fanofthegenre | (no subject)

They settle into something actually resembling a routine, once they decide that this is becoming a thing. (She doesn't like the word "boyfriend". It sounds too juvenile, too trivial for what this really is - which is something that means a lot more to her than a name that smitten teenage girls use.) They don't broach the subject of her moving in, but she's starting to spend more time with him than she does at her own place now that Alexis has moved out for college and Martha has made herself scarce.

Most nights, when she stays up too late filing reports at the precinct, she finds herself taking a cab to him instead, curling up in bed beside him and knowing he'll be there when she wakes up. Sometimes it's a competition to see who makes it to the bed first - if he's in a fit of inspiration, she'll often fall asleep to the sound of laptop keys clicking from the other room.

He always wakes up first. It doesn't matter how much sleep she's had - without fail, he's up before she is unless there's a murder, and then they usually both wake up to the sound of her phone going off. But this is one of those weekend mornings where death seems to put itself on pause. After a particularly long and grueling day at work (stepping on a pressure plate connected to a bomb will wreak havoc on a girl), Beckett's just looking forward to spending a lazy morning in bed.

She rolls over, half-dazed and dozing, reaching out sleepily to him - but her eyes snap open when her fingertips are met with the cool face of the pillow instead, and she blinks blearily while the room swims into view, trying to listen for the sound of Castle nearby.

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He unloads the fresh grinds into a filter and snaps the lid into place, slapping the towel over his shoulder for safekeeping. Castle's coffee making skills, like his writing, come from a highly-attuned ability to notice details. Over the years spent in her company Castle has learned Beckett's preferences for the brew and he likes to pride himself on getting it right most of the time. It's another one of those things -- another one of the details of their relationship -- that he's intensely committed to.

He speaks while he brews: "Well, maybe you should be around more often. You know, to make sure I make the right kinds of decisions about food. Products. Stuff like that."

She can hardly wait for the brewing to begin, hovering near the coffeemaker to just wait for the first few wafting smells like an anxious kid. After a beat, she decides to occupy herself with the smoothies instead, moving back over to the blender to add the ice cubes. She manages to fire it up shortly after he speaks, the story behind his words grating at her, churning the same way that ice and fruit churns up, until she finally shuts it off to speak.

"What, you mean like move in here?"

It is incredibly amusing to watch the circus of emotions jump across Castle's face. It's like he can't believe she actually asked the question, when only moments ago he'd theoretically extended the invitation. He feels his stomach contract around a ball of theoretical possibilities.

"No. I mean, yes. I mean, I've been thinking about it. You know." Suddenly Castle seems overcome by a case of the sentence fragments. He bites down on his back molars and works to throw some conjunctions in there, looking at the front of the coffee maker like he could burn holes through it with his retinas. "I mean, in my head it makes sense. You already keep a toothbrush here and I'm technically closer to the precinct than your apartment."

Those are his arguments, as he sees them: cavity prevention, and a shorter commute.

She doesn't like to beat around the bush, to dilly-dally or otherwise waste her time asking every question but the one she really wants to ask, and if that means being a little more direct than some people would like, it's a small price to pay for honesty and getting the answers. Beckett watches the progression of expressions on Castle's face, raising an eyebrow expectantly, and waits for an expansion.

"True," she murmurs, as if it's not something she's given any amount of thought to - when in reality, she has thought about it, a fair amount. It's a classic interrogation technique, trying to draw the truth out by feigning a remote amount of ignorance. She should feel bad about using it on him, letting him do most of the talking.

And yet.

"No one at the precinct knows we're dating, though," she points out. "Isn't it going to look a little suspicious if we suddenly start carpooling?"

The coffee's going and there's nothing that Castle can do to help it along at this point, which is a bummer, because serious conversations are always a little bit easier when balanced on the back of mindless activities. He turns and puts his hips against the counter, palms hooked up on the ledge. His expression is open; a little plaintive. He watches a little rivulet of melted ice slide down the side of the blender, then raises his eyes to her face.

"So why don't we tell them?"

The question just gallops out of his mouth, fully formed.

Beckett's mouth works open and closed a couple of times, trying to find all of the reasons why that would be one of the most disastrous ideas as she sets up a position leaning against the opposite counter, the movement somewhat helping to line up her thoughts in proper order.

"Well, for starters, what about the fact that the NYPD seriously comes down on interdepartmental relationships?" she points out, though the observation sounds half-hearted when it finally leaves her lips. "We work together, Castle. There's more at stake here than just - if Gates finds out, she could find a way to make sure you're not a part of the team anymore." That, she knows, would kill him as much as it would affect her, even if she doesn't say that out loud.