16: Spending time
Castle saunters back around the market until he locates Beckett, who, from her satisfied demeanour, has successfully terrorised a number of vendors into doing exactly what she wants.
"Do we need to hire a truck, Beckett?"
"No." She produces a number of little cards. "I paid for everything, but they'll keep it for me for a few days till I can pick up."
"What did you get?"
"Bookcase, desk, table, a few chairs, coffee table. Two side lamps and a nightstand."
"We will need a truck," Castle points out.
"We'll need Ryan, Espo, you and me to carry it all," Beckett points out in return.
"You're not carrying anything heavy," Castle says, horrified. "Even two weeks from now you're not supposed to do anything strenuous. Beckett's beautiful face darkens instantly. It's funny, he muses, how it's still beautiful even when it so closely resembles a thunderstorm about to break over his head.
"I thought you wanted a couch and a bed too?" he distracts, rapidly.
"I do. But I'm not getting upholstered furniture or mattresses at a flea market, and I haven't seen a bedframe that I like." She sighs. "Back to the internet and the stores."
"At least they'll deliver," Castle says. "Save our backs." Beckett flicks a glance at him.
"You don't have to fetch and carry for me – unless it's coffee when you turn up in the bullpen, of course. Then it's compulsory."
"If I don't make sure that you've got furniture installed, you might not move in. And while I'm perfectly happy if you stay in my loft for months, you're the one who said you needed your own place. So it's in my interest that you get moved in as quickly as possible."
"How does that follow, Castle? That's not logical at all."
He smirks in an offensively superior fashion.
"Once you're moved in, I can come and see you. You said you didn't need space from me." He smiles smugly. "You said I could have a key, too."
The boggled, baffled expression on Beckett's face is worth a million dollars. She flaps her jaw but produces only a few strangulated squawks and squeaks. He loves it when he confounds her with illogic. The reaction is so much fun. Especially when his statements are completely nonsensical.
She's still fizzling gently and fulminating not-so-gently when they regain the relative safety of the loft.
"Are you going to look up beds and couches?"
"Later," Beckett says. That's apparently the be-all and end-all of that conversational line.
"Let's make dinner, then. Seeing as you're so good at chopping and slicing, you're in charge of beautifying the vegetables."
"Even for you, that's a little flowery. Vegetables do not need to be beautified. They need to be prepared."
"But you should prepare them beautifully. Food should delight the eye as well as the tongue."
The quibbling continues all the way through the preparation of a chicken stir-fry and noodles. It ceases through dinner, mainly because the stir-fry is delicious and the wine excellent. Beckett, however, appears to have buried herself in her dinner and a limited amount of wine. It looks like she's contemplating furniture, if the crease between her brows is anything to go by. Castle doesn't bother asking if she wants coffee, simply makes it, conveys it to the table in front of the couch, and then conveys Beckett after it by lifting her off her chair and directing her towards it.
"I can stand up by myself," she snips.
"So? I like picking you up. Makes me feel macho and manly."
"Manly is not about Neanderthal actions."
"Define it, then, Beckett," Castle says quickly. He's really interested to hear what she says. She pauses, clearly thinking, then smiles wickedly.
"Like an elephant, I know it when I see it."
Castle pouts. That is a very evasive answer. Most unfair. His instincts start to twitch, as does his sense of mischief. Beckett is clearly hiding something, and he's determined to winkle it out of her.
"That's cheating. You need to give a proper answer."
"This isn't Interrogation, Castle, and I'm not a suspect." But he is now suspicious of her. Very suspicious. Beckett failing to answer always means that he's on to something she'd rather not admit. He casts his mind back to her earlier cut-off statement Of course I care and flaming face.
"You are trying to change the subject, though. C'mon. What's manly in the Beckett Book of Life?"
"The Beckett Book of Life? Have I wandered into a bad sitcom? Or a self-help nightmare?"
"You're avoiding the subject," Castle singsongs. "You don't want to answer." A thin film of colour rises over Beckett's cheeks.
"Okay then. Manly isn't about exerting physical strength and being overly protective. It's about being supportive without being suffocating. Helping if needed." She stops. Her cheeks are now bright. She buries her nose in her coffee cup and appears to have run out of words.
