2: Father Time
"Did the boys have anything?"
"No." Her face tries to crumple again and is ruthlessly ironed into professionalism. "The Feds took over and told them to go home till tomorrow." Another nearly-crumple. "I'll need to find a new apartment. Oh, God. When am I going to do that?"
"Tomorrow. I'll lend you my laptop and you can start searching," Castle says, knowing what the next request will be."
"Lend me it now?" Beckett says hopefully, and then realises what she had said. "Sorry. That's not fair. You've just got here and I'm being selfish."
"I'll lend you it tomorrow," – in my loft – "okay? Gotta clean off all the Nikki scenes." Beckett glares fearsomely. "What? No spoilers. Not even for my muse."
"I will break all your legs."
"And after I rescued you so heroically, too. How will I sweep you up and out of burning buildings if I'm in traction?" He pouts, exaggeratedly. "Not that I'm going to rescue you again. You didn't even say thank you in the traditional fashion."
"I did say thank you. Several times over."
Castle grins mischievously and watches an expression of confused, cross suspicion bleed into Beckett's face.
"Not properly, Beckett. The traditional thank you for a heroic rescuer" – the expected rude snort mysteriously doesn't appear, and he belatedly realises that Beckett is still leaning against his shoulder and he is still patting her hair. Well, not precisely patting. Somewhere along the way it's turned into more of a stroke – " is a kiss."
He expects her to hit him, or amputate his ear or nose – or head – but he certainly doesn't expect her to turn her face up and peck him on the cheek. Briefly. Far too briefly. So briefly that he's not sure it happened at all, especially when she yelps, winces, and emits a string of ow cut with some words he's sure shouldn't be printed in a family newspaper even if they are in a foreign language. So that's what Russian swearing sounds like. Her evident pain recalls him to his fast-fleeing senses, just before he grabs her, hauls her into his lap, and shows her what a proper kiss feels like. If he tries that he'll probably puncture her lung.
"Have you taken any painkillers?"
Beckett suddenly looks guilty and defensive.
"Not yet." Castle merely raises an eyebrow in a parentally wasn't-that-a-bit-dumb interrogative fashion. "I wanted to talk to the boys and the Feds and I need to think."
"You don't need to think till tomorrow. It's almost eight p.m." – how did it get that late? – "so take the pills, sleep properly – well, as properly as you can if they're going to wake you up every couple of hours." There's a question in her eyes. "Suspected concussion. Remember? That's why you can't be let go. When you get to the precinct, call me." There's that odd flash of might-be-hurt again.
"Won't you be there?"
"Yes, but not till I know you've been released. Why would I go to the precinct if you're still stuck here?"
"You could carry on playing with the Feds' toys." There's more than a hint of bitterness and jealousy in that. Castle considers and swiftly rejects a flippant answer.
"Not as much fun on my own. Besides which, they won't let me if you're not there." He picks up a glass from the nightstand and fills it with water. "Take your" – he looks at the tablets – "horse pills – how are you supposed to swallow those? – and snuggle down."
"Can't snuggle. Hurts." Beckett swallows her pills with only a minor amount of life-threatening choking. When she's done, Castle puts his arm firmly behind her shoulders. She glares.
"Lean back, Beckett."
"Your arm is in the way."
"Yes, now lean back against it and I'll lower you down." She glares sceptically, but does what she's asked. (Must be the painkillers.) He lowers very, very carefully, as if she's a soap bubble he doesn't want to burst, and lands her safely on the pillows. "There."
"Thank you." Beckett looks surprisingly small and pathetic in a clinically neat hospital bed. Her fingers make a small movement towards him, and he links in with them.
"Go to sleep, Beckett. We'll sort it all out in the morning." Castle pats her hand, and – because if she pecked his cheek then clearly kisses are allowed – drops a reasonably affectionate and asexual kiss on her forehead in lieu of his strong desire to place a thoroughly sexual kiss on her lips. "Night night."
He thinks there's a mutter of not a child behind him as he leaves.
