Chapter 17

Castle's mother took rather longer to titivate herself and depart than either Castle or Beckett would have liked. The wine had relaxed Beckett completely, and she was only too ready to nestle into Castle and let his broad body take away the last of the stresses and strains of the day. Once his mother had gone, she snuggled in and finally let herself unwind. Castle, despite his earlier suggestiveness, simply curled an arm around her and held her closely, allowing her time and space to ease into him. She sighed quietly, and then softened.

After a little time, she raised her head a fraction from his shoulder, and dusted a kiss across his jaw. Castle's reaction was instant: he brought her up to his mouth and kissed her hard, pouring out passion and, Beckett thought before all thought was lost, driving any idea of other men – or other Demming-Detectives – from her head. There hadn't been any idea of that sort in her head, but if he wanted to ensure it, he was going the right way about it.

"We're in the wrong place," he murmured. "Come through to my study. It's a little less public if Mother comes storming back early or if Alexis wakes – though she never usually wakes."

Beckett hadn't seen much beyond the door on her first abortive visit, and though she'd noticed the bookshelves and a room behind them today, the excellence of the food had held her attention. The study was eclectic: toys on the windowsill, a large desk, a screen that resembled her murder board except considerably more hi-tech, a TV, and a comfortable-looking couch; into which Castle promptly plopped down, pulling her after him. Not accidentally, she ended up in his lap, though whose non-accidental idea that was could certainly be open to debate. Anyway, it was a very comfortable lap, and it had the distinct advantage that Castle was providing it, along with some more kisses and some soothing, if non-specific, petting.

Castle was pleased to pet, and more pleased to be petted in return. He certainly enjoyed sex, but he liked it so much better when accompanied by affection, cuddles, and petting. Fortunately Beckett seemed to like all of those things too. He vaguely thought that it was amazing how quickly they had, well, got on. He liked her, rather than simply wanting her. She gave him no respect at all for being rich and semi-famous, and he liked that just fine; she could pierce pomposity with a sentence, and he liked that too; and – though he wasn't going to tell her this, at least not yet – she'd inspired four full chapters of a new book, which was as much as he managed on a really good day with Storm.

Anyway, here was a cuddlesome Beckett, whose sleepy eyes were developing a not-so-sleepy mischievous sparkle, perfectly positioned in his lap and inviting kisses with that naughty nibble of her lip. He was happy to oblige, after which her petting became considerably more specific, as did his, after which he introduced Beckett to his bedroom.

"Is that a bed, or a cruise boat?" she asked, staring at his king-size bed.

"Right now, it's a dreamboat," Castle said cheesily. Beckett groaned, and then squeaked as he swept her up and deposited her in the middle of the bed, whipping away her shoes. "There. Now, what shall we do?"

"Sleep," Beckett said naughtily, and firmly shut her eyes as she wriggled under the counterpane and on to the piled pillows.

"Okay," Castle answered amiably, stripped to his boxers and slid in beside her. "But you can't sleep in shirt and pants. You need to take them off. I'm sure it wouldn't be comfortable to keep that pretty bra on" –

"You don't know what my bra looks like today."

"It's been pretty every other time I've seen it, so I think you like pretty underwear. I sure do."

"I'd noticed," she said dryly. "Not that you seem to take much time about appreciating it."

"I appreciate all sorts of beautiful things, especially the sort that live under your clothes."

Beckett choked. That bore the same relation to subtlety as a vulture to a wren.

"Now, how about you make yourself a little more comfortable?"

Beckett yawned. She didn't mean to: she'd intended to flirt a bit more and then pursue some of the more enjoyable options for a comfortable bed; but instead she yawned enormously. Castle slid out of his bed, and shortly produced an elderly t-shirt.

"You're tired," he noted. "How about you really do go to sleep, all tucked up here?"

Beckett sat up. "I can't," she lamented. "I'll be late for work. I guess I'd better go home." She drooped a little, leaning back, and her lashes dropped. She jerked up. Castle took the path of (some) morality and pulled her up to standing, though he couldn't resist hugging her, and then dropping several little pecks on the top of her head in the hope that she would look up and be in a position to be kissed properly.