"Am I manly, then?" Castle says, as provocatively as he'd said Am I cute? a few days ago.
"Egotistical much, Castle? Stop fishing for compliments. It's bad manners."
"So you think I am."
"I didn't say that."
"You implied it. I can read your subtext like a book, Beckett. But if you won't tell me, that's okay. I'll assume I am."
"Assume what you like."
Beckett sounds particularly disgruntled. Castle chalks up a small win for finding out that she clearly does think him manly (he preens. In a manly fashion.) but simply won't admit it. Not that he'd describe her as feminine, or worse, womanly. Oh no. Those have a whole series of soft, feeble connotations (very unfair, but that's a couple of hundred years of societal imprinting for you) that are simply inappropriate for Beckett. Come to think of it, they're inappropriate for every woman he knows except Meredith, who assumed femininity whenever she wanted something. Female. Femanly? He gives up. He should have taken a gender studies course. Clearly he knows nothing.
While he's been pondering the correct vocabulary, in which pastime he can pass substantial time, Beckett has repossessed herself of his laptop and is clicking her tongue at – he shuffles up to her and peers over her shoulder – bedframes. Specifically, king size bedframes. He bites his tongue, hard. He wouldn't want to do anything that might disturb her thinking – or reduce the size of the bed that he hopes they'll be sharing. Frequently.
He peers more enthusiastically – well, more obviously enthusiastically – as he finds that Beckett is not attempting amputation on his extremities. Peering is not particularly comfortable, so he solves that problem simply by draping his arm round her and nestling her in. He could really get used to this. Four days or so of being able to snuggle up to Beckett has addicted him, and he has no intention of trying to kick the habit. Even better (and unlike many addictive substances) it is not illegal, immoral (well, mostly) or fattening. Perfect.
"I like this one," Beckett eventually says decisively. (Is she ever not decisive?) Castle peruses the page. It's – not what he might have expected, given her earlier comments about light wood. It's a metal frame, spare and clean but not quite austere. He ought to recognise the style, but he can't quite place it, until Beckett says, "I've always liked the Rennie Mackintosh designs. I can get a mirror that style too, quite easily, and maybe a bedside lamp. The ones I got earlier are for the main room."
"Nice," is all he says. "Does it sell mattresses too? You wouldn't want to be sleeping on the frame. It's bad for your back – and your ribs."
"Oh? I rather thought that you'd offered yourself up as a mattress. Was I wrong?"
"No, but if that's what's happening you can stay here. I'm not dislocating my vertebrae when we can both be perfectly comfortable."
"Yes," says Beckett with a mischievous smile. "The mattress upstairs is very comfortable." Castle growls meaningfully. Beckett smirks. "To answer the important question, yes, it does sell mattresses. To answer the question you're very loudly not asking, they'll deliver any time after ten days from now. So I can have it delivered first, and then work round it." Abruptly, she droops. "I'll need to get bed linen. Towels. Even dishtowels and dusters." She winces, and it's clearly nothing to do with her ribs. "Oh, God. Everything. Crockery, cutlery… Ugh. I hate thinking about all this. It's all so" – she scrunches up her face in disgust – "domestic. I don't do domestic."
Tell me something I don't know, Beckett, Castle thinks. You're about as domesticated as a full-grown tiger. A Siberian tiger, at that. He has a blinding flash of inspiration.
"I do domestic," he says, trailing the thought across her irritation.
"You've done lots already. It wouldn't be fair."
"I could help you make a list. That's no skin off my nose." He grins. "We could have a competition, Beckett. Like those silly school games. We each make a list, and we discount all the things we both thought of, and then whoever thinks of the most items" –
"Normal, basic items. I'm not having you suggesting esoteric items like lemon zest shavers and wire boiled-egg slicers," Beckett inserts in his flow –
"wins."
"Wins what?" she says, far too suspiciously.
"Dinner," Castle says happily. "I'm bound to win, so you can take me for dinner, wherever you choose. But in the unlikely event that I lose" – Beckett makes a noise that sounds disgracefully like blowing a raspberry – "I'll take you for dinner wherever I choose. Done?"
