17: The river of time
Some time later the loft is quiet and Castle has found his inspiration. The remains of the morning pass, a brief, hurried lunch happens followed by a return to his laptop and the minutiae of his story for the whole of the afternoon. Alexis comes home, his mother comes and goes at random intervals, and eventually his stomach tells him it's time to make dinner.
Beckett is not there. There are no missed calls or texts or even e-mails to tell him where she might be. He is first confused – surely laptops and household linen doesn't take that long – and then, very swiftly, worried. What if someone knocked into her and her rib punctured her lung? What if she's been mugged or shot or murdered or kidnapped or… He forcibly tries to stop panicking. He fails. How did he not notice that she hasn't come back yet? Where's she gone? Who's she with?
He's worrying himself into heart failure when the door opens and Beckett enters, a little flustered and a little tousled and a little rushed and hurried.
"Sorry," she says. "I was delayed at the morgue."
"The morgue?" Castle exclaims. "What on earth were you doing at the morgue? You're supposed to be on suspension."
"I didn't see you at the lab," Alexis adds.
"You wouldn't," Beckett points out. "I avoid high school groups. You shouldn't be exposed to the reality of murder."
Alexis looks cynically at Beckett. "You're telling me this? With my dad?"
"Yep," Beckett says calmly. "You might have a cast-iron stomach but I bet your classmates don't. I'm not clearing up the inevitable mess. You weren't allowed into the morgue and autopsy areas, were you?"
"No," Alexis admits. "We weren't." She looks somewhat disappointed. Beckett looks vindicated.
"Why were you at the morgue at all, Beckett?" Castle asks again.
"I wanted to see Lanie." There's a distinct undertone of so leave it, Castle which he'll explore later. Along with an exploration of don't bother starting in your room, start in mine. It really does seem pointless for her to sneak downstairs only after the nightmares begin, rather than preventing them in the first place.
Later doesn't happen till… well, a lot later. Alexis retires, and Beckett keeps the conversation very firmly focused on the difficulties of finding a new laptop that she likes and on the particularly tasteless colours of bed linen. She was, it appears, unimpressed by the possibility of bubble-gum pink. So would Castle have been. Pink is not his colour.
Finally he tires of the constant deflection. "Why were you at the morgue when you're suspended?"
"Lanie called me," Beckett says uninformatively. "She wanted to see how I was."
This is not entirely implausible. Still, it doesn't feel like the whole story.
"Mmmm?"
"She read me a lecture" – Castle winces in sympathy: he's been on the receiving end of Lanie's lectures once or twice himself, and the scar tissue is barely healed – "on taking care of myself, listening to the doctors, and not doing anything strenuous."
A thin line of colour washes her cheekbones. Castle deduces that Lanie-as-wingman (he knows she's on his side in the game of catching Kate Beckett, but he doesn't know what Beckett may have told her. Nothing, most likely) had adjusted the definition of strenuous somewhat. Or possibly Lanie has provided some blunt advice, suggestions, or downright orders.
"Oh," he says, as opposed to, say, what did Lanie say exactly? He is massively impressed with his own self-control in not asking. Beckett starts to yawn. It doesn't appear to be faked, and in fact she does look a little tired. Possibly because it's after eleven, and that's the latest she's been up (if not awake) since she got here. "It's bedtime, Beckett." He pauses, and smiles mischievously at her. Sometime since Alexis went upstairs, she's migrated into the crook of his arm. He knows exactly how that happened. From the slightly confused look, she's not so sure. No sneaky snuggling – not likely, Beckett. He intends to practice sneaky snuggling as often as he can get away with it.
"Yeah."
"So I'll go get your toothbrush and pyjamas." And Castle whisks himself upstairs and does precisely that before Beckett finishes closing her dropped-open mouth. He also brings down her cleanser and moisturiser and a hairbrush. He's grinning.
Beckett is not grinning. Beckett is glaring. Castle takes the path of least valour and most discretion and continues without a hitch through the office into his bedroom, where he drops the pyjamas off, and the bathroom, where everything else should be, and is, dropped off. Behind him there is a very strange noise. It sounds like a muted, furious yowl, as if he'd trodden on a cat's tail. It appears to be emanating from Beckett.
