Chapter 36: Stories like ours

Mysteriously, her jeans have departed. Less mysteriously, Castle is caressing her thigh. It's intensely erotic, and he's barely approached the silky sensitivity of the inner face. He rolls slightly and they're face to face; lying on their sides. Her leg comes up around his hip to hold herself to the hard bulge that is right where she likes it; pressing in and running her hand down over his back and across his ass and pushing at his leg so that one thick thigh is between her legs and she can take delicious friction from it. He's still, subtly, letting her set the pace and take the lead.

She rolls him to flat on his back and wriggles to be spread over him: nibbles mischievously at his ear so that he yips and grabs for her and runs his hand between them and between her legs and shifts the fabric of her panties so that it rubs over her and then slides a thick, hard finger under the material to tease through soaked flesh and dance over tight-coiled nerves and she can't think about anything but his gorgeously talented fingers slipping and sliding, flickering in and out; foretaste of later actions and she kisses him desperately, violently; her hands frantically clenching on his wide shoulders; his hard weight there, ready, awaiting invitation.

He undoes her bra, one-handed; she releases him for long enough for it to be stripped away, then shoves at his boxers as he tugs at her panties and both are kicked off to leave them naked. She's touching him now: palming and surrounding and sliding; playing with silky skin and feathering over the head, spreading the drop of liquid over him, and it's all too much for him just as she'd intended and he flips them and spreads her and settles between her legs and over her and slides once, twice through slicked wet folds and she takes him fully in hand and leads him where she wants him, where he should be.

And then he thrusts hard home and she cries out in welcome and he's there within her and it's perfectly, totally right. He is totally, perfectly right.

Afterwards, she snuggles into his side, and wraps an arm around him, and nuzzles her nose into the space behind his ear where the hair is short and soft and smells of his products and him; and feels safe.

"You okay?"

"Yeah. Just needed time." She pauses. "It wasn't like being attacked." Castle makes a strangulated noise. "I mean, I put myself out there to catch them. It was an operation. So it's just another day on the job. It's not like I wasn't protected. You all had my back. If it had been a different… situation… not an op… then it might have been different. But I signed up for this." She pauses again. "We got them," she says ferociously. "We got them."

"I got you," Castle says happily. This is true. He's cossetting her closely.

"They'll never see daylight again," she adds, without really hearing him. "Never. And they didn't break me, either. Because I chose to go in there and do it." Her voice turns remote and sad and somehow scared. "If I'd been like the other girls, if I'd not known what I was doing and what was going to happen, I'd be another corpse. Just like Daniela, and Melinda, and Carissa, and Angelita." She breathes. "They never had a hope. Doped, raped and murdered."

There is a melancholy silence.

"But you weren't, and you got them, and they'll never do it again, and let's not think about it any more. It's done."

"Yes," she says, and curls in a little more. "All done." She's quiet for a span. "And at least the Feds are gone, too."

"Don't you like them?"

"Nope."

"But Beckett, they had all the cool toys!"

"I didn't notice you volunteering for the tracker injection."

"No."

"It hurt. No more trackers."

"I could kiss it better," Castle says lazily, without actually doing anything about it.

Beckett makes a cynical noise. "That doesn't work."

"Aw," he says annoyingly, "you mean that Disney Princess band-aids and a kiss don't make everything better?"

"Not when you're over the age of eight."

"Really? Kisses seem to make lots of things better when you're over eight. I always find that kisses make everything better." He smiles, rakishly. "Obviously you need some more experience."

She grumbles into his neck. He rolls over to face her and drops a tiny kiss on her nose, which scrunches cutely. He is not stupid enough to say so. Beckett thinks she doesn't do cute – even when she does. Safest not to point it out. "See, better," he says instead.

"The tracker was in my arm," she notes.

Castle finds the relevant arm, still draped over him, examines it, and kisses the vicinity of the wound. "Better," he states.

Beckett rolls her eyes.

"Isn't it?"

She doesn't answer. Medically, it's completely useless. As a morale booster, it has potential, or possibly a placebo effect.

