Reminder that this chapter is M-rated.
Chapter 4
Beckett stared at him. Tonight, all the lights were on, and he could see her clearly.
"Didn't we do that last night?"
"No. Well, I didn't, and I'm pretty sure you didn't, because I felt much more when I took your hand outside the cemetery than I did last night and I think I saw me through your eyes in the precinct which was nothing at all like looking in the mirror" –
"Which you do at every opportunity" –
"Mean. Very mean."
"But true."
Trussssttttt... wound through the air.
"Not the point," Castle said impatiently. "The point is that we both tried to hide. So maybe if we didn't and really let each other in..."
"You said you didn't want me in your head."
"So did you. Not want me, that is, you can't not want you in your head: it's your head."
"You want to rummage round in my head."
"No-o...I just want us both to do it properly."
The horrified silence stretched tight enough to snap.
"You mean it?" she squeaked.
"Yeah," he said heavily. "It'll either work... or it won't."
"I hope you've made your will."
"What?"
"If it doesn't work we die."
They couldn't cope.
They died.
"When?" Beckett suddenly asked, very sharply.
A while after.
"Be specific. Days, months, years? You're not telling me the truth."
We do not lie.
"No, but you're sure being evasive right now. So, when?"
Years.
Beckett waited, meaningfully.
Many years.
"I see. So there's no hurry."
Castle made a small, strangled noise, which Beckett ignored.
Those were not happy years.
They were bound together.
But they hated it.
And then each other.
Years of resentment and dislike, feeding back and forth and growing on itself.
"So what happened?"
One killed the other, then killed themselves.
"Oh."
They shuddered in unison.
"That's...not a good outcome," Castle said shakily. "I don't want to end up like that."
"Nor me," Beckett agreed, shivering. "That's horrible." She focused on her dead, who were watching them with hungry interest.
We only need emotion between you. We do not care what it is.
If you don't want to trust each other, we will use the hatred.
We'd prefer trust. It's stronger, one disagreed.
We would be stronger, either way.
"Do they talk to you all the time?"
"Yeah. Well. Mostly."
"Oh."
"But they're polite. Mostly. They don't talk over my TV shows." She coloured delicately. "They leave if...um...visitors are here."
"So that's why I never spotted them."
"You wouldn't have spotted them. You'd just have been a bit cold."
"Like you?"
"I don't get cold any more."
Castle's brain suddenly caught up with his ears. "Visitors?" he queried. "As in...boyfriend type visitors?"
"Or my dad," Beckett said quellingly. "Or friends. Lanie."
"I'd have thought she'd love to meet the dead. She talks to her corpses like they're still alive."
She can't see, a ghost murmured. It sounded disappointed.
"We're stalling," Beckett pointed out.
"Yeah. Can I get some more wine, please?"
"Yeah." She poured. Castle slugged it back. "Moving a little fast there."
"Anaesthetic."
"Good plan." She had another gulp herself. "Let's do this."
Her hands stretched to his. Castle met them, and their fingers interlinked. There was a long pause. The ghosts waited patiently.
"That was totally weird."
"I don't look like that," Beckett said.
Their hands were still locked.
"Nor me."
The dead clustered around them, more solid, more demanding. Insensibly, the living drew closer together, and then closer still.
"Do we need to talk about this? What we saw?" Castle said. His voice trembled, and his hands gripped more tightly.
"Need? Yeah, most likely. Want – no."
"We can't not talk about it. But..." He released one of her hands, and promptly tucked the free arm around her shoulders. "Come here." He pressed gently, and she snuggled in, laying her dark head on his shoulder. "We don't have to talk now. Just... let's get used to it."
"It's a lot." She paused. "Why didn't you say?"
"Why didn't you?"
There was an uncomfortable pause.
"We were both scared," Castle said, eventually. "I still am," he added. "I didn't expect all this."
"I didn't either."
Another span of now-serene silence passed. The dead still surrounded them, anticipating...something. Neither of the living was sure what.
"I saw," Castle said hesitantly, "what you, um, really think of me. So you must have seen the same."