"What do you think you're doing?"
"Saving time."
"What?"
"Saving time. We both know you'll end up in here anyway, so why not save all that time messing around upstairs and missing me and having nightmares and just start right here?"
Beckett looks at him as if he's grown a second head. There's a pause, in which Castle comes to a realisation that he might just possibly have overstepped the mark a little. Or a lot. He droops, and looks penitent, all his grin and enthusiasm draining away.
"That was" – he searches for a word – "inappropriate." Beckett raises an eyebrow. Castle is recalled to emotions that he hasn't experienced since his most recent expulsion from high school. "I'm sorry. I'll go and put it all back." He turns away.
"Don't bother." Now does that mean that she will, or that no-one will? He turns back round. "It might as well stay here with me." Castle gapes. Beckett smirks very nastily. "You shouldn't assume, Castle."
"You're mean." He steps toward her.
"Yep." Another step.
"You made me think…" And a third.
"Nope. You made you think. I didn't say a word."
And a fourth step, which brings him into range. He catches her and firmly brings her laughing face to his.
"You" – kiss – "are" – kiss – "mean to me." Kiss. "It's not fair." Kiss. This time a few buttons open as well.
"You did it all yourself, Castle." He kisses her again. All her shirt buttons are open. In fact, her shirt is gone. She's got no right to make him think he's mis-stepped when clearly he hasn't. It's not fair for her to tease him. It would, on the other hand, be only fair for him to tease her in return. And if he happens to enjoy it immensely, well, that's just jam in his doughnut.
"You yowled. Then you glared. What was I supposed to think?"
"I did not yowl. I do not yowl. I am not a dying cat." Castle says nothing, very loudly, and runs a finger extremely lightly over her ribs. "Broken ribs does not equal dying." Castle simply kisses her again: slowly, firmly and with intense attention to detail. Shortly his shirt falls off. How that happened is a mystery. He had nothing to do with it.
"Bed time, Beckett," he suggests.
"Mmm," she purrs. "You think?" She circles her hips very slowly against him. "Mmm. Guess so." Castle slides a hand over her ass and keeps her right where he wants her, moving round from her mouth to nibble her ear and then back to her mouth. She emits a small sexy sigh. Matters progress rather rapidly from there, and shortly Castle is carefully laying Beckett out across the bed and admiring a very elegant and restrained dark green underwear set. Front fastening, he notes. Everything that he's seen has been front fastening. This is to be encouraged. She smiles seductively up from the nest of pillows in which he's cocooned her, reaches up, pulls him down, and only Castle's fast reactions prevent him falling into her.
He amuses himself in tracing extensive, delicate patterns over her skin and tantalising her until she breaks the mood by informing him – with menaces – that teasing her further will result in his ability to perform being removed with Bobbitt-like precision. Which is entirely unfair, because it's not as if she's been passive. She's teased him horribly. He doesn't approve of this double standard at all. Still, there is a solution.
He's lying on his back, gloriously naked and ready, letting her move herself over him – he'd have lifted her, but she'd forcefully pushed him flat and made it perfectly clear that she may be hurt but she's not dead yet – and now she's straddling him and he teases her a little because she's right there and her face is sleepy-sexy-stunning as she shimmies very slightly to align them and ohhhh he slips right into her and he can watch her face as he does and ohhhh she's really, really into this. As much as he is. And then they both stop thinking altogether, and though it's still very slow and careful and gentle it's perfect.
Afterwards, it's equally delightful to be able to curl up together, and drift softly into sleep knowing that she's there, and she's his, and he's hers, and they will both still be there in the morning. Together.
And they are.
Life passes quietly for the rest of the week, and the following week. Beckett goes back to the precinct, but, being confined to desk duty, is bored, frustrated and snappish. Ryan and Esposito have to put up with it, though it's remarkable how many leads they need to pursue outside the bullpen: Castle doesn't have to put up with it, and, not being particularly inclined to martyrdom on a 24/7 basis, brings her morning coffee and then decamps to writing. He suffers enough each evening as she complains about Montgomery's complete unreasonableness in not allowing her the chance to be injured further. On the other hand she's pretty much moved into his room and bed, and that is progressing very nicely indeed.
