Chapter 4: A cat so clever

Castle turns out to be astonishingly good in a crisis. She's cuddled in his arms and on the way to the vet in mere moments. She's so sore she can't even appreciate his intoxicating scent and body, but she certainly does appreciate his decisive actions and total care for her. It occurs to her that if she were hurt on the job, he'd be very likely to care for her just as effectively. When he takes her home – home? She must be hurt. It's not her home – she is placed very gently on a pillow, which soothes her hurts as the anaesthetic wears off, and gratefully falls asleep.

She doesn't notice a single thing until the next day, and she spends most of that asleep too, lost in the soft comfort of Castle's care and delicate petting. She can't do anything about Castle's texts to her, which leaves her feeling guilty: he's so clearly concerned, but she's far more interested in his evident desire to take care of human-Beckett if only he were given the chance. Well, he might just get the chance. How has she never noticed how beautifully, adorably protective and caring he really is?

Ah. That would be because he's acted the arrogant, jackass playboy non-stop for six months, nosed into her mother's case without asking and indeed after being told to butt out, and loses no opportunity to flirt, tease and annoy. Silly man. If he'd only shown her this side of him, she'd have understood why he nosed into her case: he wanted to make it all better. It's so clear, now, even if he's never said it.

She'd answer his texts, but she can't guarantee that she'd get any safe length of time without him, and explaining is not something she wants to do just yet. When they're a bit further on. When she's managed to start a proper relationship in human form. When she's sure – though she's getting more sure by the minute.

The next morning, she feels a lot better, though she really couldn't say that going to the precinct is in any way desirable. She sits on her own chair – Ryan really deserved to be bitten: cute? She is not cute, she is elegant. Cute? – until Montgomery comes along and objects, humph, but it gets her on to Castle's shoulder, with a little help. She still hurts, rather too much for flexibility.

Castle's plans to visit her are something of a problem. She's already gotten used to sleeping through the night with him, even if she's been too sore to snuggle in. She'll need to waken up, slide out unseen, and be home.

She doesn't want to waken up, slide out and be home. She wants to stay right where she is. She should be snuggled up to Castle as much as possible. Still, if he visits human-Beckett she can provide a little encouragement, as she had planned. So there's a silver lining to that pitch-black thundercloud.

She doesn't wake. Oh, hell. She's going to have to make her exit at the riskiest time imaginable: full daylight and morning. Dammit, dammit, dammit! She waits till Castle's in the shower – he does love long showers, and she has some thoroughly lustful and lascivious plans for those showers – and sneaks through the main room, listening very carefully. Martha is snoring in a refined fashion. Alexis's schoolbag is missing. Phew. She whips into human, slips out, and whips back to feline. Ouch. That hurt. There won't be much of a problem looking pathetic when Castle arrives, because she feels pretty damn pathetic already, just from getting out. Why couldn't he have got a cat-flap that worked both ways? She will have words with him about that. Lots of words, and all of them annoyed.

By the time the cab delivers her to her own apartment, which is a little cold and a lot less caring and welcoming than Castle's loft, she is almost at the point of wishing she'd simply changed back to human-Beckett, told Castle her secret, and stayed. Almost.

She washes, very carefully, regards her appalling bruising with horror, can't face a bra of any sort, and struggles into the softest t-shirt and sweatpants she can find. Even that small concession to civilisation leaves her shattered and sore, and in desperation she lies down on her bed.

She is woken by knocking, which is undoubtedly Castle. She hoists herself painfully to standing and limps to the door. His appalled expression as he takes in her bruises – and that's only her arms, he should see the mess of her torso and thighs, and then kiss them all better – doesn't make her feel any better. He should kiss her now.

