A/N: You're all wonderful. Here's the moment we've all been waiting for xx
He's never been good with silence. Not in the company of other people, at least.
(Beckett remains both an exception and the case in point.)
It unsettles him, the vast expanse of space that could be filled but instead remains empty. He's not sure what it is; maybe it's everything his own mind supplies to fill in the blanks, the thoughts kept caged-in that never see the light of day, especially where she's concerned, or maybe it's the weight of what everyone else could be thinking and not saying out loud.
Probably both.
As a kid faced with prolonged silences, he'd start talking. It didn't matter what about; if no one else's, at least he'd hear his own voice. He'd crack jokes or ask questions or rattle off facts about things that no one, himself included most of the time, cared about.
Enter Beckett being both an exception and the case in point.
There are only two kinds of silences between the two of them: (1) comfortable silences, which are becoming more and more common, no exchange of words needed, and it's these silences he enjoys; and (2) charged silences, brought on by anger, heated fights, or high levels of discomfort. These have been the most prevalent, though they've been decreasing in frequency.
Right now, settled uncomfortably on the side of door number two, he's dying to fix it.
In what's probably the first smart thing he's done all night, his desire to claw his way out of this silence is overpowered by the rightful conclusion that now is decidedly not the time to rattle off facts about serial killers that he's retained from old book research or offer up a shitty joke.
Instead, Castle rolls his shoulders against the padded seat, trying to dislodge some of the tension. When he looks over at Beckett as they pull into the parking spot in front of his apartment building, her forehead is creased, bottom lip pinned between her teeth.
Despite it all, she looks adorable.
This probably isn't what he should be thinking right now, not by a long shot, but he can't help it. He always thinks she's cute when she's riled up.
(He won't pretend her breath hot on his skin when she'd whispered I'm driving into his ear doesn't factor into this equation, though cute wasn't the principal word running through his mind at that precise moment.)
Following her up the stairs, he can feel the electricity coursing through his veins. It's like little shocks, each one egging him on, pushing him forward. Say something, say something, say something. He needs to be the one to speak first because he's not sure he'll maintain his nerve if she starts.
He just wants her to hear him out, at the very least, and then she'll understand. Maybe. Hopefully. She has to, right?
It's with this shred of hope in mind and the tiny jolts of energy that have him turning to face her as soon as they're inside, door closed behind them with a soft click.
To his surprise (and utter horror, really) she beats him to it.
"Don't," she says, her voice clipped. She's holding up a hand and oh, the anger's back. It's all over her face, like it had time to fester and grow with each passing second on the car ride over.
Maybe he should've opted to begin this talk on the drive, to quell the build-up if nothing else. He didn't think of this possibility.
"What the hell was that, Castle?" Beckett stands tall in front of him. She alternates between casting expectant glances at him (and if he wasn't terrified by the tone of her voice he'd probably speak, but he can do nothing but have the grace to look sheepish and remain silent) and staring at a spot on the far wall. "We go out for a night with our friends, and you pull... whatever that was? Policing my alcohol intake like I'm a child? "
She paces a little now, and his eyes follow her movements.
"I'm a grown woman," she continues, her voice firm, and he nods along automatically. She's not looking at him. "I can make my own choices, and even if that meant getting absolutely trashed, it's not your place to decide otherwise. Snatching my drink away from me like that? Seriously? I don't appreciate that, especially not in front of our friends, our team."
Taking a breath, she huffs. "I mean, everything wrong with what you did aside, what kind of message do you think that gives them?" It's rhetorical and he doesn't dare answer. This is precisely why he wanted to go first. "That I have some kind of hidden drinking problem or something, which," she laughs, a touch of bitterness lingering in the small exhale, "as you should be well aware, I don't."
He knows, of course he knows. With her father's past... she's never allowed herself to fall into that same trap.
When her silence drags out, one minute and then two, he deems it safe. He finally reacts, clearing his throat. "Kate, I..."
What to say first? He wasn't expecting all of that, to be fair. He gets why she's angry, he does, because he shouldn't have gone about it all the way he had, but he has good reason. As good a reason as any; she has to know that.
