章 105: 105. The weather outside is frightful
Beckett wakes to the presence of the smell of coffee and the absence of Castle, who, from the tapping noises, has found inspiration. She cleans up, doesn’t bother with more than a swift slick of mascara, and puts on jeans and a warm cable-knit sweater over a soft t-shirt. Then she looks around, which she hadn’t really done with Castle’s bedroom last time, being far more concerned with looking (et cetera) at Castle. There appears to be a door out to the rear of the house, with some decking which must be nice in the summer, and a variety of other landscape features for which the weather is far too chilly. Pools are very nice – but only when the water temperature is a long way north of ten degrees and the air temperature above twenty. She throws on a jacket, opens the door and quietly goes out, shutting it tidily behind her so as not to disturb him.
Out leads her, after a short walk, to the beach, and the Atlantic tide. Lowish tide, she thinks, and watches for a while. She thinks it might be coming in. There’s feeble sun struggling through smudged grey clouds; the occasional smear of its light on the water; small white horses on the surface in the thin, lazy wind. She’s glad of the heavy jumper, though the wind is still cool, promising spring but not bringing it.
She carries on, down to the edge of the water on the firm, damp sand, where the waves ripple in and retreat, ripple in and retreat. She watches those for another while, counting to see if every seventh wave is bigger, as superstition would have it. If it is, she can’t tell. She’s a big city girl: heart and soul, summer trips to the Adirondacks as a child aside. She turns, and starts to walk parallel to the sea, face to the wind: it can blow her back, later. For now, she needs to move: moving helps her think, and thinking is a necessity. The gleams through the grey sky and the foam on the waves and the wind on her cheeks might ground her.
Behind her, a silhouette on the decking of the rear of his house, Castle watches the slim figure walking away. He doesn’t call out, or go after her; simply sits, warm in a thick wool coat, and watches her go. It’s up to her. It’s always up to her, and he’s expected her to seek solitude from the moment he stopped writing, found the bed empty and the door unlocked. He’ll be waiting for her, when she returns.
Beckett shies from the thought of the previous evening as does a horse from a rattlesnake, and for much the same reason: the amount of poison unleashed. She’d meant to stay calm, and cool, and find the truth, and leave. Her boots leave footprints on the sand behind her, washing out with the incoming tide, just like she’d meant to leave the memories of her father, drunk, behind her to wash out with her incoming life. Instead she’s still enmeshed in the seine net of guilt and obligation, now woven with the memories of his devastation as she’d told the truth; his tears; his stumbling speech carrying agony and apology that she couldn’t cope with, emotionally exhausted as she had already been. And so it had been left unfinished.
Her truth was laid out on the table, and her father had eaten a bitter meal from it, but she remains unfed.
She walks on, curving a little up the sand from the curling waves now lapping too close to her feet, trying to gain mental distance from the Manhattan treatment room as she has gained physical distance. It’s far more difficult to leave her thoughts and pain and memories behind her, to let the wind and waves wash them all away like her footprints; blur them, like the light mist out on the water blurring the horizon. Vanishing point, she thinks, and stops, and stares out into the horizon over Gardiners Bay. Vanishing would have been so easy – would be so easy. All she would have to do is keep travelling eastwards, always eastwards, into the morning sun. Or take the weekend, one last opportunity for joy, and then go from the city to leave westward, into the setting sun.
And yet she can’t escape her past. She never has. Even now, now when she’s awoken and not distracted by Castle’s infinitely reassuring, solid, stable strength, her rage and pain still eat at her. Laying it out has merely put it in a place to be acknowledged: it hasn’t helped her work through it. She’s still trying not to own it, to believe that it will leave of its own accord. Except it won’t. It will no more leave than the vast waters leading into the Atlantic will part for her. She has to work through it.
She’s walked so far that she’s found some rocks of a size to sit on, and does, pulling her feet up and wrapping her arms around her bent knees, made small and still by the weight of care and the distance still to travel. She sits, and stares out, and tries to make sense of yesterday evening, there on the cold grey stone under a cold grey sky next to the cold grey water; lost in cold grey thoughts.