So it's a horrible shock when she says on Friday night, "I get the keys for the apartment tomorrow morning. Wanna come with me? I need to be there for all the deliveries. Ryan, Espo and Lanie are coming over to help out on Sunday. I've arranged for a small truck then to pick up all the furniture from GreenFlea, but the bed and all the linen and towels are coming tomorrow."
"But…"
"What's wrong? You knew I'd signed the lease two weeks ago."
"I…" He shrugs, unhappily.
"Will you come with me?"
He'd thought, clearly mistakenly, that she might not go. He'd started to think that she might stay; that she could deal with the noise and fuss and bustle of the loft. He has no idea why he should have thought that. It's not like they'd talked about it. They hadn't talked about it at all. They'd gone and bought furniture and she'd gone and bought a bed but ever since then they hadn't talked about it at all.
" 'S okay, Castle. We'll talk about it tomorrow." She turns for the office, and the bedroom beyond. When he catches up, she's already in the bathroom, and the door is shut. They've respected each other's night-time rituals and privacy, and he's not about to change that, no matter the painful upset of her definite departure date. When she emerges, there's a certain tightness around her eyes, a tiny furrow in her brow. She wriggles into bed, all caution past, and curls up as Castle eases past to perform his own night-time routine. Once that's over, she's still curled up, back to him, eyes shut.
"I know you're not asleep," he murmurs, and tucks her into his arm. They've developed this spooned closeness, over the last few days, as her injuries have healed enough to allow her to move more freely and turn without pain. "I'm coming tomorrow." She relaxes into him. Ah. He'd hurt her, and she'd begun to think he wouldn't go with her. Silly Beckett. But his chest is sore, at the thought of her moving out. Tomorrow. He cuddles her tighter, and tries not to think about it.
He wakes up to the now-usual sound of Beckett's alarm, looks at the clock and attempts to burrow into the pillows and keep a tight hold of Beckett. Neither works.
"Up, Castle. We need to get going."
"Urghhh."
"Up." Somehow he doesn't think she means the fun way. Which is probably just as well. He's not really in the mood. Tonight he'll be alone in his big brass bed. Even if it's not brass. Stay lady, stay. He struggles out of bed, unenthusiastically. Beckett's already grabbed the bathroom and from the sounds is having the fastest shower in recorded history.
Two hours later, formalities complete, they're in the empty shell of her new apartment, and Castle's looking dismally around. There isn't even a kettle, yet.
"We should have got coffee on the way."
"We didn't have time. The delivery'll be here any moment."
"Then what?"
"They take the bed upstairs, put it together, and then we go get a kettle. The next delivery isn't till twelve, and I don't know about you, but if I don't get coffee till after that I'll turn into a monster."
"You are Bruce Banner," he says, and Beckett rolls her eyes and suddenly things are better, because she's still Beckett, still rolls her eyes at his lame humour, and when he takes her into his arms and kisses her she's very obviously still his, even if she might turn into the raging Hulk at any minute through lack of coffee.
Naturally, the kiss is interrupted by the delivery. Castle looks at the muscles on the delivery men, flexes his own bicep, thinks about Espo, and decides that he's only too glad the fitters are doing it. He and Espo could do it, but it's clearly an effort. This bedframe is sturdy, and unlikely to move a fraction of an inch once in place. Ah. Especially if one had a tendency to be – er – athletic. He wanders up the stairs after Beckett and watches her directing operations from a safe distance. Having bestowed a million-watt smile and soft words of thanks on them before they'd even got the bed through the door, they're probably enslaved for life. God knows, he seems to be.
The bed is swiftly assembled by the use of various tools that Castle doesn't even recognise and has no interest in learning about. Beckett looks admiringly at it, while the men bring in the mattress and place it in the corner, still in its covering, explaining that they're grubby and they don't want to stain it. Castle doesn't look at Beckett for fear of laughter. He wouldn't want to stain it either. But a good mattress cover may be indicated. The two fitters leave, paid, happy, and floating out on the Beckett smile.
