A/N: Courtesy of the site mess ups, you might have missed chapter 2, which was posted on Tuesday. Probably best to read that before this one.
Chapter 3: Cool cat
On Saturday night, she gets a cab to the Rizzoli bookstore, listens to the reading without being noticed by anyone for a minute or two– perfect, it's about five minutes till he takes a break – slides silently into the alleyway behind it, looks at her watch again, and changes to her pure black cat. She's invisible in the gloom.
And there he is. Wow. Oh oh oh oh! She'd never thought about how much more her cat form would notice simply from his scent. Oh, oooohhhhh! She likes his aftershave, sure, but ohhhhh her far more sensitive cat nostrils are overloaded and it's all going straight to her core. She knows the minute he sees her, straightening from the wall, but when she slithers and curls around his legs – oh, now she knows why cats do that: that feels fabulous – he doesn't try to take liberties, he simply pets around her ears.
Oh. Oh, yes. Oh, those fingers. He could be playing with her breasts. Oohhhhhh. If she were human, she'd be close to orgasm already. Even as a cat, she's pretty close. He strokes down her spine and she arches into the touch, utterly undone by the sensations. This might just have been the best idea of her entire life to date.
And then he picks her up: strong hands holding her, and lays her against his shoulder in just the way she'd dreamed about, and keeps petting. And he's talking: compliments and flattery, and in cat form the sound of his voice is almost as irresistible as the delicate, erotic (not that he knows that) touch of his hands. She snuggles into that broad shoulder and warm neck, breathes in the druggingly sexy scent of Castle and his cologne, and starts to purr continuously. He's… ooohhhhh, who cares about words? Just don't stop petting me, Castle. She's pretty certain she's just come, because he's been playing gently with her ears again.
"Mr Castle?" some unwanted person interrupts her blissed-out haze of total sexual satisfaction. "Mr Castle, it's time to restart."
Who is this idiot? She wants to bite him. Hard, and fatally. He shouldn't be interrupting them. He – idiot – shouldn't be causing Castle to put her down and stop that amazingly wonderful petting and stroking.
"I've got to put you down. They want me to go back to finish the reading, and I can't disappoint my public. It's not nice." He very gently detaches her. Beckett-cat mews, very softly, and only just stops herself running her claws into his very expensive clothes to stop him putting her down. She wants to stay right where she is. She feels astonishingly safe, and warm, and comforted. She hasn't felt like that for over ten years.
"Guess you won't be here when I'm done," he says, and her sensitive ears pick up a note of disappointment. "Bye, beautiful."
Oh, she'll be there. Oh yes. She follows after him, and confidently takes possession of a space in front of the chairs where she can watch him.
About five minutes in she realises that she's mooning over him like a lovesick teen, and, embarrassed even as a cat, washes a paw and stalks away, tail flicking dismissively. She gets as far as a very private corner, changes back to Beckett, and goes in to listen to the rest of the reading.
She is amused, delighted, and astonished in almost equal measure to discover that he is very concerned about the cat – her – and that he is quite clearly a cat person. Perfect. Or possibly purrfect. But then he has to attend to the fans, so she slips away.
She means to slip away. She's not going to go back as a cat and be petted and cuddled and stroked and left blissed out again tonight. She even leaves the bookstore – just as far as the nearest coffee bar for a quick hit of common sense before she goes home. Even caffeine doesn't restore her normal sense. She simply cannot get over how good he made her feel.
She goes back to the bookstore.
She lurks in that same private corner and changes back, and stalks back into the reading area, watching all the drooling fans with deep dislike. She could empty the room in an instant, she knows – and right now, she's almost failing to remember why she shouldn't. Castle is hers, and these crowds of women aren't getting a look-in. He might not know it, yet, but she's not letting him go now.
Finally the fans disappear, Castle spots her, and shortly she's in his lap, drowning in petting and snuggling and total pleasure, and then he takes her home, stroking all the way. Even if she were a real cat, and thus unused to cabs, the stroking would keep her pinned in place. Oh, those fingers. Ohhhhhh.