"Done." She pauses. "What if it's a draw?"
"We go Dutch."
"Okay."
Castle bounces off to locate paper and pens immediately, before Beckett can think better of it. He does all the shopping, and even if Alexis buys her own – er – items now, he had had to originally. (He still cringes at the memory.)
"Okay, we've got writing implements, so now we need a time limit," he carols, "otherwise you'll add things all evening. Fifteen minutes. I'll set my phone."
" 'Kay," Beckett says distractedly, clearly already thinking.
"Ready, set, go!" She humphs at his frivolity.
Humphs or not, Beckett starts to scribble immediately. Her writing is even worse than it is in the precinct. Penguins would write better than Beckett, and they can't even hold a pen. Castle starts to scrawl rapidly on his own account, and for fifteen minutes all is silent except for the skritching of pens and occasional exclamations of realisation.
When the alarm shrills Castle finishes his word and firmly removes both pens from reach to prevent cheating. Both sheets are laid out on the table where both of them can see – again, to prevent cheating. It's not that Castle's mistrustful, precisely – it's just that he knows his Beckett, who is mistrustful by profession. And, he strongly suspects, not above cheating. He squints at her list. She squints at his.
Fairly quickly, after a few pauses for translation of the respective hieroglyphics, the obvious equivalencies are deleted. That's when the row starts.
"Washing up items includes a basin, cloths, scrubbers and dishtowels, Castle."
"But you didn't list them. So you've got one and I've got four."
"That's ridiculous."
It gets more and more heated. Beckett clearly subscribes to the classification theory, Castle to the detail. This is remarkable for its contradictory position from their normal attitudes.
"This is stupid," Beckett grumps. "You're cheating and it's not fair."
"I'm not cheating. I wrote down everything. You didn't. You just wrote down generalities. So I win."
"You do not. My list covers everything on your list and more."
"Does not. You're covering up that you didn't think of half these things."
"Did so."
"Don't believe you."
"Don't then. I'm going to bed." She stands up, sulkily. "And you did not win," she says childishly from the foot of the stairs. "It was a draw." She huffs off.
Castle glares at her retreating back and says loudly, "I did so win." Which is, of course, equally childish. He huffs off to his office with his laptop and buries himself in a computer game which involves a lot of shooting and therefore a great deal of stress relief. Manly stress relief. Eventually he washes and goes to bed. Unsurprisingly, there is no Beckett to be found in it. He feels deprived of his teddy-bear equivalent, and falls asleep with a pout on his face.
When he briefly wakes in the small hours, there is a Beckett to be found in his bed. This is mildly surprising. It would be astounding, but he's too sleepy to be astounded. He turns over, cuddles his Beckett-bear in and is swiftly asleep again.
When he wakes up there is a dent in the pillows and an absence of Beckett. He shuts his eyes again. It may be Monday but his alarm hasn't rung yet. Shortly there is a small pressure on the side of the bed and a slightly chilly body snuggles back in. Her feet are cold. Castle knows this because Beckett has tucked them against his calves. He squeaks.
"Your feet are cold, Beckett."
"You're nice and warm." She tucks her feet, and the rest of her, in more closely.
"I'm not a heater," Castle huffs. There are two small icebergs developing between his knees and ankles. Once upon a time, they were his legs.
"Are so." She wriggles into him even further. Obviously the chill has prevented her tweaking her ribs while doing so. Before he can protest further, or alternatively take advantage, his alarm settles the point. Castle falls out of bed on the opposite side from Beckett's encroaching extremities and escapes, basely turning a deaf ear to her complaints.
"There will be breakfast, Beckett," he says, popping his head back round the door.
"Sleep," is all he gets in return.
It's not till he's most of the way through finding bacon, flipping pancakes and finishing off some sliced fruit that he has time to think that it's a little odd that Beckett, who is permanently present in the precinct before eight a.m., should be sleeping so late. He shrugs the thought into the box marked "later" and concentrates on not burning anything. Then he concentrates on his own breakfast, Alexis leaving for school, and clearing up.