He doesn't, though he also recognises her current inability to do anything without wincing. He tidily inserts the lovely bouquet he's brought – how did he manage to achieve such gorgeously scented flowers? – into a vase, puts the chocolate – oh yes, Castle, you really do observe, don't you? He's clearly picked up that addiction – not too far away, and sits next to her. He burbles happily on about their visit to the precinct, which is soothingly mind-numbing since after all she had been there, and then says "both my favourite women getting beaten up". Oh my God. Her jaw drops.

She absolutely does not want him thinking down that line. Not yet. Not now. That is a very bad line for Castle to start on. He's so broad-minded you could run a Mack truck through his head without touching the sides, and he's prepared to believe almost anything – alien abduction, CIA conspiracies, time-travel…. It would be just like him to believe in shapeshifters – in fact, she knows he believes in shapeshifters, and she knows he'd love to be one. Well, only if he could be a large predator. He doesn't want to be a squirrel.

She doesn't want him to be a squirrel either. Human will do fine, for now. And if he's an observant man, with only a very minimal bit of luck he'd be as observant of her likes in bed as he's been observant of Onyx's preferences. Which, in general terms, would be just plain wonderful.

However, while she doesn't want him spotting similarities, she likes being both of his favourite women. She looks at his photos, and pretends not to notice him sneaking closer. After he's made them coffee, in fact, he doesn't bother with the sneaky bit – and she is much amused by his surprise when she lets him cuddle her in, very gently, and warm her up, very nicely. So she tucks her head on to his lovely broad shoulder, by way of reward. For herself.

"Onyx does that," he blurts out. Oh, shit, so she does. Do not say 'yes I do', Kate. Dammit. Beckett sits up, which hurts. Castle snuggles her back in, which helps enormously.

"I am not your cat," she snips, absolutely frantically desperate to keep him off that subject. This is getting worse and worse. "Didn't we have that conversation already?"

"I know you're not a cat, Beckett," Castle says. Well, thank God for that. "If you were my cat you'd be curled up in my lap and purring at me, or sprawled over my chest and shoulder. I mean, you could do both of those things and I wouldn't mind a bit, but" –

"Shut up." Shut up, because she wants to do both of those things, very badly, right now – and preferably naked in her bed – and she can remember with pinpoint precision how she'd felt as Onyx (when did she start using his name for herself?) while she was curled in his lap or sprawled on his shoulder because he never stops petting her –

"but you're not a cat." Phew. He hasn't realised anything. It's just his normal flirtation. She can be easy again.

She is easy again. In fact, she's delightfully comfortable. This, Beckett works out, is because Castle is petting her: stroking, feather light, up and down her lividly bruised arms. He's so warm, and broad, and strong, and comforting; and she really, really doesn't want to move. Her eyelids droop, her lashes tumble on to her cheeks, and, as warmly snuggled in the crook of his neck as she has been as Onyx, she drifts silently into sleep.

She's woken by some irritating person tapping at her cheek. Go away, she thinks, as she's happily asleep. They don't go away, and gradually consciousness tells her it's still Castle, and she's fallen asleep all over him. Oooops. She looks at him, his eyes soft and kind and caring and even loving, wonders what to do next, and inadvertently nibbles her lip.

He gathers her in, as gently as he'd carried injured Onyx, and lightly kisses the tip of her nose. She hasn't recovered from that shock when the same butterfly touch lands on her lips.

Oh. Oh oh oh, oh! Mine. Mine mine mine. Mine. She stares at him, and then leans forward and kisses his cheek. She'd go full out for his luscious mouth, but he's shifted and she can't reach without hurting herself, which is just not fair. It's even more addictive than being petted as Onyx.

"I think," she starts, intending to say you should do that again and this time let's do it for longer, deeper, better, more; but he interrupts her.

"I think maybe I'd better go home." He looks very nervous and worried.

Go home? No! She doesn't want him to go home. She wants him to stay here and kiss her and cuddle her and care for her. But. Castle can be surprisingly stubborn when he wants to be, and maybe it's best to give him a little time to – er – adjust to a new reality. Okay, she has a plan.