Oh, no. There will be no bowls on the floor here. That's not dignified. She regards Castle, who takes the hint (and the bowl which he'd been about to place on the floor) and puts it on the desk, near his laptop. She laps up the milk, and then poses perfectly on the surface. More stroking occurs. She drifts off into a sensual haze, drugged by his glorious aroma.
He's named her. Wow. He must really like her cat. She likes the name, too. Suitably elegant. She indicates that more stroking would be appreciated, and he responds immediately. Good. He's perfectly trainable. Very responsive. She thinks about whether he'll be equally responsive in bed, and then leaps for his shoulder again.
Later, she indulges in looking around his bedroom, while he's promising her a home. He really is a cat person. Of course, she has a home of her own, which Castle has occasionally visited to discuss cases. Lovely big bed, mmmm. She jumps on to it, and discovers it to be nicely firm. She wouldn't want to sink into the mattress. After she's used the bathroom – even as a cat she uses the bathroom – she returns, stalks on to the bed again, and listens to Castle promising to introduce her to herself. Not going to happen.
On the other hand, the note in his voice is very interesting indeed. It's wistful, and just a little adoring. Adoration is good. Very good. She snuggles into his neck and indulges in some more breathing in of very sexy essence of Castle.
Castle, she thinks as she curls up in the crook of his neck, in his bed, might think that he's acquired a cat. But everyone knows that you don't own a cat: they own you.
She could get used to this: sleeping snuggled up to Castle. But much as she doesn't want to, she needs to go. She can't be both here and in the precinct; and unbelievable ability to make her cat very, very happy notwithstanding, she needs to have a lot more evidence before she lets the truth out.
Castle spends the morning complaining and worrying about the cat. Beckett plays along, never twitching a hair at his commentary. She can play this game all day.
"You're really upset," she says, wondering what he'll say, and yes, okay, she's fishing a little. She's allowed.
"Yeah. She was gorgeous." Gorgeous is good. Oh yes. Carry on with the compliments, Castle. She fishes a little more, and is then very grateful for an excellent poker face.
"I guess I fell in love" – she doesn't hear the rest. How can she be so instantly jealous of her own self? She's hurt. She snarks, to cover it up. He's in love with the cat? He's not supposed to be in love with the damn cat, he's supposed to fall in love with her. Even if she is the cat. Her head hurts.
Beckett goes home at the end of shift, and takes out her venom on the scratching post and as a panther. She will not go to see Castle. She won't. She absolutely will not.
Half an hour later she's in a cab to Broome Street. Long enough after the cab decants her that no-one's looking, she nips into a handy alley and changes, then stalks into the doorway of Castle's block and glares at the doorman until he notices her. He looks at her in surprise, and then lifts the house phone. She sits perfectly poised and precise.
Much to her amazement, Castle is down in record time, scoops her up and doesn't cease to pet her – ohhhhh, round her ears, ohhhhh, more please Castle, don't stop – while simultaneously berating her for disappearing and worrying him. The note of concern – and the petting, and feeding of treats, is all very encouraging. Definitely very trainable, her Castle. She would think a little further, but he's still fondling her ears and that is still sending her into sexual meltdown.
Vet? No way, José. No vet. How the hell is she going to get out of this? She hasn't a clue. Castle doesn't even have the decency to go to the bathroom so she can sneak out before he can take her to any vet. This is a disaster, she thinks, in a cab on his knee on the way to a freaking vet. No amount of ear-fondling and sexual meltdown is worth this – ow! That shot really hurt. She growls viciously. In speech, it would have been a string of profanity. She won't be petted when he's just really hurt her. She makes as if to scratch.
"C'mon, Onyx. That's not kind." Damn right it's not kind. He hurt her. "It's just to keep you safe."
What the hell? What has he just done? Realisation dawns. That rat bastard has just chipped her. What the hell is she going to do now? Chipped? She's not a pet. She is a senior detective with a shield and a gun and nobody puts a freaking chip in her. She will kill him.
She can't kill him. How is she going to explain as Beckett that he chipped her as Onyx? Even Castle would boggle. He's stymied her. Rat! At least he's warning her about the shots. She doesn't like them, either. Ow, ow, ow. Vets are even worse than doctors. On the other hand he's fussing and petting her and ohhhhhh, that's better than massage. She becomes bonelessly spread over his shoulder.