"It is," he emits very smugly, and kisses her arm again. This kiss is on the upper side of the wound, much closer to her shoulder. Strangely, a third kiss arrives on the point of her shoulder, and then one on her neck, and her cheek, and a naughty little nibble by her ear, by which time any pain in her arm is entirely blotted out by the heat flooding down her nerves. Except he's stopped, and his hands aren't doing anything interesting, so to speak, and that is – oh. Oh. She knows it's okay now. He might not.

"Come here," she purrs. "It's all fine now." She shifts her hand down and mischievously pinches his butt.

He squeaks indignantly. "Oh, Beckett, you've done it now," he threatens, and retaliates by tickling her completely unfairly around the middle so that she's the one squeaking and squirming and trying to tickle him and failing: and then suddenly he's looming up over her and descending to kiss her and then everything is sensation and sensuality and simply them.

"All better," she murmurs, a little later, curled against him again, and drifts into sleep.

Castle cuddles up to her, slings a gently possessive arm over her waist, and enjoys the snuggled up closeness. Shortly, he too is asleep.

In the morning, coffee has been had, breakfast has not existed in Beckett's minimalist fridge contents, and she is fretting and fussing to get out and go to the flea market and buy her table and chairs. Castle is as quick as he can be, but nothing short of faster-than-light warp speed would have satisfied her.

Her tour round the market is more of a double-time route march, too. She has a goal in mind, obviously, and anything that doesn't serve her purpose is ignored. Castle wouldn't have minded some closer looks, but she's enthusiastic and that's worth a lot. He'll suggest a slow meander when she's found what she wants, with a stop for some breakfast. He's hungry. Beckett, however, is as impervious to bodily needs while stalking furniture as she is when hunting down a killer.

Suddenly she swoops off and pounces on a clean-lined pine table, Shaker style. Lurking in the same space are six chairs.

"I like this one," she says definitively, and embarks on a feisty negotiation over the price, demanding a discount because she'll take the lot. Some time later, she's got the vendor down by more than they wanted and less than she did, which is pretty much the definition of compromise. Castle smiles fondly (and secretly) at the sight of Beckett compromising, and doesn't say a single word. He is much more surprised when she pays, and instead of slowing down, marches off round another range of stalls. Another half hour later, she's intimidated two more vendors into discounting an elegant table lamp and a slim pine coffee table.

"Beckett," Castle says plaintively, "I'm hungry, and you must need coffee by now. Can't we stop and get some?"

Beckett stops, at his hand on her arm, and blinks at the interruption to her crusade.

"You've got your table, chairs, a coffee table, and even a lamp. Can't we just – um – take stock for a minute?"

It looks as if she's considering it. "Okay," she says, and leads off to the café. Castle just about manages to pay for the victuals in the face of Beckett's focus. As soon as they're seated, she finds a pen and paper in her purse and scrawls some numbers down, totals them, subtracts that from another number and grimaces at the result. She puts it all away and sips her coffee, scowling into space.

"What's up?"

"I wanted to get a small table to put the lamp on," she says, dispirited, "but I don't think I'm going to find one."

Castle accurately translates this to mean I haven't enough money, and doesn't stop to think.

"Let me." It jumps from his mouth.

Her glance sears him.

"No, let me. If you find one. Housewarming present. Or we can go halves, if it's expensive." He assumes a pitiful mien. "I can't afford your costly tastes, Detective. If I tried to match the style and elegance of your desk in the bullpen," he says over her horrified splutter, "I'd be destitute."

"Devoid of intelligence, maybe," she snarks. "You call that taste?"

Castle grins. "To a certain sort of Brutalist designer, maybe. I don't like it. And my chair is almost as uncomfortable as those ones Selwyn had – though I grant you that it doesn't have the same elegance."

Beckett snorts. "Okay, your membership of the Tasteful Designers Guild is on the way."

"So can I buy you a small table? Just a tiny one? Pleeeeeaase?"

"I'll think about it. Maybe." Which is a capitulation he had not expected.

He bounces in his chair. "Now I'll have somewhere to put my coffee cup," he chirps. "I won't risk kicking it over when you're overcome by my rugged handsomeness."

Beckett chokes on the last mouthful of her coffee and is not rescued by Castle's frantic back-patting. By the time she's finished wheezing and coughing and spluttering she's red-faced and tearful. Through her choking she's trying to exhale imprecations at his arrogance, at which she is failing miserably, not for want of effort.