"Yeah… um… if you wanted you could come by tomorrow? Keep me company while I'm not allowed at work?"

He's flatteringly enthusiastic. Good. She's working him round to the right point. Clearly she needs to apply some subtle training techniques, just as she had as Onyx. It's weird, though. She'd have thought that the slightest hint of encouragement would have had him all over her. Well, she'll be round there later, snuggled in as Onyx and almost certainly listening to Castle pour out every last thought and feeling. Then she'll be able to plan her next move with accuracy.

Castle disappears, and Beckett, in default of any better idea, goes back to bed and cuddles her pillow. It's not nearly as nice as cuddling Castle would be. Humph. She falls asleep, though not before setting her alarm to wake her by five, should she not wake naturally. She'll reach Castle's loft by six at the absolute latest, allowing time to change unseen, and then she'll have the whole evening to be petted. That should keep her blissed out for hours.

She wonders if she'll ever tell him that his cat (so he thinks) spent the whole time in a state of complete sexual satisfaction. It's not just the ear-fondling, it's the brushing. Being brushed was totally the best thing ever. It slinked down every single sex-linked synapse and shivered every erogenous zone. Being brushed, she decides, is multiple orgasms for cats.

Her dreams should have turned her pillow, coverlet, bedsheets and indeed bed to ashes. They scorched. She has to have another shower before she goes out.

Just as she had hoped, Castle can't resist talking to his cat. (hold on. When did she start thinking of herself as his cat?) It's all perfect. He loved kissing her. He wants to do more of it (so does she). He wants to take another step forward (so does she).

And then he starts to think. This is unwelcome. She really does not want him to think. She just shouldn't have said if you can find her, but she'd been so flustered by the kiss and all her desire for more that she hadn't thought before she spoke. She really hopes Castle's verbosity isn't rubbing off on her. She takes the shortest (and not incidentally the most pleasurable) route to distracting him, by clambering rather painfully on to his shoulder and butting her feline head into his aromatic neck.

Castle arrives with lunch right on time the next day, much to Beckett's appreciation. They flirt and banter just as they used to, recovering almost all their early mischief, before he – well. Now she sees how he'd misstepped, but it's taken this sneaky way of finding out to discover it. She smiles and snarks and snips at him, and his eyes get darker, and without much ado at all, he slides over with no subtlety at all and kisses her. Very gently. That simply will not do. She opens her lips under his and that does it for him. He's careful not to squeeze her, but his mouth is passionate and possessive and raids and oh, that feels so good, do it some more, Castle; do it some more.

And then his hand slips down her arm but he catches the bruising, and ow! That hurt. She flinches, and of freaking course because he's a good guy dammit he stops kissing her, looks like she slapped him and practically runs out the door. He doesn't even wait till she's untangled her tongue from the kiss to start to tell him not to go.

Dammit!

She gives Castle five minutes – timed – to get out the way, and then skedaddles out of her apartment, into a cab, and off to his block. The excellent Edward lets her in, pushes the lift button for her, and gives her a happy smile. She flicks her tail in thanks and goes up.

Castle is not there. This is not good at all. This is very worrying. She pads around the loft, fretting, and not even able to change to human and have a very strong coffee to calm down. Finally her feline ears pick up the ting of the elevator. She scampers into Castle's bedroom, and plants herself on a pillow, closing her eyes.

Castle's slow, heavy trudge approaches the bedroom. She opens an eye as he flumps miserably on to the bed, and when he doesn't even reach out to her stalks on to his chest and nudges at his chin, to see if Onyx-flavoured affection will cheer him up at all. He wraps big hands over her, and – what? No petting? No movement? Is he ill? Dead? Taken over by aliens? – hang on, that's as insane as Castle. She mews at him, which if she were human would mean talk to me, tell me what's wrong because you're wrong, love – what? Love? Oh God, she is so screwed. Let's leave that for now, Kate, otherwise you'll have a nervous breakdown right here and now. When mews don't work, she butts her head in the way that he always likes and responds to, and when that doesn't work she bats a paw at him. He catches it.