By bedtime, she's wishing that she never, ever had to leave. Castle's constant petting is a far better use of his fingers than his constant fidgeting in the precinct, and all of it is wriggling down her spine to pool and heat at her core. No wonder cats always look so self-satisfied when they're being fussed over, she thinks. They're blissed out on multiple orgasms. It almost makes up for the chip and shots.
She's happily curled up, tucked into his pillow, luxuriating in the sensuous (not that he knows it) petting, when he starts to talk to her. She supposes she should have expected it. Castle never stops talking, except when asleep.
She didn't expect that. Castle is pouring out his heart to her. Well, now. That's an unexpected benefit. He – good Lord. He really cares that he upset her. Good Lord. She provides some feline, tactile reassurance, and snuggles up to him totally content. He pets her till he falls asleep.
She really doesn't want to go home, but she has to. She wants to stay cuddled in and wake up next to him – even as a cat – and be petted some – lots and lots and lots – more. She's decided very quickly that she loves petting and snuggling. She slides silently off the pillow, sulking about the necessity, and sneaks out of the bedroom and to the outer door. Her sensitive ears listen hard, and hear only the deep breathing of three people asleep. She changes, opens the door with no noise at all, slips out and shuts it equally soundlessly, changing back to Onyx as soon as she has.
In the morning she is very tired and very sore. The shots, just as human shots would, have left her with a vague malaise, and the spot where the chip is (she curses internally) still hurts. Castle is being both annoying and suggestive, and since her discomforts are all his fault, she doesn't scruple to take her disgruntled mood out on him. He humphs and then chases down a different trail.
"I know you remember my cat," he says sulkily.
"Your cat?" She's not his. She's her own person. She's not having this possessive behaviour. She's a mature woman (and feline) and being referred to as his is inappropriate.
If only it didn't arrow straight to her core and send her damp and hot. Even if he doesn't know he's talking about her. She really shouldn't be thinking about how exactly she could be his and how good she'd feel when she was and – stop.
"Yep," Castle states firmly. "My cat. Chipped and everything. I even got her all her shots. She didn't like it much, though. She growled and hissed at me. She sounded a lot like you on a bad day." What? Beckett does not growl and hiss – in human form, and she never has bad days. "Anyway, she's mine now. I'm not taking the chance someone else steals her."
More ridiculously possessive statements. Huh.
But it is very nice indeed to be wanted that much, even if it's as a cat. In fact, taken with last night's commentary on her human form, she might even begin to think that he feels a lot more than friendship.
She'd better go back tonight. She wouldn't want him to worry about her cat. The petting doesn't hurt, either. She's had more orgasms in the last week than in the last ten years, if you exclude self-generated ones.
And besides, she is absolutely insanely curious to see what he might reveal when he thinks he's talking to himself.
This was definitely the right thing to do, Beckett-Onyx decides when the first thing Castle does is fondle her ears. He even gives her coffee. She's nearly sorry for spitting at him when he'd caught the sore spot on her back. And then he goes back to pouring his heart out.
"I love her mind. It's as hot as the rest of her." You damn well should love my mind. But it's nice to know it's not just about the looks and the hot body.
"I guess she wasn't feeling well with that bite. I hope she isn't sick – but if she was, I could take her chicken soup and mop her fevered brow." He stops. "Jealous?" Oh. She hissed. Not jealous, she just doesn't like company when she's ill. Or chicken soup, for that matter. She can't be jealous of herself. That would be silly. Or schizophrenic. "I wouldn't be. You're here. She isn't. No chance she will be, either." He sounds quite deeply miserable about that.
"I don't even know how to get her to come out on a date. I've given up asking." Don't stop asking, you idiot! Aaarrrgh. "Every so often I think she's interested" – damn right I am, now that I know you're not looking for a one-night stand – "and then someone interrupts or there's a murder or the moment's lost some other way." Yes, I've considered shooting Ryan and Espo too. The Cockblock Twins. "I just wish I knew what she liked: movies or theatre or even grand opera. I'd even listen to Country and Western music, and I hate that. Just something to break the ice." Not Country and Western. I hate that. But anything else would be very acceptable.