Shades pressed in, as if watching the climax of a movie, warming themselves on Beckett's blush. She nodded. It was just as well. If she had said anything, it was inaudible. Castle tipped her face up.
"Don't hide."
"It's not as if we can hide."
"Guess not. So... can I kiss you?" Her heart hammered in his veins.
She reached up, pulled his head down and kissed him, in lieu of answers.
The dead disappeared. As they went, the lights also all went out, apart from one side lamp.
"What – they've gone!"
"They'll be back," Beckett said. "Just not now." And she kissed him again.
Since Castle would far rather kiss Beckett than face up to any more unreality, he did so. Soft exploration lasted a matter of seconds before it became hard and demanding – from both sides. Beckett kissed the same way she investigated: without compromise. Castle fought back: pulling her on to his lap, raiding and being raided in return. His hands knotted in her hair, hers were around his neck: words were forgotten.
Suddenly Beckett pulled away.
"What's wrong?"
"It feels weird." She blushed luridly. "Uh...I can feel you."
"I certainly hope so," Castle smirked on autopilot – and then stopped. "Oh. Um. Yeah. I get it. Um...me too?" Now he thought about it, he had the most peculiar sensation of flexing muscles where he had never had muscles before: an odd sensation of an empty space waiting – wanting – to be filled. "Um... do you feel as if you've got different, er, bits?"
The blush would light fires. There was an embarrassed nod, and pause.
"It's gone away."
"Yeah, I bet," Castle said. "Nothing like knowing the reaction to every move I make'll be fed right back to me to depress performance."
"I hadn't even thought of that!"
Beckett started trying to scramble away. Castle caught her.
"Don't run away. I'll think you don't like me." He batted his eyelashes at her. "Besides which, I know you liked kissing me. You kept doing it." He grinned, rather forcedly. "And I sure liked kissing you. So we should do that some more." He pulled her back on to his lap and snuggled her into his arms. "And if we get this right, the sex will be spectacular. Double orgasms every time."
Beckett punched his shoulder. "That's your take on this?" she squawked.
"It's better than knowing how you rate me out of ten."
"I wouldn't."
"Consciously."
"Oh. Oh, shit. This is horrible."
She curled back against him. He had an odd sensation of warmth and safety. So that was how she felt in his arms. He liked that. One half-pennyworth of bread, against an intolerable deal of sack, as the Bard had it. He nuzzled into her hair, and she nestled closer.
After a while, Beckett spoke. "That's nice," she said. "You like hugging."
"You like being hugged. Win-win."
"Still weird, but good weird."
"Okay." He decided to seize the moment, and dipped his head to kiss her. Once more, she kissed him back, both falling into the one thing in all this mess which was absolutely, definitely, positively right. He had a thought.
"I was wrong," he announced.
"Yeah? That happens several times a day. Why this time?"
"Stop being mean. Sex is going to be amazing" –
"What?"
"Because I'll know exactly whether you like anything or everything and can change it round straight away! No trying to interpret anything or missing clues. I'll feel it just like you would."
She gleeped.
"What? It'll be amazing," he bounced again.
Beckett regarded Castle dyspeptically. "Who says we're having sex?" she enquired, with a delicate edge.
"Well, not now, obviously, but when we do" –
"When? Rather presumptuous of you." The edge was much more apparent.
Castle smiled lazily. "That's mean. And it won't work any more, anyway. I can feel that you're teasing me." He paused. "Among other things I can feel."
"That's not fair," she grumped. It certainly wasn't. At least her dead had – temporarily – departed.
"So since I can feel you, and you can feel me, why don't we spend some time feeling each other?"
She raised an eyebrow.
"That sounded dirtier than" –
"No, you meant it exactly how it sounded."
"That doesn't make it a bad plan."
"You're the one who stopped."
Castle gaped, then pounced. "You're" – kiss – "a tease" – a nibble on her lip – "a total witch" – a move round to her neck, which simultaneously caused her to wriggle and a reflected heat to bloom between Castle's thighs – "and you really like that."