She did look up, but since she also stepped back, kissing her properly wasn't quite possible. He looked carefully at her, noting the sudden weariness in her face and posture. "You could sleep here, if I set an alarm for you, but that would be" – he suddenly smirked – "hugely disappointing for you. You'd be even less inclined to leave."

"If you're going to be like that about it, I'll be more inclined to leave." But she didn't resist when he gathered her close again, nor when he kissed her deeply.

"Night night," he said cheerfully. "I'd see you to the outer door, but I don't think the other residents would really appreciate my attire."

"Nope."

"So I'll leave you at this door."

"Night, Castle," she said.

"Till tomorrow."

She acquired a tiny spark of mischief. "You can spend it with Detective Demming."

"You…you…you! No!"

"Gotcha," she giggled, and disappeared into the elevator.

Beckett, unusually, grabbed a cab to get home, rather than braving the subway late at night. She gratefully arrived at her apartment – and not at all gratefully saw a note pinned to her front door.

That noisy drunk was here again. Had to have him arrested. Can you do something about him?

Oh, fuck. She looked at her phone, but there were no missed calls. She needn't feel guilty or have that fight again – and she doubted that Sergeant McMahon would be calling her after this morning's report. She would do something about her father – tomorrow. Tell him face to face that she was never bailing him out again; tell him not to come around; tell him that she wasn't going to be there if he couldn't stay off the booze; tell him…tell him he wasn't being a father to her.

Tell him she was done.

Dear Diary. Thanks to my drunk dad, I've probably had my card marked by half the NYPD for reporting McMahon and by all the neighbours for the disturbances around my apartment. If he comes around again, they'll probably ask the building manager to tell me to vacate. That'll be great. Not. What else can he screw up for me?

Maybe I shouldn't ask that. What if he came to the precinct, drunk? Or met Castle? So I guess it could be worse.

That doesn't really help. It's quite bad enough without borrowing trouble. I guess I just have to tell him I'm done. No point in waiting: he's not getting better. Maybe he'll never get better. I need to accept that.

I don't want to accept that. I just want my Dad back, sober again. It's never going to happen till he decides – if he decides. If.

Fuck.

Eventually, she fell asleep.

Castle's phone beeped mid-morning, with a text from Beckett. Sorry, have some stuff to do right after work. Raincheck? KB

He sent back Sure. RC, and only then wondered why she'd cancelled on him when not twelve hours ago she'd expected to see him at the end of her shift.

Beckett buried her fears in work for the whole of the day, but as soon as her shift finished she set her teeth, straightened her spine, and took the subway uptown to her father's apartment, hoping she would find him there. She didn't bother hoping that he was sober. Miracles only happened in the Bible.

Terrified, but resolved to do this no matter the cost, she rapped on her father's apartment door. At the point where she was almost ready to leave, she heard shuffling within, and the door opened.

"Katie!" her dad said, only the tiniest hint of a slosh tinging his words. "You come to see me?" It came out as shee me. He didn't notice her wincing. "C'mon in. Wanna drink?"

She strode in, and pulled on Detective Beckett, not Katie-his-daughter. "Dad, we need to talk," she said firmly.

"We do? Okay, Katie."

Her father shuffled off. If she hadn't been watching him, she'd never have noticed the slight sway. Since he'd evidently forgotten about it, she shut the door before she followed him. He flumped down into an armchair, by which was a small table, the surface marked with rings, holding a glass. Empty. She didn't know if that was from the night before or this afternoon, and told herself she didn't care. She didn't sit down, standing, judging, in the centre of the room.

"Dad, I'm not going to bail you out again. If you get arrested, that's your problem," she said baldly, desperate to get through this without breaking down into anger or tears. "You're drowning in booze, and if I carry on rescuing you, you'll just keep drowning but you'll drown me too. I'm not going to drown, so I'm not saving you any more. It's up to you now."

