Disclaimer: The only part of Castle that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.
A/N Some readers were still confused after chapter 2, for which I apologize. So, to clarify: in the the parts of the story in which Beckett arrives at the loft in the middle of the night, Castle is dreaming. In all other parts of the story, however, he is awake, and everything is real. At the end of chapter 2, Castle acknowledges to himself that he's in love with Beckett but is afraid to say so, and he realizes that dreaming about her is his "safe" way of thinking about her. Beckett is definitely not sleepwalking and doesn't know that he's dreaming about her. Yet. And now, on to Castle's next dream, followed by his waking up:
Castle, out of bed as if he'd been hit with a cattle prod, runs and slides through the loft as the doorbell continues to ring. There's no rhythmic buzzing this time, just repeated presses on the bell. The intervals between presses are getting shorter, and when he wrenches the door open there is Beckett, just about to jab the bell again.
She's got on leggings, an oversized jersey, and ballet flats, and her hair is in a braid, with little wisps escaping from it. She's wearing no makeup and looks about 13, but she also looks mad as hell.
"Rick Castle?" she says, less as a question of his identity than an accusation.
"Beckett?"
"Rick Castle?" she repeats.
"Yes, yes. Rick Castle. You know me. Come on in. Mi casa es su casa, as always."
She sails in and turns sharply to face him. She has to tilt her head upwards slightly, because for once she's not in heels. "You put a spell on me."
That's a hell of an opening. "A spell?"
"Yes. A spell."
"Are you calling me a warlock? Because I'd love that. If only it were Hallowe'en."
"I'm a detective, a homicide detective, but you've turned me into something else."
He's completely at sea, but he doesn't care. His dream girl—woman—is back. "I didn't. Haven't. What did I turn you into, anyway? You look exactly the same to me." Actually, better. It's the no make up.
"You turned me into an anagramist."
"A what?"
"Surely you know what that is, Castle. You're a writer, for God's sake. A wordsmith, as you're fond of pointing out."
He scratches his head. "Can't say that I've ever heard the word, but I'm pretty sure it's someone who likes to write anagrams? Like 'ideals' for 'ladies' or 'flog' for 'golf'?"
"Exactly. It's a freaking spell, you wordsmith witch. Warlock. Whatever. After I got home from work I picked up my phone to text you about something. When your name, Rick Castle, came up on the screen, I suddenly started thinking only in anagrams. My brain is going to explode. I know you put a spell on me. You, Rick Castle, TILE CRACKS!"
"What?"
"That's you, buster," she says, poking him in the chest. "Let me arrange the letters again. SLICK CRATE."
"Slick Crate?"
"Or would you prefer—" she pokes him in the chest again—"CLEAR STICK? Or maybe IT CRACKLES?"
Right then the penny drops. He knows that he shouldn't be grinning, but his smile is so wide that it's not a tile that's cracking, it's his face. "RICK CASTLE! Yes, that's me. I really like Slick Crate, though. Might have to use that as an alternate ID. 'Hello gorgeous, I'm Slick Crate. What brings you to my little world?' Oh, yeah! You got any more anagrams of my name, Beckett?"
"Oh, you bet, LICE TRACKS."
He shudders. "Eww, no, I don't like that one. Lice are right there with bedbugs in my personal vision of hell."
"Yeah, well try having anagrams crawling and jumping around in your brain like those little vermin, Castle. I want these anagrams out of here." She knocks herself hard on the head with her fist. "Now."
Oh, boy, she is seriously pissed off. Still, a pissed off Beckett in his loft is better than no Beckett at all. Especially in that shirt that's big but very clingy at the same time and oh, sweet Jesus, she's not wearing a bra. She must be so mad that she doesn't realize it. He'll try not to stare, too much. "Um, Beckett, why don't we go in the kitchen? I'll make you some coffee and we'll figure this out."
"I don't want any coffee, damn it."