Castle is not precisely worried. Not yet, anyway. More… a little perturbed. Beckett’s walk he could understand, and her need for time and solitude to clear (he hopes) her head. But it’s not that warm, and the grey skies promise at least rain, and possibly a spring storm. He goes back inside, meditatively nibbles at a Danish, puts the rest of the pastries away again, sips his coffee and wonders how long Beckett will be. A little time later, he pours more coffee, and finds a book.
A long while later, he is distracted from his book by the sound of footsteps and the opening door. He looks up to find, as expected, Beckett, who is looking rather windswept and a little damp at the edges. She stands on the mat and then shivers. Castle scowls theatrically.
“You’re cold,” he points out, and then grins. “Good excuse to light the fire.” But before he does he divests her of her coat, also slightly damp, and hugs her. “There. A little warming up while the fire gets going.” He turns away, messes with a firelighter for a moment, and shortly there are cheerful flames and a pleasant smell of burning pinewood. Heat will take a little longer.
While he’s been lighting fires, Beckett has produced more coffee and found the Danishes, some of which are now reposing on a plate in front of her, and one of which is already disappearing down her throat. She shivers again, and wraps her palms round her coffee cup. Castle, never one to miss an opportunity, cuddles her in. The cable knit is not nearly as strokable as the pretty green angora sweater, he finds.
“I needed to think,” Beckett says, bleakly. “But it didn’t help. Just the same old thoughts. Nothing new. Me upset, Dad upset, he’s hurt because I told the truth and I don’t know if he’s still lying to me. Nothing’s fixed.”
Castle hums, encouraging her to continue, without actually saying anything.
“I just wanted it all to be over. Done. Then I could put it all behind me and…” she trails off, breathes, “…and start fresh. Finally be able to try for what I wanted.” She stops again. “I hoped… I wanted to come here so we could just be us. Have time to be us. Not having everything interfering and always getting in the way because it’s all around me. Us. A chance… no cases and no Dr Burke and no-one else and no issues. But it’s still all trailing round behind me.”
Like one who on a lonesome road, Castle thinks, and carries on the quote, doth walk in fear and dread, because they know a frightful fiend doth close behind them tread.
“I thought I’d be free of it all. Free to tell you…” her voice starts to drop away, and Castle doesn’t ask her to speak up. Abruptly she hides her face in his shoulder. He doesn’t press. He thinks he knows what she wants to say, and pushing her to it really won’t help. A forced admission has no value. So he merely holds her close, everything he wants to say confined to his hand around her shoulder.
A gravelling noise on the window makes him look up, to find that the ominous clouds have brought the storm. It’s pouring and the sky is dark: it looks like the foul weather has set in for the next few hours, at least. He’d hoped for a walk, but it’s warm here, the fire is colouring the room with comfortingly orange-red hues; and all in all it’s not actually the worst thing in the world to be stormbound in a warm house with Beckett and no-one else, especially when they have food, drink, and a fire. And thinking of food…
“It’s lunchtime, Beckett,” he bounces.
Beckett regards the plateful of remaining Danishes. “I only just got breakfast,” she says.
“They’ll still be there later. Or tomorrow. I’ll put them in a box. Lunch. I have a nice soup, or there’s grilled cheese” –
“We had that last time we were here.”
“So? I like grilled cheese sandwiches.”
“I didn’t say I didn’t.”
“Or both, or…” he tugs her up and tows her to the kitchen with unwarranted enthusiasm, “… let’s see what’s in the fridge. We could have a picnic in front of the fire.”
The fridge is clearly nicknamed Legion, as it contains many. Different foodstuffs, that is. This deduction is forced upon Beckett by the small fridge magnet with that name across a small demon. She is not impressed by the punning reference.
“We’ve got tomatoes, salad, fruit, cheese, crackers, quiche, pies, pate, Danishes” –
“You wouldn’t let me eat my Danishes,” Beckett points out.