"If you stopped trying to insult me you'd recover faster," Castle points out, which really doesn't improve matters. On the other hand, it is (as planned) distracting Beckett from his offer to buy her a table. She glares blackly at him, utterly spoilt by the effects of her choking. With considerable difficulty, Castle preserves a straight face.

Once Beckett has recovered breath, they perambulate much more slowly around the spaces of the market. Finally, a table that satisfies all of Beckett's views on interior décor, her views on price, and Castle's views, which according to Beckett are not relevant because she is not letting him spend that much money on her (he doesn't agree), is alighted upon.

Everything is collated, collected, loaded and finally arrives at Beckett's apartment to be arranged in an acceptable fashion. Strangely, it's Castle who insists on micrometric precision of placement. Beckett displays much more of a that-will-do attitude. However, the new lamp is glowing gently (even if it is the middle of the day Castle insisted on switching it on) on the small table, and their coffee mugs are sitting proudly on the larger one.

"I can have a housewarming now," Beckett says contentedly. "Room for everyone to sit down."

She switches the lamp off, and looks around. Her photos are hanging on the walls, and the sun is streaming in. With her new furniture and the photos, it looks more lived in, and more like her home. Still much to do, but for almost the first time since moving in, she doesn't feel a sense of something missing when she gazes round. Of course, that might be because the major previously missing item is sitting comfortably on her couch.

"It looks good," Castle says.

"Yeah."

"Um, look, er… I gotta go home, but, er…"

Beckett regards him very suspiciously. "Spit it out."

"Would you come for dinner tonight? At the loft?"

She boggles. "Why?"

"I can cook?"

"Real reason."

Castle squirms. "Alexis-asked-me-to-bring-you-back," he rushes out.

Beckett's bogglement doubles. "You what now?" she gulps.

"She says she wants you to come back to the loft, so she can behave properly." He swallows. "I think she means it." And swallows again. "But I got it so wrong last time that I can't promise I'm right." He looks pathetically at her. "But I want you to. To let her try? Please?"

"And if she doesn't mean it?" Beckett asks, striking straight at the heart of the problem. There is a long, chill pause. Castle slumps.

"I don't know. Tell her what you think, if you can get in ahead of Mother. Walk out. I don't know. If it's all gone that wrong then I don't know what happens," he says heavily. "It's never been like this before."

Beckett says nothing. There is nothing to say, if it's all a way to manufacture trouble.

"But if it is," Castle suddenly says harshly, "it doesn't change this. It's my decision who I date." He slumps again. "I just want it to be like it was."

Uncomfortable, chilly silence continues for a moment. Beckett doesn't pick him up on saying that he's dating her. It seems like the best description, for now.

"Okay," Beckett says briskly. "I'll come. Might as well find out where we stand." Her confident tones are not in any way matched by the sinking feeling in her stomach. Alexis's previous behaviour coupled with her professional cynicism and distrust of expressed motivations are not inclining her to believe that dinner will be successful. Castle isn't even trying to disguise his worry.

"You will?"

"Yeah."

At six p.m. Beckett is regretting her decision to accept dinner, as she walks up to Castle's door and knocks. She is greeted by a red-topped tornado.

"I didn't believe you'd come and I'm so sorry and I can't believe you're here and I wish I'd never done any of it and" –

"Alexis, how about you let Detective Beckett get in the door?"

With some relief, and thankful for a chance to catch her breath, Beckett comes inside the loft. Castle sweeps her up and out of Alexis's way, which is welcome since Alexis is drawing breath to fuel, no doubt, another round of machine-gun mea culpas.

"D'you want a drink? Red?"

"Sure, thanks."

Castle produces a very large glass of red, which is, as expected, excellent. While Beckett is divesting herself of her light jacket and putting her purse down, Castle whispers a few words to Alexis which have the effect of stemming her incoherent flow of apologies and reducing her to relative quiet. He packs her off to do things in the kitchen, and ambles over to where Beckett is ensconced on the couch.

"I meant to open the door," he says, "but I was beaten to the punch."

"Okay. I brought some chocolates," she says, rummaging in her capacious purse.

"Yum. We can have them after dinner."