"What?"
Her eyes meet his, imploring.
There's a slump in her shoulders, reminiscent of the exhaustion that's visibly present during every other one of their fights. (He doesn't classify this as a fight, not really, just a... miscommunication, if you will.)
He wants to reach out, pull her into a hug and hold her until she relaxes. He doesn't think she'd be all too receptive to that idea right now, though, and he's not trying to give her any more reason to be pissed.
"I'm sorry."
It's as good a place to begin as any, he figures, and he watches her eyes widen just a bit. She wasn't expecting an apology and he's not sure what to do with that, what that says about how quickly he's reacted in all of their past arguments, so he ignores it.
Castle takes a step forward; she doesn't back away and he takes that as a positive sign. "I shouldn't have acted like I did. I know, and I'm sorry. About that... and about your jeans."
They both look down at the same time, eyes on the light spot the drink left, and he could (almost) laugh. It doesn't look as bad now as it did in the bar, not in this lighting at least, so he hopes once it's totally dry it'll be barely noticeable. He'll replace them if not.
"I put you on the spot and I shouldn't have. I didn't mean to," he says honestly, reaching up to clutch both of her hands in his. Her eyes widen at the touch, narrowing just in the slightest. "I got worried and I reacted when I should've let you explain."
"Me explain? I... worried about what?"
"It's okay," he assures her. Lifting his head, he catches her gaze. "It'll be okay, I promise."
Her fingers grip tighter at his shaking hands, calm and soothing in a gesture that's likely an impulse rather than a conscious thing. He can hear the thrumming of his heart, pulsing, and he's almost convinced that if he were to look down right now he'd be able to see it beating right out of his chest.
Beckett lets out a tiny, confused breath. "Okay?"
He smiles, soft and gentle. "Sorry, I just..." He laughs a little, anxiety expelling with each breath he takes. It's finally here, this moment he's been anticipating and equally not at all ready for. "I want you to know that I'm here, okay? I'm right here with you and I'm not going anywhere."
Beckett blinks, nodding slowly as she gathers her thoughts. "I didn't think you were, Castle. Is everything okay?" she asks. "Did something happen? With the book... with a certain British secret agent? I know you were waiting to hear back."
Delicately, he releases her hands and moves them to her waist, but doesn't answer her. Her breath catches and when he slides his fingers beneath the leather jacket to rest on her lower abdomen, palms splayed across the flat expanse of her stomach, he feels her muscles react.
"I know you probably had your reasons for not telling me and that's okay, you know, because I can't even imagine how you must be feeling," he tells her, charging on while he has the momentum. "But I need you to know you won't be alone in this. Ever. I know it wasn't planned and I know we're not—we're just us, we're partners but not partners, you know, but I think we've made a pretty good team so far, right? I—I care about you, Kate, a lot, and whatever you need... just let me know, alright, and it's done. Even if it's just midnight food—"
"Castle."
"Seriously, Kate, I mean it, I'm in this—"
"Rick," she repeats. Between the usage of his first name and the firmness of her voice it actually stops him mid-sentence, has him blinking up at her. (He didn't realize he was speaking to her torso this entire time, thumbs grazing over her shirt in slow, circular motions.)
She's wearing an odd expression on her face but it's... at the very least, the anger appears to have dissipated. Mostly. Yeah, mostly.
One second, two, and he watches in real time as a light-bulb goes off and she looks all too much like she's finally put together some grand mystery. Beckett opens her mouth then, the movement slow and expression a little awed-looking.
"I know about the baby," she murmurs quietly, so softly he knows it's meant only for herself, and yeah I'd hope so, he thinks. She's not looking at him but at the hardwood beneath her feet, shaking her head. When she looks up, her eyes search his face. "That's what you said."
He blinks. "What?"
"In the bar. Before we left, after we got out of the booth, that's what you said."
"Yeah, I... you know that."
But she shakes her head.