By nine-fifteen a.m. Castle has deposited Beckett's remaining, extremely scanty, wardrobe on Jackie's willing arms and van, told her to send the bill to him; done much the same with the furniture restorer, who had looked round dyspeptically, sucked his teeth dispiritedly, and pointed out that almost nothing could be saved. Castle had asked enough questions to be sure that this was indeed the case and not a play for doubled prices, looked at the wreckage, controlled the rerun of bubbling nausea at the charred smell and locked up behind them. He had e-mailed the book list to his favourite bookseller last night, after he'd gone home. For some reason sleeping had not been the first item on his to-do list, and when he'd eventually tried he'd had more than a few nightmares. For once, waking early had been easy.
All this admin taken care of, he regards his phone, willing it to ring and be either Beckett or Michael. When it is obdurately silent, he collects a coffee in a handy café, together with some breakfast, and peruses the paper. The explosion has made it to page fifteen, some way behind the misdoings of various politicians and an opinion piece on why children don't read any more. Castle is harrumphingly unimpressed by both, until he realises that he sounds like a grumpy old man and stops, rapidly. He may be forty but he's not old. Or grumpy, for that matter. He is in his prime.
Fortunately, before he can mutter himself into grey hair and wrinkles, his phone cheeps. It's Beckett. Castle bounces off to the precinct undeterred by Beckett's irritation and general bad mood but takes the precaution of purchasing her coffee and a bear claw as he does.
It's just as well. The FBI aren't letting Beckett play – well, they are, but Agent Shaw has made it clear that she is in charge and Beckett is not taking that very well at all. And then, of course, there is the small matter of Beckett's accommodation for the next few days or weeks. Hmmm.
The final straw is when Shaw says that Beckett is too close to the case and shoves her off it, only just not literally. Beckett goes to complain to Montgomery, and gets nowhere. And then Montgomery tells her to go home. Three…two…one – boom!
"Sir, I don't have a home," Beckett points out, in what, if she weren't talking to her Captain, might have included the phrase you unmitigated idiot, with added emphasis. It's Castle's opportunity. He exchanges a meaningful glance with Montgomery, who nods once, firmly, when Beckett isn't looking. Translation: I'd rather you get shot than me, Castle, but I'll back you up.
"Yes, you do," Castle says firmly. "It's a secured building, with an extra bedroom, with people who care about you, with a Federal detail at the door. It's the safest place in the city." And you are staying with me, if I have to put you in handcuffs, sling you over my shoulder and carry you there. He would be horrified at his caveman instincts, if only the thought of carrying Beckett off to his lair wasn't so very appealing.
"Thank you, Castle, but I couldn't." It's exactly what he'd expected.
"You can and you will," he answers, in a tone he's never used to Beckett before and if he values his life may never do again. He flicks a sharp glance to Montgomery, who backs him up. Much to both their astonishment – especially since that's an order that Montgomery has no right to give and no ability to enforce – Beckett capitulates.
"Detective."
"Sir?"
"Take the rest of the day off." Montgomery, no fool, spots the argument rising in her larynx. "That's an order too. Go shopping. You must need to replace some things immediately. And you should rest and recover. In fact – I'd say take a couple of days until you can breathe without it hurting, but you won't, so it's desk duty for you for the next day or two."
"Oooohhhh," Castle singsongs annoyingly. "Let's go shopping, Beckett. I love shopping." He's steering her out of the Captain's office and towards the elevator. "What shall we go shopping for," he says happily as it arrives. "I know" – they step inside and the doors close – "clothes. Specifically, Beckett, underclothes."
"You are not coming any sort of clothes shopping with me, Castle. Especially not for lingerie."
"But Beckett," he whines, "I wanna see what you buy." She glares ferociously, and backs it up with a threatening move of her hand towards his ear. "Or is it going to be a surprise? I love surprises."
"You are not seeing my underwear. On a shelf or on me."
"I'd rather see it on the fl – ow! Ow, ow, owww! Stoppit! Ow, that hurts, Beckett! Leave my ear alone! Apples!"
"You are not coming shopping with me," Beckett says freezingly. Castle emits a few protests which achieve nothing. Fortunately, that's exactly what he wants. He'd been perfectly sure that Beckett, if properly primed, wouldn't want him along, and he's achieved that in spades, at the expense of the cartilage in his left ear. Perfect. Now he can go to Michael's and help to mend the watch.
He whines a little more at not getting to go along with Beckett, for show, tells her that she'll need to call him when she wants to get home, gets snapped at for forgetting that Beckett has no phone – more astoundingly, is almost instantly apologised to for being snapped at, and points Beckett in the direction of the phone store.