Castle emerges from the fridge. “That was when I thought we were having soup and grilled cheese sandwiches. A picnic is much more fun.” He buries his head in the fridge again. “Sodas…” And out again. It’s like watching a happy jack-in-the-box. He moves to a bread bin. “Here we are. Bread. Look, baguettes!” As if she’s never seen a baguette before. And back to the fridge, again. “Butter. Better take that out or it won’t spread.” He does so.
There is now a pile of food that used to be in the fridge on the counter. Beckett looks at the potential feeding of the five thousand rather than the two who are actually here, and despairs. Then she spots a cold game pie with cranberry topping, stops despairing and starts trying to find plates and a knife to cut it with. A couple of slices of that will be just wonderful. Suddenly a picnic seems like a stunningly good idea, especially with the lashing rain hammering the windows; the frivolity just what she needs, right here, right now; the simple pleasure of a sunny carefree day reincarnated on a rug in front of a pinewood fire.
Shortly there are plates and cutlery; trays arranged with salad segregated from soda, pies parted from pate, bread and butter; glasses and paper napkins. It’s hugely, massively excessive for two people, and would have been excessive for twelve – and it’s wonderful. She’s warmed up by the fire, sufficiently so to remove her sweater. The food is, naturally, top quality and delicious, the atmosphere is relaxed and happy; everything combines in that delightful lightness of being that she had felt here previously. All her tension and worries drain away, unnoticed and unmourned.
Beckett is reaching for a third slice of game pie (well, they weren’t very big, she justifies, and good food should be enjoyed and savoured) when Castle taps her fingers. She growls intimidatorily, and when that fails to have any effect whatsoever and he has the temerity to trap her fingers, she tries a pout.
“Uh-uh. You won’t want your dinner.”
“Will too,” Beckett says faux-crossly, and pouts some more, deliberately sulky-adorably. She tugs hopefully to retrieve her hand and resume her assault on the pie. The sharp tang of the cranberries set against the meltingly rich meat jelly and the tender, luscious venison and duck is quite irresistible. Resistance, in Beckett’s case, is futile.
Unfortunately Castle is imposing resistance on her, which is very unfair. He won’t let go of her hand, and he’s tugging at her again, instead of her tugging at him. In fact, it’s a sharp tug which overbalances her, and somehow she’s ended up with her head in his lap looking up at a very smug grin.
“I thought we could go back to the Plaza Café, since you liked it so much. You wouldn’t want to go and then not have an appetite.”
Beckett supposes not. It doesn’t remove the full-lipped pout.
“But,” adds Castle silkily, “you could have a treat.”
“Oh?”
“Open your mouth and close your eyes and you will have a big surprise,” he singsongs childishly.
“Last time someone said that and I believed them it was medicine and I was six,” Beckett retorts.
Castle merely dangles a strawberry (where did he get strawberries from in March, Beckett wonders) above her nose and then gradually lowers it to her parting lips for her to taste. Her tongue swirls round it, and Castle’s eyes darken with intent. He leans down, and down… and Beckett swipes the strawberry into her mouth and chomps happily on it, while Castle finds that actually he doesn’t bend that far.
“No fair, Beckett. I was going to share it with you and you’ve eaten it all.”
“Not my fault you’re inflexible,” she says smugly. “I could have eaten my half if the position were reversed. Maybe you should do some yoga? I’m sure that would improve your positioning.”
Castle splutters, and then smiles slowly. “I know what would improve my positioning,” he rasps, and simply lifts Beckett up to him, kisses her soundly, and puts her back down in his lap again. She smiles up. His hand strokes around the curve of her face, fingertips delicately delineating the fine bone structure. She turns her cheek into his caress with a soft sound of contentment.
“That’s better. Let’s put everything away and then just stay here for a while. We could keep the strawberries,” Castle entices.
“Okay,” Beckett says lazily, and makes no move to sit up at all.
“That’s not helping.”