"I couldn't hear you." She didn't even hear him? He finally released this secret and unburdened himself of tons of weight and she didn't hear him? Lovely. "You were being so weird and looked so panicked that I knew for whatever reason we had to get out of there. I tried to read your lips but the bar was too loud and I couldn't concentrate, couldn't figure it out until..."
Her gaze trails down, landing on where his hands are still placed. In other words, she's saying now it all makes sense.
Castle runs a hand through his hair. "Oh," he breathes. "I didn't—that's fine, because now you know I know, and you know I wasn't trying to be an asshole tonight, right? And that's the main thing, that I know, so you don't have to hide anything anymore. Now we can finally work through this together and—"
"Castle, stop, please," she says emphatically, cutting him off. One hand lands on his shoulder, her expression soft as she stares at him. "I'm sorry. I'm not—Rick, I'm not pregnant."
His face falls immediately, mouth open. "Oh."
Oh god. He was right. It's already done, she already...
That's why she didn't say anything, because she never—shit. His chest shatters not unlike broken glass, the shards splintering around his ribs, painful even as he tries to hide it. He told himself he'd be on her team no matter what, even if this was her decision, and he's standing by that.
But it doesn't mean it doesn't hurt, and god, does it hurt.
"I uh—okay."
He takes one of his hands back, the other still mounted on her hip, grounding him. Slowly shrugging out from under her palm, he rubs awkwardly at the back of his neck.
"Okay," he says again, taking a deep breath. When he finally looks back up at her, he forces a smile. If it falls a little short (and he knows it does), he's sure she understands. "That's fine. That's totally your decision and I um... maybe I should just go?"
"Castle, this is your apartment."
His mouth opens, as if he's forgotten. "Oh. My bedroom then, and you can... you can stay here, for however long you need."
She notices the change in his body language, of course she does, and it takes a beat but then she's shaking her head, reaching out to grab at his forearm so he's unable to stalk past her and make a clean break for the other room.
"Hey, no," she says, and he reluctantly allows her to guide him towards the couch. "Sit down."
"You don't have to—"
"Sit."
He does, mostly because she leaves no room for objection, but he's shaking his head as she settles in beside him. "Kate, really, it's okay," he assures her, even if it feels very not okay at this moment deep in his gut. "It's your body and—"
"I was never pregnant."
Wide, shocked eyes fly to hers.
"What?" His entire face scrunches in confusion because no, no that can't be right. "Beckett, I... I found the pregnancy test in the guest bathroom."
Her brows skyrocket into her hairline.
"I wasn't trying to snoop, I swear. I saw the box when I couldn't sleep and I was cleaning the bathroom because I'd already cleaned everything down here. I saw it, all pink and unfamiliar, and curiosity got the better of me. Killed the cat, you know? So I pulled it out and I... I had no idea, I promise."
Beckett nods thoughtfully. "Did you even check inside the box? Look at the test?"
"It wasn't in there! Of course I looked inside," he says then, his voice an octave higher than intended. "And I figured that, you know, you would just throw away a negative test but maybe you'd take the positive one to show someone so..."
"So no test meant I was pregnant," she concludes with a tiny shake of her head. "Castle, the test wasn't mine."
His mouth opens, poised to speak, before it closes. "Oh," he breathes, a quiet sound.
It's like that's the only thing he can say anymore.
His brain catches up, back to the possible alternatives, and he turns wide, pleading eyes to her. "Wait, but if it's not yours, then who—oh god, not my mother. Actually, maybe... no, no, please not my mother."
Beckett actually laughs then, a throaty sound that warms his skin. "I—I cannot confirm that your mother isn't pregnant, though I'd bet money on the answer being no, but I can confirm that test was not hers."
"Thank god," he exhales, but once again the relief is short-lived, because if it's not Beckett's, and it's (blessedly) not his mother's, then... "Oh no. No, Alexis..."
"Castle, before you jump to—"
"I think I'm gonna be sick," he says, flopping himself deeper onto the couch before immediately standing up, the need to keep moving propelling him. "Beckett, if it's Alexis, she..."
"Castle."
Beckett tries to intervene, to get him to look at her, but he's too busy pacing in dizzying circles.
"My little girl," he mumbles under his breath, face pale.