Michael is pleased to see Castle, and willingly displays all sorts of bits and pieces, tiny tools and delicate clamps and soldering irons on an elfin scale. Disappointingly, it seems that it will take another day or two for all the small items to be delivered, but there are a few things that can be done. Castle obediently hands over tools in accordance with Michael's surgeon-precise instructions, but isn't allowed to do anything that carries any risk of damage. According to Michael, Castle's fingers are too large and too thick and too clumsy to be allowed near delicate mechanisms. Observing Michael's flittering fingers, Castle admits very privately that Michael might be right.
Castle is idly examining bits and pieces of expensive prettiness for Alexis and bits and pieces of expensive over-the-topness for his mother when his phone goes. It's Beckett. Somehow she's managed to get her own number reinstated, do her shopping, and contact him, in less than two hours.
"Hey, Beckett. All done?"
"Yeah." She sounds tired – weary. He wants to catch her in and cuddle all the tired weariness and banked sadness away.
"Where are you? I'll meet you."
"I'm close to yours. Can you meet me there?"
"Okay. Twenty minutes? There's a good coffee bar at 399 West Broadway."
"Already in it." He supposes that he should have expected that.
"See you in the coffee bar, then. I've got spare keys at home so you'll be okay any other time."
"Okay. See you."
Castle bids farewell to Michael without having made a dent in his bank balance (tempted though he was) and trots off to find Beckett.
He finds her meditatively sipping her usual coffee order, which augurs well, and chewing on her lip, which doesn't. He clings to the thought that if it were disaster she'd be on double espressos, and sits down. Used to his mother's shopping habits, he is astonished by the limited number of bags. Bag. Singular.
"Did you actually shop?" falls out of his mouth.
"Yeah. Just the basics. I'll need to go round and see what can be dry-cleaned later." The prospect doesn't seem to be enthusing her.
"Er… about that."
"Yeah?"
"I called someone. Yesterday. They came this morning and took all the cleanable stuff. It'll be delivered to the loft tomorrow. Er… there wasn't much left." He glances at the bag. "You might need a bit more than that."
He expects annoyance, irritation, a flip retort – almost anything except what he actually gets.
"You did that for me?" Her eyes drop – but not before he sees the hard blink to dispose of the excess moisture – and she buries her nose in her coffee. "Thank you. That's …you didn't have to do that. I'll pay you back the cost."
"Not needed, Beckett." She opens her mouth to argue. "Just let me. It's my books that got you into this mess."
Since she's (astonishingly) accepted that, and he is unaccountably (one) not dead, (two) not suffering the torments of the damned and (three) apparently in Beckett's good books, he reveals most of the rest.
"I got a furniture guy to have a look, too. But he said nothing could be saved, really. Sorry, Beckett." She doesn't sniff, or cry. She's a little white, and a lot more tired, suddenly.
"Thanks," is all she manages.
"Let's go home. There's coffee and dinner there, and we can sort you out for tonight."
"Okay."
She trails out after him, lost in thought. Clearly she doesn't like the thought. Castle doesn't ask. He doesn't need to, because he knows. She's adding up everything she's lost, again. And since he wasn't shot last night, and he hasn't been shot now, (or should that be yet?) he waits half a step for her to catch up, and puts an ostensibly friendly arm around her shoulders to hug her, ready to retreat at the slightest hint of discomfiture.
There is no discomfiture. There isn't exactly snuggling in, either, but Castle will take his wins where he can get them, and getting Beckett in his arm is a definite win. He preserves that happy state of affairs all the way to his block, and only removes himself to a safe distance on entering. He's as unsure that she noticed his arm leaving as he was unsure that she noticed it arriving.
Dinner passes off peacefully. Beckett accepts coffee, sits in an armchair and makes gentle conversation about nothing in particular, listens to Alexis and provides her with sensible, if occasionally wincingly blunt, advice when asked, and retreats to the guest room shortly after ten to shower and try to sleep, she explains.
Castle retreats to his own sanctum to write, and tries not to think too much about Beckett showering – naked, and now he knows what her naked body looks like – less than a safe distance away. At this point, that's anything under ten miles. However, she's staying here, in his loft, where she'll be safe and comfortable and he can look after her, to the extent that's possible. He writes for a while – Nikki in the shower, mostly, accompanied by Rook – and then takes himself to a cool shower and bed, resisting the temptation to go and kiss Beckett goodnight.