"Okay, let's get this mattress on," Beckett says briskly, and to Castle's joint amusement and amazement produces a small pocket-knife to slit the plastic cover.
"What do you think you're doing, Beckett?"
"We're going to put the mattress on."
"No, we are not. You are not going to do anything strenuous. I am not taking you back to the ER. The doctor will kill us both." She rolls her eyes at him again. "I can move this for you, and then you take the plastic off when it's at the frame."
"You're being ridiculous."
"Yep, but you can't move it on your own with your ribs still mending so you don't have a choice," Castle says very smugly. Beckett makes a very irritated noise but complies. Castle flexes his muscles and, much to his well-concealed surprise (those sessions with Espo and Ryan must really have paid off) shifts the mattress without difficulty with the weight – it's very awkward – to be vertical against the bed frame. Beckett rapidly slices through the plastic and the mattress is shortly in place. They were as efficient a team at situating mattresses as they are at crime.
Castle looks at the bed. Beckett looks at the bed. The air changes in an instant to hot, sparking and heavy with desire. Castle sits on the mattress, pulls a still-standing Beckett to him by her hips and then supports her weight as he pulls her further to be lying on him lying on her bed. Then he kisses her, or maybe she kisses him, and everything incinerates in a hot haze of sheer lust and absolute privacy.
It's only when Castle rolls Beckett over and looms up over her that either of them realise that this is not a good idea.
"We can't," she says, panting a little and definitely regretful. "Not yet."
"Later," Castle drawls lazily. "Later, Beckett, we're going to christen your apartment properly."
"If you break a bottle of champagne on the bed frame you are cleaning it up."
Castle waggles a lascivious eyebrow and leers. "Not quite what I was thinking. I prefer drinking the champagne. I'll even buy it." He runs a hand lightly over her. "You promised me coffee."
"We need to go and buy the kettle first." She looks down at her watch, and a strange expression flickers across her face, gone almost before it's there to identify. Castle thinks that it might have been agony, but now isn't the time to pry. There are too many things to do. He holds up two pieces of paper.
"What're those?"
"Our lists. Just in case."
"Well, it's after ten o'clock. We need to be done by eleven thirty – I don't want to miss the delivery."
"I have an idea." Beckett looks disturbingly and depressingly cynical as he says that.
"Yeah?"
"Let's just get coffee at a coffee shop and then after the next delivery go on a road trip."
"Huh?"
Castle's eyes dance. "There's a huge Walmart in North Bergen. Let's go get all the basics there, after the delivery."
"How do you know that?"
"How do you not?"
"Never thought about it. How do you know?"
"Research." Beckett harrumphs. "C'mon. It'll be fun." And I can pretend that we're shopping for ourselves, not just you. As if we were cohabiting. Like we should be.
"Okay. Now can we go get coffee?"
"Sure."
So they do, sitting in Irving Farm, not hurrying, sipping their usual orders. It fills the time companionably, as they argue about the necessity for stocking the fridge – Castle says yes, Beckett says no, but compromises on some cans of soup and suchlike – and the correct arrangement of towels in the airing cupboard. In such domestic disputation they pass the time till eleven, and then meander back to the new apartment, hand in hand. Castle is as content as is possible in the circumstances. It's re-dawning on him that privacy from his redheads is a very desirable concept. The last few days have been a touch uncomfortable as the piercing looks from his mother have increased and Beckett's range of movement has also increased. It's been rather too tense for his peace of mind.
Once the delivery is done, the linens put away, and the bed made, without more than a couple of snatched kisses and a minor and really quite irrelevant amount of mutual touching up, Castle insists on buying lunch and then they take off on their road trip – as Beckett puts it, very unfairly, because once Castle's got an idea in his head he won't leave her alone till they try it out.
"I didn't notice you objecting to my ideas the last few nights, Beckett," he says insinuatingly as they swing out into the traffic. She blushes, and covers it up with a growl. "I bet you won't object later, either."
Thank you to all readers and reviewers.