"Castle," Beckett tries again, her voice a bit louder. Her head whips comically from left to right as he whizzes past, her gaze following him the entire time.
He doesn't listen, simply continues muttering words she can't hear beneath his breath.
"Rick," she says then, physically grabbing at his arm before he can whisk past her in yet another loop of the living room. Finally, Castle stops, faces her with a wild expression. "Sit back down."
"I can't."
"Sit down." Beckett walks him backwards until the backs of his knees hit the couch, then pushes gently on his chest to force him down. "Castle. The test was Alexis's."
His face crumples, falling into his open hands. "Oh god."
"It was negative."
His head lifts at that, eyes flying to hers. "It was—she's not?"
Beckett shakes her head. "No." Castle nods but doesn't say anything and she watches as his eyes glaze over a little. "Castle, I'm gonna need you to breathe for me, okay?"
Her hand on his knee snaps him back to reality and he breathes in a gasp of air.
"Beckett," he says then, her name a strangled thing. "How did this—how did she—she's my little girl!"
"She's not so little, Castle."
"She's fifteen!"
"Almost sixteen," she says, and can't help but laugh at the pained look on his face. She pats his thigh. "I'm sorry."
Castle groans. "She's still too young. Too young until she's thirty." He takes a breath. "Fifteen is a baby, Beckett. Were you out there at fifteen—" At her scrunched face, her small, apologetic smile, he buries his face back in his hands. "No, never mind, don't answer that."
"I bet you wish it was mine now."
"Yeah, I do, actually," he chuckles a little. Shit, he still hasn't... apologized for that, for the whole thing. "Jesus, Beckett, I'm—I'm sorry. I saw it and I just thought..."
"I get it," she says after a moment. "You found it in the guest bathroom I was using, in the trash, and not wanting to assume it was your daughter's, of course you'd think it's mine. I mean, you could've just talked to me instead of going insane and ripping my drink from my hand, twice, but..."
Her voice is light now, the tiniest hint of teasing, and it allows some of the remaining knots in his chest to loosen.
Castle winces, huffing out a breath. "Yeah, fuck, add that to the list of things I'm sorry about," he murmurs. Leaning forward, he rests his elbows on his thigh, head cradled sideways in his palms as he peers at her from beneath the shag of his hair. "So uh, all things considered, I guess we were a hell of a lot more careful after our Nikki Heat launch celebration than I thought, huh?"
He's going for a joke, his mind still reeling, the confusion and adrenaline melding but slowly allowing his heart to return to a normal pace. And then Beckett's eyebrows do that confused twitching thing again and something sinks in his stomach. Oh no.
"What?"
No, no, no.
This is the exact thing he was terrified of happening. Those memories, those choppy filmstrips of images burned into the back of his mind that started this damn thing—he used Beckett's supposed pregnancy to validate them, but now there's no pregnancy, there never was a pregnancy, and she's looking at him like he's suddenly morphed into the three headed dog from Harry Potter so this means... what, exactly?
Whatever it is, he doesn't like it, not one bit.
"We uh," he starts, clearing his throat, "after the Nikki Heat release party, right? We went to Remy's with the boys, had some drinks, and we came back here..."
His confidence wanes with each passing second, each word sounding more and more like a question and less like a statement, and he'd very much like the floor to open up and swallow him whole please.
"Castle," she says, gently tilting his chin so he's forced to look at her. She's regarding him so carefully, face so open and understanding and wow that almost makes it worse. "We didn't sleep together. Do you remember that night?"
The same flashes replay in his head; their lips crashing together, her palms cradling his face, but now he doesn't know what to make of them.
So, no, it would appear that he truly doesn't remember a damn thing about that night.
"It would appear not," he mutters with a small grunt.
"We had a few drinks with the boys, or more than a few in your case, and then," she trails off, gaze pointedly avoiding his, "we did come back here, to the loft." Okay, so he got one thing right. "There was—things got kind of heated for a bit," she admits, a hint of pink forming around her collarbone.
His voice is rough when he speaks, like rocks scraping against each other. "Heated?"