When all that's done, he pokes his head round his bedroom door, observes Beckett for a few moments, forcibly tears himself away from more creepy staring at her spread out across the bed – stealing it all, he thinks – and her dark hair bright on the pillows. She is, once again, out cold. It occurs to Castle, looking at her peaceful face and listening to the soft pattern of her breathing, that she's had a bit of a rough time for the last couple of months. Coonan had been a major shock to her system, and killing him must have rocked her foundations. Being stalked by a serial killer isn't exactly a walk in the park, either, and then she'd almost been blown up. This is not conducive to a quiet, soothing existence. He's surprised that she hasn't had more nightmares – though, come to think of that, she's had nightmares every night she's been here. That's why she's been in his bed. Even last night, when she'd been childishly cross and sulky with him because he won their game, she'd still sneaked down. Ergo, another nightmare.
How long might she have been having nightmares? He hopes it's just the last few days. Surely he'd have noticed if she'd been tired, or raccoon-like beneath the eyes, for longer? He would have, definitely. So it's a temporary thing. That's fine, he can deal with that. He breathes a small sigh of relief, allows himself another few seconds of staring, and then tears himself away before he falls back into bed. Apart from any other consideration, there is no room. King size or not, Beckett is using up all the space.
Noises of waking Beckett disturb him some unspecified time later, when he's been miserably failing to achieve writing for a while, read all his favourite websites, looked at his sales stats, and had another two cups of coffee. While he's dragging himself back to the real world around him, the click of the bathroom door locking tells him that he's missed a chance for some fun.
Or maybe not. The bathroom door unlocks again. Beckett, not looking raccoonish at all, emerges, goes past him without a pause and aims straight for the coffee. When she's drained the first cup in one long swallow, she refills it and does the same again. She would try for a third go, but there's no coffee left. Castle prowls up behind her and – since she's right there – wraps his arms around her and then traps her between them as he starts to refill the percolator. It's pleasantly homely. Not that Beckett is homely, of course. Anything but. Maybe comfortable would be a better word.
"Got you," he says happily.
"Don't get between me and my coffee, Castle."
"Oooohhhh. Won't I like you when you're angry?"
"I am not Bruce Banner. Nor am I green and raging."
"Just raging?" Castle asks naughtily. Beckett growls fearsomely. "Proving my point there." He manoeuvres around her, without letting her escape. "More coffee?"
"Please."
Castle tucks arms round her again and settles her back against him while they wait for the coffee to brew. There's a comfortable space of friendly silence. Almost affectionate.
"What are we doing today?" he asks, when they're suitably arranged on the couch with the coffee.
"I am going to go and look at laptops." That doesn't sound as if he's wanted. It also doesn't sound interesting. "And possibly towels and bed linen, if I can stand the excitement." Definitely not interesting. "But first I'm going to get dressed." That would possibly be a good plan. Castle is entirely unsure that Manhattan could cope with Beckett in silky shorts and camisole top. Well, the male half, anyway. "I need to go out on my own for a while." Okay. She'd said she needed space. He needs to give her it. They're not teens, to live in each other's pockets and be everything, all in all, to each other. Besides which, he'll need his own space to write, and she'll give him it.
"Do you need your back washed?" he leers.
"Not today." Castle droops, and pouts. "I want to get this done before lunchtime. If you come and 'wash my back'" – he can hear the quotes around the phrase – "I won't even get out the front door before lunchtime." She grins. "You're a distraction. Besides which, don't you have some writing to do? I'm sure Gina is hounding you for your chapters."
"If you weren't distracting me…"
Beckett raises a quizzical eyebrow. "Castle, you're as distractible as a toddler."
"But so much more adult," he murmurs, and reaches for her. "I'm distracted right now." And he kisses her and moves his fingers in a way which is very distracting, for both of them, and then lifts her into his lap, which is even more distracting and provides so many more options for distraction, and then, since she seems to be in so much less discomfort than she has been, lifts her up, stands her up, lifts her again and takes her back through to the bedroom to distract both of them from just about everything that isn't the electricity arcing between them and the hot exchange of touch and mouth. So helpful that neither of them had managed to get dressed.
thank you to all readers and reviewers.
Credit to WRTRD for telling me which flea markets were useful in Manhattan.