She did. In retaliation, she tried a dirty wet kiss of her own, trailing over the taut cords of his neck, and found that it provoked a most interesting response, every inch of which she could feel, in strange doubled sensation, against her and from her.
And then she stopped even trying to analyse which were her feelings and which were his, or trying to distinguish her sensations and reactions from his, and simply kissed him as if it were her first time, and he her first lover. Because now, he would surely be her last, and this her last first time.
Clever fingers – but whose? – opened shirts; questing hands explored – but who explored, and who was the undiscovered country? – mouths met and tongues tangled and teased and tasted.
"Bed," one enticed.
"Yeah," the other agreed, but who suggested and who acceded couldn't be told.
Clothes fell around them, shirts shoved from shoulders to stroke and tease and play with the curves and muscle and nipples beneath; belts loosened, buttons undone, zippers zinging downwards and pants falling to the floor afterwards; exposing the flare of hips, the width of thighs; lean litheness and broad strength.
When he palmed and played with her neat, firm breasts, he could feel a similar sensation at his chest; when she took him in hand and stroked, she felt a strange tension and heat: a need to push; as he moved downwards the anticipation in his head wasn't all his own and the hard clench between his legs was surely hers; when he licked across her the sense of outright satisfaction and predatory possession was surely not hers. She could taste herself on his tongue; he experienced every twist and writhe; she was rock hard and he was drenched and when he slid up her body and she/he guided him/her home they both thrust and both opened and both exploded and collapsed.
Castle, mostly himself again, rolled off and felt Beckett's complete laxity and satisfaction as he cuddled her in; as, he was sure, she could feel all of his. Arms wrapped around each other, and again there was that same doubleness; a warm surrounding together with the uncanny almost-heard beat of his own heart through another's ears.
Beckett, safely snuggled against Castle's broad, muscular chest, both heard and felt his pulse slow to match hers.
"That was amazing," she said softly, and curled her hand around his shoulder, petting.
"I told you it would be," Castle said smugly. "Ow! Don't pinch me."
She didn't say anything, but he caught her smirk clearly.
"So," he said, "what was all that about the van? And why did one of them disappear?"
"This is your idea of pillow talk?"
"You live and breathe death – more literally than I thought, but you do. So why not? Anyway, I'm a mystery writer, so it comes naturally."
Beckett sighed. "Okay. One of the dead told me about the van. They want their murders solved, so they help. They can't always be direct – they don't always know – but they give me hints and clues where they can."
He goggled.
"Come on, Castle. Haven't you heard of the restless, vengeful dead?"
"Of course I have!"
She waited.
"Oh! Oh, wow. So they help you solve their crimes for revenge?"
"Revenge is a dish best served cold – and the dead are certainly cold."
"But it disappeared."
"Crime solved, perp put away – they disappear. Move on. No-one knows to what, or where."
"Didn't you ask?"
"Yes. They don't know. A leap into the unknown future."
"Like death for us."
She shuddered. "Yes."
"I don't want to be a ghost."
"Or dead."
"It doesn't seem to cramp their style."
"You want to be murdered?"
"No," he agreed. "Definitely not."
A comfortably cosy quiet descended. Beckett's long, elegant fingers were still on Castle's shoulder; he fidgeted gently with a lock of her hair. Usually his constant fidgeting irritated her, but now she could sense the affection inherent in the touch. He always touched things, but she could surely get used to him touching her. Right about now, in fact. His thick fingers were surprisingly delicate, and their movements assured and expert.
She reached out through her skin, and only an instant later realised how odd that sounded. He was warm, which was nice. She'd been cool – cold – for so long, she'd forgotten how warm felt against her.
"Will I get cold too?" Castle asked.
"I don't know. I hope not. You're cosy." She nestled into his side more firmly, and turned to kiss his jaw, now slightly stubbled. "And a little rough."
"I can play rough if you like," Castle said lazily, "but not right now. Now, I wanna cuddle you. Cuddling is good. It makes you happy, and your mind quietens right down. All I can feel is this wash of warmth."