Now she's the one looking nervous, body language hesitant as she sits across from him, arms curled into her chest.
"We kissed," she says quickly, quietly. "We made out for a little, yeah, but that's as far as it went."
That one image, the one that undoes him more than the rest, of Beckett's hands splayed across his chest, fingers curled in the fabric of his shirt, floods back. His hands on her waist, her mouth soft on his.
It didn't end how he thought, but it happened. (Score.) Not false at all; just incomplete.
"Ah," he drags out slowly, processing. Made out for a little. That implies longer than the maybe 3 seconds he remembers. He decides in this moment that he's never getting drunk again. "How come you didn't say anything the next morning?"
She shrugs. "You didn't say anything. You waltzed into the precinct late, hungover, and when you didn't—I just figured you either didn't remember or you wanted to forget it ever happened."
He gapes, a laugh escaping, loud and disbelieving. "That I wanted to forget it ever happened? Kate, I've been dying for that to happen since the day I met you," he admits, though it's not much of an admission, considering he's sure she's known that.
"You didn't want to make out with me," she counters, sinking further into the couch. "You wanted to get into my pants."
His mouth opens, then closes, then opens again. "Okay, yes," he says, and she raises a brow, nods as if to say yeah. "It might've been about just sex in the beginning, but it hasn't been about that in a long time. I mean, yes, I'd also like to—I mean—but it's not just—" He pauses, exhales. "I'll stop taking."
"Probably for the best," she decides, mouth twisted to the side.
Oh, she's amused.
"But uh... just to clarify, one more time, that I'm not insane. I didn't hallucinate the kiss?"
"No," she chuckles, only just avoiding a roll of her eyes. "But we couldn't... I wasn't as far gone as you, but I wasn't sober either. If we were going to cross that line—" He's watching her intently, though she won't look at him, instead focused on a spot past his head. The fact that she says if, like there was a possibility if the circumstances were different, sends his stomach into his throat. "—it couldn't be when we'd both been drinking, even if you did try to convince me you were totally fine."
He's listening, he really is, but all he hears is that she stopped them from going any further because he was drunk and she was tipsy, not because she didn't want it as much as he did, and his heart speeds right back up for an entirely different reason.
"Which was clearly the right decision on my part."
Wincing a little, he nods. "Yeah, probably," he manages. "Okay, so, what did happen? After the making out, since I remember that part. Mostly."
The tinge of pink around her chest deepens, the blush coloring her cheeks, and he wants so badly to kiss his way up the column of her neck.
Now isn't the time.
(He hopes, with this newfound information, there will be a time.)
"Nothing, really," she says with a shrug. "I stopped us from doing something that would ruin us. I put a bottle of water and some ibuprofen on the table next to the bed, helped you take off your suit jacket when you got your arm stuck in the sleeve, and then practically wrestled to get you under the blankets."
"You really think that would've ruined us?"
Her voice is soft. "If we'd have just fallen into bed, drunk, and then had to deal with the fallout from that?" Her lips twist to the side. "Yeah, I do."
A part of him knows she's right, despite how badly he knows he'd have wanted it to happen in that moment.
"Okay."
She looks surprised at his easy agreement, slight relief washing over her. And then: "You don't remember that at all?"
He knew she was the one to leave him the pills and water—no way was that his own handiwork.
"No," he says, sitting up straighter. "I mean, some of it, I guess. I was just missing some critical pieces." Pausing, he closes his eyes and rubs at them with the heel of his palm. "Wow. I'm—sorry. I know I've said it and I'll probably say it a million more times but... now I really feel like an ass for stealing your drink tonight."
"And spilling."
He grimaces. "And spilling."
Beckett laughs and he feels lighter. "You thought you were looking out for me and our, uh, non-baby," she muses, voice scraping a little around the statement. She recovers quickly, makes eye contact with him, and leans over to nudge his shoulder with her own. "It was... actually really sweet of you, in hindsight. Misguided, but sweet. I'm sure if I was actually pregnant, I'd appreciate the gesture."
"If you were actually pregnant you wouldn't have been drinking in the first place."