Right. He wants a date. Well, that can be arranged. Especially as he sounds even more affectionately hopeful than earlier. She purrs at him, and snuggles in a little more, and hopes that he takes it as encouragement to have another go at asking her on a date.
Beckett has to say to herself, as she sips her coffee the next morning and works through her in-tray, that sneaking round Castle as Onyx-the-cat has to be the best idea she has ever had. She's found out more about who he really is in a scant few hours than she'd learned in six months of being human, and the more she learns, the better she likes him. Really, really likes him.
Liking is, as ever, at its daily peak (for public purposes: the private petting is a whole different and orgasmic ball game) when he arrives with coffee, full of the delights of his cat.
"I need them to install a cat flap." Excellent plan. Especially for sneaking out without needing to be human for half a minute. "One of those hi-tech ones that only opens to let her in when it senses the microchip."
"Won't that mean she can get out?"
"No. I researched it. There are one way types." What the hell? You idiot! That's no use at all. I need to be able to leave! Dumbass! Why did you have to be so freaking overprotective of a cat? Aaaargghgghhh! Not one jot of her feelings shows on her face.
And then he asks her round for dinner, claiming he wants her to meet Onyx. No need for that. She meets Onyx every morning in her mirror. He's going to be disappointed in that respect, but still, she's got what she wanted, and with her secret knowledge of his real thoughts and feelings, she should be able to make sure that matters move forward. Not too fast, however. She's not sure she'd ever recover if he broke her heart now.
She comes away from dinner with a date, and a hug. Well, she thinks it was a mere hug. It's astonishing that she'd managed to leave the loft. Castle flavoured hugs are amazing. Almost as amazing as petting. She could live with a lot more of those hugs, and a lot closer approach to more than just first base. It had been incredibly difficult not simply to kiss him and see what happened next.
On the other paw, she has an answer to that…
She takes the elevator down, leaves the building, walks down the street to a convenient alleyway, shifts to Onyx, and immediately returns. Castle is predictably pleased to see her – and she gets to be stroked, snuggled and petted to her heart's – and loins' – content. He should have kissed her, though. Why didn't he kiss her? Idiot. He even told her (well, Onyx) that he wants to kiss her. Hmm. Some encouragement required. That's for tomorrow. After all, she's got the date she wanted…
Anyway, since the hug had definitely indicated some very nice musculature under Castle's shirt, she's going to pay some proper attention. She ensures that she gets to the bathroom first, and therefore is perched proudly on the pillows when Castle undresses. He has her full attention. Ooooohhhh yes. Ohhhh that's very nice. Very nice indeed. Why wasn't she watching previously? That was a total mistake. Eye candy – nope, this is one hundred percent pure eye heroin. More, please.
The following day is an absolute freaking disaster. Their raid on the bad guys went completely to hell when there were four of them – she will have the surveillance team's heads, balls and guts for that screw-up – and she's taken a hell of a beating. She whimpers her way home from the hospital, nothing broken but in severe pain all the same, changes, and finds that she's just as damaged as a cat or panther as she is in human form. It hurts, in all forms.
But. Unlike every other time, this time she does have someone who'll pet and cuddle her and make her feel better – or at least take care of her. All she has to do is get there, and Castle will do all the rest. Even the thought of moving hurts, though. She feels worse now than she had an hour ago. If she wants Castle – and she very definitely does – she needs to move now, because in another hour she won't be able to move at all.
The cab decants her alongside the same alley that she's been using all along. Beckett staggers out of it, wincing with every move, leans on the wall to prop herself up and changes. She makes it just as far as the doorway, and can't restrain her anguished yowls any longer. The doorman hears her – half of Manhattan can probably hear her – opens the door; she takes two steps inside, and collapses on the floor. She's here, and that's all she can manage.
Thank you to all readers and reviewers, especially guests.
Hawkie, no, I haven't seen that anime.
In case the site fails to send alerts again, the next chapter will be at 2pm EST/7pm BST on Sunday.