Well, that stops him in his tracks. Is this a Beckett clone gone wrong? "You don't want coffee?"
Her hands are on her hips, her eyes are narrowed. "No. No coffee. It will just stir up these fucking anagrams, make the little jitterbugs even more active than they already are."
"How about some hot chocolate, then?"
"Okay, that sounds good."
He makes it as quickly as possible, and carries it into the living room where he sets the tray down on the (coffee) table while he and Beckett sit on the sofa. "Here you go," he says. "Hot chocolate is very soothing. Except to dogs, of course. Dogs aren't supposed to have chocolate."
"There you go with dogs again," she says. "Dogs are what got me into this anagram nightmare."
"Huh?"
"Dogs, Castle, dogs. You remember when we were on our way back from the murder scene yesterday? The Fryers' apartment?"
"Yeah."
"There was that labradoodle standing next to my car and you had to talk to its owner for-ev-er about all the great names there were now for cross breeds, like labradoodle and puggle and schnoodle and dachador and snorkie."
"So?"
"And then in the car you said, 'Isn't it funny that dog backwards spells God?' And how you'd seen this tee shirt that said, 'I believe in Dog' and how you really should get one. But could you drop the word play there? No, you could not. In the elevator you said, 'Don't you love anagrams? How great is it that evil is an anagram for vile?' So, you see, this is all your fault."
"Oh. Right. Power of suggestion."
"Power of something. You put it all in my head, Castle, and now you have to get it out."
"Okay, well first could I compliment you on saying I put a spell on you since anagrams are about spelling? Really clever. Most people would have said curse, or hex."
"Castle! Help me!"
"I'm sorry. You must feel like you're in a canoe in the ocean without a paddle." He can't help chuckling.
"I get it, I get it: canoe and ocean, anagrams. Very clever, Castle. Just reverse the spell before I lose my mind."
Her anxiety level is bumping up his own. He doesn't know if he's responsible for the pickle she's in, but even if he is, he has no idea how to fix things. He can feel her tensing up near him, feel her breath getting shallower. He's got only one idea, and he's going to have to run with it before she melts down.
"You know, Beckett. There's one thing that's worked through history. Centuries. Millennia, even. And I'm going to give it a try. Are you ready?"
She looks slightly alarmed. "Ready for what?"
"This." He closes the gap between them and takes her face in his hands. "I'm gonna kiss you to make it better." He starts gently, because he doesn't want to spook her, but he needs to use just enough pressure so that she knows he means it, just enough warmth to keep her there, just enough, please God, to make her want more.
At first she's rigid, and then she begins to soften. Begins not only to receive, but to return. His hands are in her hair now, and hers have moved around his neck. And is that, could it, yes. It's her tongue. He responds with his. If this is heaven, he's happy that he's dead. But in the interests of self-preservation, he's not going any further right now, much as he'd like to. Much as he'd like to explore that soft skin and that sweet scent, to pick her up, carry her to bed, peel her clothes off and—. No, he's stopping here. He doesn't want her regretting anything later. After all, she came over to see him to get him to get rid of her anagramania, not to have sex. So, with considerable sorrow, he lets go of her, and moves a few inches away. He clears his throat, hoping that the action might do the same for his head. "So, did it work?"
She's blinking her eyes, looking around the room as if not entirely sure she knows where she is.
"Quick, Beckett, what's an anagram for jar?"
"What?"
"Give me an anagram for jar."
"Can't think of one."
"It worked! I kissed you and made it better! Oh, and raj, by the way. Anagram for jar. Just popped into my head because of that Indian vase in the window."
Her cheeks are pink—he's guessing both from the make-out session and from embarrassment. She runs her fingers through her hair, and her palms down her thighs, and stands up. "Um, thanks, Castle. I'm sorry if I was so mad, sorry I woke you up. I think I woke you up. I was desperate, though."