"I'm not really in the mood to play. I think I really screwed up. I shouldn't have kissed her again. She's injured, dammit! But she's just so beautiful and I can't keep away from her and I've been in love with her for months and months and… oh, hell, I've so totally messed this up."

He's been in love with her for months? Well, why the hell didn't he show it? But saying so certainly deserves much encouragement and response. The next time she's human she'll be making sure he's properly rewarded. She pats a paw softly at his cheek: a caress; and nuzzles at him: a feline version of a kiss. This silly, adorable, worried man. He shouldn't worry at all. She can't leave just yet, and she'll need to give it a space in time even when she does, but before the evening is out he will be perfectly reassured and happy again. She purrs at him, trying to indicate that it'll all be okay. Better than okay.

"I don't know what to do. I thought she was enjoying it too but then she flinched and …oh, fuck, what a mess."

No, no, no! Absolutely not, Castle. I was enjoying it. She purrs at him.

"You're simple. I stroke you and you purr." You stroke me and half the time I come. "Nothing complicated. People are a lot more difficult. I just wish I knew what Beckett was thinking. I mean, whether she likes me or not. She let me kiss her but then she's injured and I hate the thought that maybe she just let me because she couldn't push me away."

If he's feeling guilty… oh no. She is not having that. They will sort that out damn quick, because like it or not (definitely not) she gets injured on the job. She keeps purring, but bats his face with her paw, leaves it on his cheek, and delicately extrudes her claws. He's being silly, and definitely doesn't need to think that. There is no way on God's green earth that Castle would ever force anything on anyone.

"Don't you start. I don't need you getting upset with me too. What'm I gonna do, Onyx?"

She knows exactly what he's going to do. But first she'll stay here and be comforting for him, snuggle on to him and show him that she's there. After that, she'll go home and solve this issue, and then tomorrow she'll prove it's not just him making moves. Softly, softly, catchee Castle. As a cat, however, she simply purrs and settles down over his heart.

When he finally rises, no happier, she decides that it's time to take action. She sits proudly and demandingly at the door, and though Castle – it's ridiculously protective, but it makes her feel cosseted and cared for – fusses about her going out, and tells her to be back by bedtime (of course she will be), he lets her out.

As soon as she's home, she constructs a text to make it clear that she liked being kissed. Of course, it's Beckett-normal snark, but she can hardly write I've been sleeping next to you for a week and I love you so get your ass over here so I can prove it. Though he'd certainly be here at light speed. She taps Send. Castle, on usual performance, will be having dinner and since he'd favoured her with his views on phones at the table (absolutely never, Beckett, how can anyone be so rude! She'd pointed out that she was on call, and he'd accepted that. Grudgingly.) there is a very good chance he won't hear the ting.

Now. Much as she doesn't want to, she'll need to stay here a while. She makes herself some dinner, and then changes to her panther and pads around for a while, uses the scratching post, and makes sure that there are no mice or other vermin. There never are, but she likes to check. If it weren't raining and daylight, she'd go up to the Park for a nice long stretching run, and maybe a bit of squirrel-extermination.

Much, much later, when the rain still hasn't stopped, she reappears at Castle's loft. The doormen have either been briefed by Castle or are remarkably susceptible to mewing cats, because they let her into the elevator and press the button for her.

He's clearly read the text, but possibly only in the last few minutes, because he is blazingly happy. He cuddles and pets her-as-Onyx, but his mind is obviously on Beckett-human. She's really glad she sent it, because his reaction is proof positive that he's telling her cat form the absolute truth. Right. Tomorrow, she'll do something a bit more definite about it.

Thank you to all readers and reviewers, especially guests and those who don't accept PMs.

A small reminder: the final chapter will contain some M-rated content.