His face went slack, shocked. "Katie" –

"No. I'm not dying with you. If you want to die because Mom did, then you're going to do it without me because I don't want to die!" She swallowed, and controlled herself. "This is goodbye, Dad. If you get dry, call me."

She closed his front door painfully gently behind her. No sounds came from his apartment, no calls after her to say he'd change. She hadn't expected any, but still, it hurt. She supposed, heading home, rigorously preventing any dampness in her eyes or tightness in her throat, that now she might as well be an orphan. She'd probably be one for real, pretty soon, but she didn't want to drown with her father.

The magnitude of her action only fully hit her when she closed her own front door behind her, and didn't have to hold composure through the subway. She'd cast her father away, into the outer darkness – and he hadn't seemed to care.

She flung herself on her bed as she might have done as a child, and sobbed until she could sob no more; cried dry, and fell asleep, exhausted by emotion, still dressed.

When Beckett woke, she was uncomfortable, chilled, and, since she hadn't removed her make-up, resembled a pantomime raccoon. Her pillowcase was also smudged and smeared, which meant that she'd have to throw it in to wash and hope that it came clean. Even after a hot shower, she could sense a dull headache behind her temples; and the thought of the day ahead didn't thrill her for almost the first time since she'd become a detective. She told herself off for her discouraged state, and pretended it had worked, all the way through the day. At shift end, however, she left upon the instant.

Consequently, when Castle arrived, a few moments after shift had ended, she was missing. He looked around, a touch confused.

"She already left," someone said.

"Oh, okay." Castle hid his concern and a touch of irritation, and departed. As he exited the precinct, it occurred to him that he could just go see Beckett, who was bound to be at her apartment, and find out what was going on. Off he dashed, consumed with the need for answers, and beat a rat-a-tat-tat on her door.

It opened, slowly, to reveal a Beckett which Castle had never seen – never expected to see. No make-up, old, shabby sweats, tangled hair. She looked like she'd spent a wet week in the open, and her eyes were haunted. Though she was no thinner than two days before, somehow, she was gaunt and pale.

"What's wrong?" he gasped as the door swung shut.

"I'm fine."

"You aren't fine," he said flatly. "You're a mess."

"Feel free to leave, if that's what you think," Beckett snapped back, quite unfairly. "I guess you're used to perfect women."

"Oh, sure," Castle said sarcastically. "That's why I'm here. You're the epitome of the perfect woman."

Beckett burst into tears, which surprised Castle no more than it surprised Beckett. "Go away," she snuffled.

Castle stepped forward and hugged her. "There, there," he soothed. "Stop snapping and sobbing and snuggle in. Hey, listen to my wonderfully spontaneous alliteration! I really ought to be a writer, don't you think?" Beckett snuffled some more, and didn't even try to prick the balloon of his conceit. "Okay, what's really wrong – oh. What's your dad done this time?"

"How did you know?"

Castle drew her down to the couch and put a consoling arm about her shoulders. "Nothing else seems to upset you, so…it was deduction. See, I'm learning to be a detective. Think the NYPD would have me?"

Beckett ignored that.

"Now, what's your dad done?"

"Not him." Castle boggled. "Me."

He boggled harder. "You? What've you done?"

She started to cry again. Castle was suddenly reminded that Beckett wasn't nearly as old as he persisted in thinking she was – she came across as far more mature than he (not that that was hard: he wasn't that fond of maturity) – but she was only twenty four, Roy had said. She was still barely out of college, really, and already a detective – and dealing with her mother's death and her father's alcoholism and, no doubt (Castle had no illusions about the jealousy that early success, however much deserved, might bring), some difficulties at work from others who might feel passed over, or simply wish to bring her down a peg or two. It was understandable, when she was still so very young, that emotion might overwhelm her.

On which note, he realised that she'd stopped crying, possibly by main force. He tipped up her chin, which Beckett tried fruitlessly to resist, and regarded her. "C'mon," he said, and marched her to her bedroom, sat her down at her vanity, and picked up her hairbrush.

"What are you doing?" she asked pathetically.