"Understandable, Beckett. I'm sorry, too—" sorry that you're obviously leaving, when I want you stay so badly I'm about to die—"that I put a spell on you. It was completely unintentional, really."
"I've got to be going. Thanks for the hot chocolate, too. Very soothing, just as you promised. I'll see you at the station."
They walk together to the door, a little awkwardly. "Night, Castle," she says, giving his arm a squeeze.
He leans over and kisses her on the cheek. "One for good measure, to keep that spell away," he says. "See you tomorrow."
He goes back to bed.
When Castle wakes up, he's surprised to see that it's almost nine. He grabs his phone: no texts from Beckett, no alarms, no bodies. He gets out of bed and makes coffee. Has to make peace with that dream before he calls her.
"Hey, Beckett."
"Hey, Castle."
Oh, God, he remembers her breath on his neck last night. He can feel it now. "Uh, anything going on that I should know about?"
"Nope."
"No one has shuffled off this mortal coil at the hands of another?"
"No, Shakespeare. No murders in this jurisdiction so far today."
"I'm going to be at home, then. Gotta catch up on some writing."
"Okay. I'll call you if any coils are violently shuffled in this direction."
"Okay. Thanks, Beckett. Bye."
"Bye."
He spends the next several hours trying to decide what to do. He doesn't think he can survive another one of these dreams. He's going to tell her. If she shuts him down, so be it. But it's time.
At four he calls her again.
"Hey, Beckett."
"Hey."
"I was wondering what you were doing for dinner." He's already wincing. What if she has a date? Some new guy he doesn't know about?
"Dunno. Takeout, probably. Watch something on TV or read. Why?"
"Well, Alexis was supposed to come home tonight."
"Model UN, right?"
"Right. But she's staying an extra day for some high-school state legislature thing. Anyway, I have this filet mignon that I got for her and it's already marinating. I can't eat it all by myself. Plus I've already peeled the potatoes. So, would you like to come over, help me eat this food?"
"Sure. That's nice. Sounds a lot better than mu shu. Thanks. When should I be there?"
"Oh, come over when you finish your shift, if you like."
"Okay. Well, thanks. See you in a bit."
"Right. Happy you can make it, Beckett. Bye."
He's glad of the distraction of making dinner, but he's still nervous as an eighth-grader trying to ask out the prettiest girl in the class. Except that the stakes are a lot higher. He sets the table. Three times. Everything's ready.
The doorbell rings.
This time, just once. He knows he's awake, and he knows who's at the door. Officially invited, this time. There she is.
"Hi. Come on in."
"Hi. Thanks for asking me over. Here." She offers him a bottle of red wine.
"Wow, nice one, Beckett."
"Figured filet mignon deserved it. You probably already—it's probably, you know, coals to Newcastle. But."
"No buts, Beckett. This is great. Thanks."
She asks if there's anything she can do in the kitchen, and he lets her dish out the vegetables while he takes care of the steak. He notices that she's humming again, very faintly. Did she always do that, or did he just start noticing?
"Beckett?"
"Mmm?" She looks up from the spinach.
"Whatcha hummin'?"
"Oops, caught me again."
"No, I like that you hum." You can hum in my ear anytime. "What is it?"
"Irving Berlin."
"Yeah? What?"
" 'Supper Time'. Wonderful song."
He swallows. "So, shall we eat?"
Things are easier after that. They talk shop, shop and everything else. But they've had dessert and she's going to go, so it's now or never.
"Would you like some coffee before you head home?"
"Thought you'd never ask, Castle."
"Oops, sorry. Well, I'm asking."
"Yes, please."
They're sitting at the table, happily. He hands her the coffee as he does nearly every morning, except they're not in the station house, they're in his house. Just the two of them. And he made the coffee himself, and it's in porcelain mugs, not paper cups, and his hands are shaking.
"Uh, there's something I have to tell you."
"Wow, Castle. You look serious. Everything okay?"
"I've been having these dreams."
TBC