Beckett humphs and sits up. Castle acquires an expression of sheer mischief and grabs hold of her waist, stands her up and then, instead of clearing up, pulls her against him and takes suave possession of her mouth, sliding one hand over her ass and keeping her pressed very tightly against him. Smooth assertiveness is firmly on the cards. He’s exploring her mouth and Beckett happily sinks into sensuality: exploring on her own account and adding a seductive wiggle against him.
“We should clear up,” Castle murmurs.
“Mm?”
“We should.”
“Why?” Beckett wiggles more seductively. She thinks the clearing up could wait.
“Because it’s covering the rug.”
“Mm?”
“And I have every intention of snuggling up on that rug in front of the fire and spending the rest of the afternoon exploring all the lovely possibilities of a wet day in the Hamptons.” The slight emphasis on wet says it all, really.
“Such a hard choice.”
Castle flings her a scorching look, lets go in a severe hurry, and is halfway to the kitchen with a high stacked tray before Beckett has blinked. She picks up the plates, cutlery and glasses, and follows.
Two minutes later the rug is clear. The kitchen, however, looks like a bomb has hit it. Neither Castle nor Beckett care at all. They are back in the living room, with Beckett flat on her back on the rug and Castle next to her, hand in hand. There’s a peaceful, quiet interlude.
It lasts approximately a tenth of a second. Then Castle reaches over, Beckett leans up on one arm and is as swiftly pulled down on top of him. She kisses him, hard and demanding – and is swiftly dispossessed of the idea that she should be hard and demanding. Castle is very hard. And demanding, though that’s rather secondary. She melts into him, spreading across him and squirming into a perfect alignment. He’s more comfortable than the floor.
Somewhat surprisingly, matters are confined to kissing. Very hot, passionate, extensive kissing, but kissing. After a while even that ceases, and Beckett finds herself simply cuddled in with her head neatly tucked on Castle’s shoulder.
“Nice as this is, Beckett, I think we should move to the couch.”
“Uh?”
“Couch. I brought the Mission Impossibles like we agreed. The couch is more comfortable for snuggling, anyway. I think the rug is overrated. It’s not thick enough to make up for the floor.”
“I didn’t mind,” she says mischievously.
“You would’ve if you’d been the one on your back on the floor. Ow.”
Castle rolls them over and hoists himself up. Beckett casts him a speculative glance, followed up with a languorous lick of her lips. His eyes spark, but all he does is lean down and haul her up to him, to tow her to the couch. He bounces off to put the DVD in and returns with the remote.
Shortly the familiar theme music plays, the movie starts, and Castle snuggles Beckett into him. Against all his instincts, wishes and desires; and the insistent thrumming of his blood, largely concentrated below his belt, he thinks that a cuddlesome daytime not involving scorching sex would be a good idea. They need to be comfortable, not carnal; serene, not salacious.
Beckett likes Mission Impossible II as much as the original, and is soon quite engrossed. Castle, who can more or less recite it word for word, pays only a modicum of attention to the film but considerably more to all the possible ways to ease Beckett down and bring her to a place where important admissions might follow. He is dead certain of her feelings, but hearing the actual words out loud would be really nice.
The movie finishes, Ethan Hunt saves the world again, and Beckett emerges from action-movie heaven. She does not emerge from Castle’s close embrace. It’s far too cosy even to try.
“When’s dinner?” she asks.
“Seven. Car at quarter to. Why? D’you need hours to primp?”
“That’s you, Castle. Shower, make-up, dress, good to go. I can do it in twenty minutes.”
Castle half-turns and peers out the window, realising that it’s stopped raining. “Look,” he says happily. “It’s sunny now. Let’s go for that walk. Skim stones. Build sandcastles. Paddle in the surf.”
“Paddle? It’ll be freezing.”
“Okay, maybe not paddle. C’mon. Let’s go now.” He lollops off to find outerwear.
Beckett locates boots, sweater and jacket, and swathes herself in all of them; achieving the door just as Castle does. He is carrying two buckets and spades.
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