"I think that's you. I can feel it too and it doesn't feel like me."
"It feels good, though? Doesn't it?"
"Yeah. This is all just weird, though. Really, really weird."
"Isn't that my line?"
"Have you got a better description?"
"No," Castle admitted. "But it doesn't matter, does it? We're here now, and there's nothing we can do to change it, so... better get used to it." He grinned evilly. "But the sex was spectacular."
"Mmmmm."
"C'mere," he purred. "Let's see if it's just as good the second time around." Her instant arousal flashed through his desire.
It was just as good the second time around. And the third, in the shower.
The following day, Beckett reached the bullpen with her ghosts around her as usual. Unlike usual, they were full of suppressed excitement: swooshing and swirling around her as if they'd been injected with ectoplasmic amphetamines. They were marginally more solid, to her eyes, and rather more informative: almost garrulous.
Very like Castle, in fact. Oh God. Multiple Castles? She was doomed to insanity. "Calm down," she hissed at them. They did. She made her coffee, and settled down to work. Information was soon splattered all over the latest murder board.
She knew Castle was on his way some time before he arrived, and was sure he had known that she was in the bullpen from the moment he woke. The dead enlivened again as he came in, and when she looked he was trailed by a pale mist. It hadn't stopped him bringing her coffee, fortunately.
"I've got company," he whispered nervously to her.
"So I see."
"What do I do with them?"
"Listen to them." Suddenly she smiled evilly. "And let them help you in the next poker game."
"Cheat? I would never."
"Gotcha."
"You're much cheerier today."
"Hallowe'en's over for another year." Castle's question was scrawled all over his face. "I don't... well, it's difficult. You saw."
"Yeah. Um... will I have to do that too?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Oh."
"It's scary, the first time. It gets easier." She smiled. "And you'll be with me."
"You had to do it alone."
"Yeah. Except for them. I'd had them for months by then. But I was still terrified. I thought..."
"That you'd join them."
"Yes."
"So did I. I've never been so scared in all my life."
It's one night.
We are nervous too.
What if it goes wrong and we're left with nothing?
No-one.
We were glad when you came.
And when you joined her.
We will have justice now.
Beckett coughed.
More justice.
And you have each other.
"We do," they said together, and smiled.
A year later, or so...
"Won't they notice we're missing?"
"No. They'll just think that we've sneaked off somewhere."
"That's not an improvement, Castle."
"Let's get going." He shivered.
"This time, you know what's going to happen."
"Yeah. That really doesn't help right now."
One night.
One payment from each of you.
Tonight, you give back.
They parked up beside the cemetery's iron gates.
"Why here?"
Age, a dry, withered voice whispered, as they walked through the closed gate. We are old. It wasn't a shade that Castle had seen before. It carried the weight of ages with it. Year by year, we age, and do not die.
"We are here to make payment," Beckett said, in formal, clipped tones. "Bone and blood and iron, as is necessary."
Two of you.
"Two of us."
"Two of us," echoed Castle.
He held tightly to Beckett's chilly hand as they passed through the graves, the dead leaves crunching and the dead surrounding them. At the same point as last year, she stopped, slipped off her coat, and set the same small bone bowl on the grass. Castle followed, silently: removed his watch when she did. When the sharp steel blade glinted, he shivered, but knelt opposite her. This was her show, and he had to follow where she led.
The edge flashed, and her wrist opened, the blood already dripping slow and sluggish. Another swift flash: no time to flinch, and his joined it: pressed together so that the dark stains mingled.
The dead fed, and came alive once more.
You are ours.
"Yes. But you are also ours. Remember it. You need us."
You belong.
You belong to us, and we to you.
And you to each other.
It was the same withered, aged whisper.
"We are each other's."
In the pale moonlight, Castle came to one knee, and extended his right hand. Between his fingers, there was a sparkle.
"You're mine, and I'm yours," he said solemnly, quietly. "Katherine Houghton Beckett, will you marry me?"
"Yes."
Fin.
Thank you to all readers and reviewers. Happy Hallowe'en.