One shoulder lifts. "That's true. You could've, and should've, handled it differently, but I'd still appreciate you looking out for me, though," she says. Her voice lowers, and she adds softly, "I always do, you know. I know I haven't—I know I'm not the easiest person to get to know, Castle. I don't always let you know that I appreciate having you around, but I do."
Lips curling into a soft smile, he reaches out and squeezes her hand. "I know."
After a moment, he stands from his spot on the couch and paces into the kitchen, rummages around (quite loudly) in his fridge.
"Ha!"
He returns with two glasses of wine in his hands and Beckett laughs again, a boisterous sound that hits him like a breath of fresh air. She shakes her head but beams at him around a smirk.
"To make up for the theft of your gin and tonic," he says as he hands over the glass, taking a seat beside her once more. "Which is still disgusting, by the way."
"Thank you." She clinks her glass with his. "You do realize that was the lamest excuse, right?"
"I know."
"You've told me—completely unprompted, might I add—horror stories about your experiences with gin."
"I know."
"You told me you would rather, and I quote, gnaw off your own arm than drink gin again."
"I know." He groans. "Give me some credit, okay, I was thinking on my feet!"
Beckett merely grins around a sip of wine, leaning more comfortably against the back of his couch.
"Kate." She looks at him. "How did you know about the pregnancy test? That it was—that it was Alexis? God it feels so wrong to say," he shudders. He'll be speaking to his daughter later, when it's less raw and he's more confident he won't collapse having that conversation. "How did you know it was hers, that it was negative?"
Shifting a little, Beckett lets out a long breath. "You were out at the store I think, getting groceries for dinner. I was in the guest room and I heard the front door, heard someone running up the stairs. The bathroom door slammed. I figured it was Alexis." Castle nods. "I think she thought I went to the store with you, because when I ran into her pacing in the hallway she looked like she'd just been caught committing a crime."
"Should be a crime," Castle mutters quietly. Beckett gives him a swat with the back of her hand, a glare. "Sorry, go on."
"She was freaking out, Castle. I just tried to talk to her."
"Alexis?"
The girl's face is beat red, bright eyes wide and glassy. "Detective Beckett?" she all but squeaks. "What are you—I didn't know you were here."
Beckett takes in Alexis's deer-in-the-headlights expression, the pacing, the shaking hands.
"Are you okay?" she asks, not moving to step closer just yet.
Alexis opens her mouth, but her face crumbles. "No."
"Okay. Do you want to talk about it?"
A small ding sounds from inside the bathroom and Alexis jumps, nearly flies out of her own skin, and Beckett blinks. She looks from the girl to the open bathroom door, onto the counter where a small timer sits. Beside it, placed delicately on top of a pile of paper towel, is what looks like—oh.
She realizes, a little breathless, it's a pregnancy test.
She keeps her voice soft, level. "Alexis?"
"Please don't tell my dad." Large, red-rimmed eyes meet hers, pleading. "I didn't... I don't... Kate, please."
The redhead starts to panic then, she can see it, watches it happen in slow motion. Her chest rises and falls quickly, her breaths coming in small, choppy bursts, a hand coming to rest on her chest as if she can't breathe.
"Hey, okay," Beckett says then, moving close enough to gently touch the teen's shoulder. "Alexis, breathe for me."
Alexis tries, but she can't seem to slow the beating of her heart. "I can't."
Beckett pushes gently on Alexis's shoulder, guides her a little further down the hall until the girl stops, steps until her back is against the wall and slides down. She pulls her knees up into her chest, curling her arms around her legs.
Sliding down beside her, Beckett places a reassuring hand on her forearm. "Breathe in." Alexis does. "Hold it." She does this too. After a few seconds: "Now exhale, long and slow."
They repeat the process a few times before Beckett notices that the girl's breathing slows to a normal pace.
"Thank you," Alexis whispers. She looks down at her hands. "I'm sorry."
She's not sure if she's apologizing about the pregnancy test or for the panic attack, but Beckett thinks she shouldn't be apologizing to her at all.
