Treading Water
x
Pandora/Linchpin 4x15/16
No we're not. You're on her team because the way you look at her, you're sure as hell not on mine.
x
Do you think she knew my father?
Beckett tries not to let it overwhelm her, his self-absorption. He's allowed to fixate, God knows she has. (But is this really all that has penetrated? Some offhand comment about his father when Sophia Turner was not only a spy but a Russian spy. And one muse in a long line of them.) She attempts redirection, nudges him with the new technology on her refurbished unit, see the heater controls, no spring in the passenger's seat now, do you hear the engine purr. But he doesn't bite.
Do you think Sofia knew my father? Who he was?
Does she think this is the real take-away here?
No, but she drives him home and says nothing about it.
X
Castle doesn't get out.
She turns off the engine but leaves the key in the ignition, folds her hands in her lap as she studies him.
His fingers are still hooked in the door release but he doesn't open it. He looks out of the windshield, a thousand yard stare, his face slack.
"Castle?"
"I need you."
"What?" she gasps.
"Mother."
That was not what she thought would come out of his mouth next. Bewildered, she glances towards his building involuntarily, pushes back in her newly upholstered seat. It's likely that nothing interior in this car is what it used to be; she'll have to sign it out to the NYPD mechanics and have them look it over, just in case they left trackers. Or panic buttons.
"I'm not sure I can remain civil," he sighs.
"With your mother?" she asks, forehead creasing. "Why is that?"
He looks at her, desperation stamped deeply in his face.
"Oh," she sighs, her heart sinking. She spent the drive here mentally chastising him for his self-absorption, and yet the moment he asks for her help, she can't get out of her own head to see what he's dealing with. "Would Martha not tell you?"
"No."
"She wouldn't?" Kate startles.
He gives her a dry look.
"Mm, yes, I see," she sighs. She reaches over the center console and closes her hand around his fingers. "You can't be civil?"
"I've asked a hundred times," he murmurs. "As a kid, it was constant, my asking. She always put me off with vague assertions or that melodramatic one night of passion. And I told myself that it was better that way because he could be anything or anyone I wanted. He could be an astronaut or a basketball player or a—a spy. Any story I wanted."
Castle falls silent, and she senses this in him sometimes, the truth wanting out. Truth, and not the story.
"But actually, Kate?" He's slow to meet her eyes, and when he does, her heart jolts. "It's infuriating. Not knowing. Not having anything. How could she not know?" It's the cry of a child, but his face is bitter, and when he continues, his voice holds the dark certainty of adulthood. "Of course she knows. She must know, and so the worst leaps to mind—"
"You can't go there," she says softly.
"Of course I can. I'm the master of the macabre, remember?" A sad crooked smile. "I've known Mother and her foibles for decades. What used to sound romantic is actually a tale as old as time: an up-and-coming ingénue is seduced by a Lothario who wants nothing to do with her when—"
"That's still a story," she says quietly. "You said it yourself, tale as old as time. Don Quixote, right?"
He doesn't say anything for a moment. And then he looks at her, and he's serious. "It's very hot that you know that."
She smiles. "If you thought you'd trip me up with that tale as old as time bit, make me say Beauty and the Beast—"
"I admit it. It was a test." He finally smiles. "You passed."
"Mm, one of us should." She returns her hand to the key. "And I won't make you test yourself. Let's go to my place."
"Really?"
She rolls her eyes at his high-pitched incredulity, starts the car.
x
Castle leans back on her arm, pinning it to the top of her couch. Not that he has to trap her here with him. She suggested it. He's just... enjoying himself. Luxuriating in the Beckettness.
"Dinner was good," he says, his eyes closed, relaxed in her couch.
Kate twitches her arm and actually rounds her body against his side. Her lips brush his cheek and his breath catches in his throat. "Thank you. I tried."
"You tried?" he smiles. Turns his head to look at her.
She's so close he has to pull back to be able to focus. She's smiling too, the indulgent one, and he loves that one. That one means she's indulging him, and that is the best, really.
She pushes in the last inch between them and kisses the corner of his mouth. "I tried. Meaning, I didn't just call for take-out. I boiled pasta and cut the tomatoes. I—"
"Heated the packaged chicken strips in the microwave and spread some pre-made pesto—"
She pulls back, holding him off with her free hand. "Are you implying that my dinner wasn't—"
"No, no. Not at all. You did try, you tried so good, Beckett. I'm proud of you."
She wrinkles her nose and shoves on his chest. "See if I ever make you dinner again."
"Yeah, don't worry. I got it covered. Been cooking family dinner for at least fifteen years."
She does the math quickly; he can see the calculation in her eyes. "You were stuffing that poor kid with McDonald's chicken nuggets all her toddlerhood, weren't you?"
"Yup!"
She laughs.
God, he loves when she laughs. Better when it's because of him, but it wouldn't even matter. She's beautiful. "We both loved the french fries," he says inanely, lifting his hand from the couch to comb through her hair.
She goes still, perched against his chest with her knees drawn up, her fingers petting the hollow of his throat like she doesn't even know she's doing it. He leans in and softly kisses her mouth.
That stillness unfolds, as if she's been waiting for this, his mouth against her mouth. She cups the side of his face and drags a knee over his thigh, settles on him with a rock of her hips, breasts settling against his chest.
He groans. She laughs. His arm winds around her head and his fingers sink into her hair, he draws her closer and palms a shoulder blade in case this needs to remain PG. But Kate is still rocking on his thigh, sharp hot kisses against his mouth and jaw and throat and even that moan...
Wow.
He never expected this.
She's pulling his shirt out of his pants.
He wonders if it's a really bad idea.
She runs her fingers along his ribs.
He thinks maybe he should stop things before they get out of hand.
She rubs against him.
He ought to—
"We nearly died," she husks.
He freezes. Her hands pause. "Twice," he whispers.
"That's not okay with me," she says against his mouth. Her hands go to the button of his pants.
What else is he supposed to do? He can never say no to her.
He wishes like hell he hadn't worn the damn belt today.
x