Conversation dies, uncomfortably, both of them aware of Alexis's embarrassed presence. "Um… Let's have dinner," Castle eventually says, and the three of them sit down to a chicken salad. Eating manages to disguise the lack of anything more than the most trivial conversation. They might all have been English, since all they talk about is the weather, stiltedly.

Dessert does not improve the quality of conversation. Alexis is embarrassed and trying too hard to prove that she really does want to mend matters; so Beckett is hard pressed – and embarrassed – to keep reassuring her that it's in the past rather than yell yes you screwed up now can you just get over yourself at her, which won't help anything. Castle has buried his nose in his wine after a few efforts to move conversation away from the weather crashed and sank on the rock of the unspoken issue.

Finally Beckett takes the lack of conversation by the scruff of the metaphorical neck.

"Okay. Alexis, you've apologised enough. You were really dumb but you've owned up to your mistakes. No, I'm not impressed by what you did. I thought you were smarter than that, but we've all done plenty of dumb stuff when we were sixteen and you had the guts to make it right so I'm not going to hold it against you in any way. Let's put it behind us and move on."

Alexis gapes at her. Castle squeaks, and quickly shuts his mouth as his ears turn pink.

"But" –

"No. It's done. I don't want to hear about it any more. You say that you're sorry, well, show that you're sorry by never talking about it again."

"But" – Alexis starts again.

"Any more of this is self-indulgent. You're creating a drama where you don't need to." Beckett pauses, and delivers the killing blow to teen insanity as Alexis opens her mouth. "Just like you did with me staying here."

Alexis shuts her mouth, very fast, cheeks blazing scarlet to match her hair. Castle winces. That was harsh.

Unfortunately, it was also fair. Alexis has been making considerable drama out of her contrition and unhappiness, and had looked set to continue. It looks very like that's been stopped dead, and while Beckett had landed on it hard, she had first told Alexis that it was all forgiven. Well, that's more or less what she meant. Otherwise she wouldn't be here.

Alexis, on the other hand, shortly isn't here.

"Excuse me, Dad, Detective Beckett," she emits, and decamps for her room, her flaming face lighting her way.

The two adults exchange glances.

"Coffee?"

"Yes please."

"Chocolate?"

"Definitely."

The first chocolates, and the second, disappear at near light speed. They look at each other a little sheepishly as their fingers clash over a third chocolate each.

"Um, you first." Castle's fingers retreat.

"I brought them for you." Beckett's fingers reluctantly slide backwards. "You first."

"I don't need too many sweets. I'm sweet enough." She snorts. He smirks, and removes the chocolates from her reach. She squawks. He replaces them with himself, sliding across the couch and snuggling her in. "See?" He kisses her, gently, on the cheek. She regards him indignantly.

"What was that?"

"A kiss. Surely you know what that is by now?" His brows waggle in a very salacious fashion. Beckett colours delicately. His voice drops into a soft, insinuatingly velvet baritone. "After all, I've kissed you nearly everywhere." The colour is no longer delicate. "But I wouldn't want to send my daughter into therapy."

"Beyond what she needs from growing up with you?" Beckett snarks.

Castle laughs, not in the slightest offended. "I've already put a fund aside for that, as well as her college fund. Though I do think that you should worry about the effect of my mother, not me."

Beckett's high colour retreats. "Anyway, it's all fixed. That's what we wanted. Guess I should go home now." She smirks. "Seeing as you're preserving the proprieties."

"I love when you alliterate." Castle frowns at her. "I don't love that you're going home."

"Yeah. Well. It's as fixed as it can be, and I don't wanna push our luck." Her face brightens. "But I'm going to have a housewarming. This week, if I can get everyone over. The boys, Lanie, O'Leary. And you." She smiles very seductively. "We could have a sleepover."

"All of us?" Castle asks mischievously.

Beckett rolls her eyes. "Yeah, sure. You're sharing a hammock with O'Leary." Castle splutters, defeated. "I better get home. See you tomorrow." It's not a question.

"Till tomorrow, Beckett." But he walks her to the door and then kisses her so deeply that she nearly stays, just so he wouldn't stop.

Thank you to all readers and reviewers. Much appreciated.

Sunday's posting will be the final chapter.