Castle wakes in the night, unusually. He normally sleeps like a tired child – not a baby, such a stupid cliché: babies do not sleep well, as every parent knows – but tonight he has been woken by something. An abnormal noise, maybe: a strange sound? Ah. Yes. That would be the stray Beckett in his bed, then. That's okay. He turns over and snuggles down again, tucking her in comfortably.
The Beckett in his bed?
He's jerked into full wakefulness. Beckett is curled up – and into him – whiffling adorably and sound asleep. It is definitely a real Beckett. He is definitely not dreaming. This is still his own universe.
But there's a Beckett in his bed!
Okay. Three a.m. is not the time to wake her up and investigate. It's also not the time to wake her up and make love to her, which is an extremely appealing course of action. It is a good time to make sure she stays tucked in and safe, and then they can talk – try to talk – about this in the morning. Maybe. Or maybe not, more likely.
He closes his eyes and wills himself back to sleep.
When he wakes, formless flaming nightmares having pursued him on and off throughout, he finds that instead of being spooned into Beckett, she's draped across his chest and he is embracing her. She's still whiffling gently. It's not quite six-thirty.
After a few extremely pleasant moments, Beckett shifts, winces, stretches, winces some more, unfolds very slowly and forces her eyes open. Castle watches with some interest: he'd always thought that Beckett would spring into life instantly, full-formed with power heels, intimidating aspect, shield and gun. Clearly not. She knuckles her eyes, makes a face, blinks sleepily – and only then opens her eyes properly to meet Castle's.
"What are you doing in my bed?" she squawks.
"Your bed? This is my bed, Beckett. What are you doing in it?" He smiles happily, with an undertone of lazy sensuality. "Not that I don't like it, but…"
"What happened?" Oh. She sounds absolutely panicked. Ah. Okay.
"Nothing." There is a massive relaxation. "Did you think…?"
"No, but…. How did I get here?" Castle shrugs.
"Dunno," he rumbles. "I woke up and you were here." He doesn't mention the small hours waking.
Beckett rolls over very cautiously, pushes herself to sitting (Castle admires the form under an oversize sleep tee) and dangles her legs over the side of the bed. Then she stops, slumps, makes a very pained noise and sits back up straight, and ducks her head.
"Oh God," she emits. "Oh God, not again."
Castle waits for a beat or two, in case there should be some explanation.
"Oh God," Beckett repeats. "I thought I'd grown out of that. I'm sorry." Castle is not sorry. Castle is definitely not sorry about whatever caused Beckett to appear in his bed. Castle is, in fact, only too delighted with whatever it is, and he has a pretty good idea by now.
"What?" he asks anyway, standing up and walking round to her side.
"I sometimes used to sleepwalk. When I was small. I haven't done it often since I went to school. Oh God," she wails, sounding absolutely appalled and somehow frightened. "This is awful." There's a half-pause. "It's okay that it was you, but what if I'd ended up in Alexis's room? Or worse, your mother's?"
Castle is speechless. Only part of his silence is due to the appallingly amusing thought of Beckett sleepwalking in on his mother. Most of it is caused by the first comment. It's okay that it was you?
"It's okay that it was me?" he squeaks breathlessly. Beckett suddenly blushes bright scarlet all the way to her toes. (Very pretty toes.) "Beckett? Wanna explain?"
There's a resounding silence. Castle plumps down beside her, a move he instantly regrets when she hisses with pain.
"Sorry," he says, to no great effect. Beckett casts him a look of ire and, still very cautiously, hoists herself up.
"I'm going to get dressed," she says. Clearly she isn't going to explain, or talk about it. She stands very stiffly and then creaks her way to the door, through Castle's office, and, in a kind of hunched scuttle, makes for the stairs.
Thank you for the amazing response, to all readers, followers, those who favourite and reviewers, especially to the guest reviewers who cannot be thanked individually.
Completely separately, last year I asked you about what a tourist could do in New Orleans in spring. Thanks to all who have already replied, whose suggestions prompted me to book! If anyone else has any suggestions, please PM. I have kept a list of the previous replies.