This isn't her realm, doesn't know what to do with this situation, but then she thinks back to her first pregnancy scare and wonders if she'd have felt any better if she had someone there with her, if she wasn't sitting in a similar position as Alexis, alone, in her own bathroom.
"Do you want to talk about it?"
Alexis sighs. "It shouldn't have happened."
Beckett's stomach drops a little. "Are you—did someone force you?"
The girl's eyes fly to hers, her head shaking quickly. "No, no. Sorry. I just meant... I was stupid. It was stupid." She pauses. "Dad's gonna kill me."
"Your dad loves you, Alexis."
"He won't, not after this."
Beckett tips the girl's chin, doesn't relent until she looks at her. "Yes, he will," she says, firm. She hesitates a moment, and then continues, "I was where you are once, almost in this exact position, actually," she muses, smiling down at Alexis when she peers over at her.
"Were you my age too?"
Beckett nods. "I was a little older, a few days shy of seventeen."
"What did you do?"
She leans her head back against the wall. "A lot of what you're doing right now. Crying, pacing, panicking. I sat on the floor of my bathroom and waited what felt like twelve agonizing years for the results to come back."
Alexis considers this. "Negative?" she asks quietly, uncertain. She doesn't have kids now, Alexis knows this, but she could've made different decisions, chosen alternative arrangements.
Beckett nods. "Negative."
"I hope this turns out just like yours did," the girl breathes, tapping nervous fingers against her shins. "Kate, what if I... what if it's... what do I do?"
Pushing up off of the wall, Beckett stands, extending her hands. Alexis just blinks at her for a moment, confused, before putting her hands into Beckett's and allowing her to pull her from the floor.
"You walk in and find out. And you go from there."
Alexis clears her throat, exhales. "Will you come with me?"
"Let's go," Beckett says then, walking together with Alexis into the bathroom.
"And it was negative."
Beckett nods. "And it was negative," she says. Sighing, she purses her lips. "Listen, Castle, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to overstep, I should've told you—"
"Yeah, you should have," he agrees. "But you were there for her. You calmed her down, you talked to her. You made sure she wasn't alone in that moment."
"I—like I said, I was in her place once, and I remember how terrified I was. I didn't want her to have to sit there and feel the same way."
He hesitates for a moment, unsure of what the protocol is right now regarding them, but he lifts an arm, wraps it gently around her back to hold her close. She stiffens for a few seconds and then he feels her relax.
"Thank you," he says. "And I'm sorry."
Her brows furrow. "What?"
"That you were alone. You know, when you were in that situation."
She huffs a small laugh then. "I was sixteen, Castle. Been a long time since then," she says, letting her head rest against the couch cushion. "What an... odd turn of events."
Castle chuckles. "You can say that again." She's quiet, and he squeezes her shoulder with the hand wrapped around her back. "Stop thinking so hard."
"I'm—" She exhales. "It's weird."
"Yeah," he agrees, because he'll admit that this whole thing is weird. The situation is weird, him sat here with his arm draped around her shoulder is new, and therefore weird. "But not bad. Right?"
Peering up at him from beneath her lashes, she offers the softest curl of her lips. "No," she decides. "Not bad."
A moment later she leans in, draws closer into his side, and he tightens his hold.
They sit in silence once more. He's not sure if she's thinking the same thing he is—he thinks she must be, because how could she not?—but he can't stop the cruel thoughts of what that night could've been had they not been drunk.
(Of course, if they weren't drunk they likely wouldn't have ended up in his loft to begin with, would've never been in his bedroom with her hands roaming his chest and their mouths fused together.
He ignores this part.)
Behind the soft smiles Castle shoots her every time he catches her glancing up at him, he can't seem to get rid of the tiny pang of sadness lodged somewhere deep in his chest; an ache that makes no real sense to him, an ache that has no right to but exists nonetheless.
He hasn't truly let himself acknowledge it, but he was really starting to get used to the idea.
The image was etching itself a little more clearly each day, a little girl with an inquisitive smile, wavy brown hair, and the same hazel eyes that have had him captivated since the day they crashed his book party.