always do." Beckett does not look reassured.

"I'm imposing. I'm in the way."

"No you are not. You said you were happy to stay and you're staying." He grins down at her worried face. "You're my girl. You agreed. So you're staying." He puts his arm round her shoulders. "Not that you can leave anyway."

"Oh?"

"Well…you can't move faster than a legless spider" – she squawks – "and you can't stand up while I'm hugging you, so all in all you're not going to make the door before I stop you. So you might as well stay here." He drops a kiss on her scrunched up nose before she can object further. She's not to get silly ideas in her head just because his mother can't keep her nose out. That's not the plan at all. "Now, I'll put dinner on and then shall we have a glass of wine?"

"Okay." He cuddles carefully and then stands up. It's a shame all the chopping is done. He'd like to take out his irritation on his mother's interference on some innocent vegetables. He drops all the ingredients for the chicken in the pot, adds rather more wine than usual to give himself an excuse for opening a new, very nice bottle from which he has no intention of allowing his mother more than one very small glass, pops it in the oven and brings two glasses and the opened bottle of Gigondas with him.

"There you are."

"Thanks." Beckett takes a sizeable mouthful, and stops, regarding her glassful with some respect. "That's nice." Castle preens. She takes a smaller sip, savouring, running her tongue round her lips to taste the last drop. Castle abruptly feels somewhat constricted. It eases even more abruptly than it arrived when his mother swooshes down the stairs in an over-the-top outfit. (Are those turquoise sequins? On a purple dress? His head hurts.)

"I'm off, darlings," she carols brightly, with a very knowing look. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

"That only leaves genocide and incest," Castle mutters bitterly.

"I have some suggestions," Beckett murmurs in a sultry tone that his mother can't hear, "to take your mind off your mother." He's instantly distracted.

"What?" he murmurs back, sexiness dripping off each word as the door closes behind his mother. Phew. He returns an arm to Beckett's shoulders.

"Drink the wine, have a nice dinner, and indulge in civilised conversation about the latest movies," Beckett says briskly, and then dissolves in laughter at the no-doubt disappointed expression on his face. "You are so easy, Castle."

"That's not fair, Beckett," he whines. "You made me think…"

"Mmhm," she hums happily.

"You'll have to make it up to me."

"Okay," Beckett says cheerfully, and has another sip of wine as Castle chokes. "I'll compliment your cooking."

He's left speechless. She will regret that. She really will. The only problem is that all the ways he might make her regret it right now are only going to deprive him of things that he likes, such as cuddles, snuggles, kisses and Beckett in his bed, where all manner of other activities are – carefully – available. When carefully is not the primary adjective – oh, then he'll make her regret every teasing, wicked piece of misdirection that she's inflicted on him. He'll enjoy every minute of it. So, of course, will she. They'll have all the time in the world, and careful will not figure for a single second of it.

He could, however, have a little fun of his own. His fingers draw little circles on Beckett's upper arm, and then tip-tap over her collarbone, where they pause to draw little vertical lines which stop rather before they reach anywhere interesting. She sighs contentedly, and though her posture remains straight-backed – painkillers hours ago, or wine now, is clearly not quite enough to soothe her twinging chest – somehow she has become a little closer, and a little more relaxed. Which, Castle notes happily, has relaxed him. Right into a feeling that since dinner will take at least another three-quarters of an hour, they should use that time profitably. Profitably meaning some leisurely making out. He hasn't kissed her properly in hours.

So that's what he does: slips his hand round her cheek and turns her head to him, bends the small distance and lands lightly on her lips, traces across the small gap and when it opens and invites him in to play accepts with alacrity. Playtime is so much better with two.

There's a nastily insistent beeping invading his ears and disturbing them. It's not fair. They've only had a few… oh. That's the oven, and they've been making out for – er – quite a long time. Beckett's hair is untidy, and her shirt is open. So is his. Shirt and hair, in fact. Open and untidy. His hair couldn't be open. He should really take his hand off her waist. She should really take hers out of his shirt, but it feels so good against his skin that he wishes she needn't.

"We ought to have dinner," he points out. Beckett sighs.

"Suppose so, since we made it." She doesn't sound terribly convinced of the necessity.

"You have to eat."

"Unlike you?"

Castle growls at her. "I eat a balanced diet without any of those nasty synthetic preservatives. Fresh food and five-a-day, Beckett, and you too can have my finely honed, muscular body."

"And what exactly would I need to eat to have your body?" She didn't just say that, did she? Castle gobbles like a hyperactive turkey and fails utterly to manage any sort of response while trying to subdue the urge to ask Beckett to demonstrate. This is unfair. He's the one who's supposed to have all the words at his command.


Thank you to all readers and reviewers.

To the guest who asked why Beckett's ribs are not strapped, I have to confess that I expected that they would need to be. However, when I did some research into broken ribs, it seems that strapping is no longer recommended for good medical reasons. I was surprised too!