"Brushing your hair. Well known to be soothing." Castle began, sliding the bristles through Beckett's shortish, spiky cut; following with his fingers. In the mirror, he could see her shadowed eyes and pinched lips, but kept brushing, unknotting the tangles and smoothing down the wayward locks. Shortly – far too soon for Castle's taste – Beckett's hair was reduced to its normal orderly state. "Now, shall I do your make-up too?"

"What? No."

"I'm really very good at it. I learned to do stage make-up when I was trotting round behind Mother to every two-bit theatre in America, so Alexis had the best pamper party in her grade."

"I don't want any make-up. I'm not going anywhere."

"Okay. Let's get take-out and snuggle. I've been deprived of any cuddles – Alexis is too grown-up to hug me today – I think she's imitating Mother, which is ghastly – so you need to let me cuddle you otherwise I'll be miserable and drip all over you."

Castle was being extremely careful not to push Beckett to explain what she had done to leave her in this state. He was both intensely curious and quite convinced that it was to do with her father, but if Beckett were to push him away now, he felt, though he knew not why, that she'd shut him out for ever. He didn't like that thought, and though self-control was not one of his main virtues, he could exert it if he had to.

"I guess," Beckett said dispiritedly. "You choose. There are menus on the table."

"Will you come out and snuggle?"

"In a minute. Go order."

Castle strongly suspected that Beckett was intending to finish her crying jag and put on make-up to hide it, but, still allowing discretion to be the better part of valour, dropped the point and went to find a suitable take-out menu. He ordered Thai in the end, not being sure what Beckett liked beyond burgers and French cuisine, but since she'd said you choose he expected that she liked most things.

A few minutes later she emerged, perfectly made up and calm, wearing jeans and a sweater and very smoothly stylish. Yet again, he didn't comment. "I ordered Thai," he said.

"Great."

"It'll be about half an hour."

"Great."

"Shall we have coffee while we're waiting?"

"Great."

"Would you like a pony?"

"Great – what?"

"Now that you're listening," Castle said, "shall we have a coffee?"

"Okay." Beckett trudged across to the kettle, and began to make a pot. Castle followed, and snuggled her into his chest. She didn't noticeably soften, but she didn't push him away or even stiffen up either, which in this case was a win.

Conversation was distinctly lacking, until the knock of the takeout delivery guy came as a relief, at least to Castle. Beckett didn't seem to notice it, so Castle opened the door, paid, tipped, and brought it back to put it in the oven.

"Beckett, it's dinner time," he said.

"Okay." She trudged back to the kitchen and found plates and cutlery, brought them back and put them on the table. Castle brought the food: Beckett hadn't even glanced at the oven, and he was hungry. She took some chicken and rice, but pushed it around her plate while Castle made a decent meal, staring at it as if it might have answers. He thought she'd barely had a mouthful.

"I told him we were done," she said out of the blue: the first word she'd said since before dinner. "Told him if he wanted to die because Mom had, that was up to him – but I don't wanna die. I told him it was goodbye, and to call me if he got dry."

Tears trickled down her face, taking eyeliner with them in black streaks. It made her look clownish, but Castle wasn't inclined to mirth. He stopped eating, and put his arm back around her.

"I can't drown with him. I don't want to. I can't help him any more but…" She dissolved into tempestuous tears again, looking no more than sixteen. Castle abandoned the remains of his meal, and hoisted her up into his lap, encouraging her head to lie on his shoulder and reflecting that a good dry cleaner would be able to remove mascara stains from his shirt. From the damp patch spreading over his collarbone, he was pretty sure there would be mascara and eyeliner adorning the fine cotton.

"You can't help him. Maybe if you've told him flat out that you won't, it'll be what he needs to change. If he doesn't, that's not on you." While he spoke, he tried to hide his astonishment at her action. Told her father? Face to face? That was…brave?...stupid?...desperate?

"No?"

"No. Now come here, and let me cuddle you."

Thank you to all readers and reviewers.

Reviews seem to be fixed. Hopefully updating is also fixed.