1: Circumstantial evidence
She's competitive. She might not call it that, but she is. Has to compete with him at absolutely everything. Fitness. Detecting. Vocabulary (that's hot). Shooting (so's that). Poker. How many times they've saved each other's life. Sometimes she wins. Sometimes he does. To him, it's just a game, though he's not exactly uncompetitive himself. To her, he thinks, it's the bedrock of her being.
He couldn't honestly say that competing with her isn't a great deal of fun, and he certainly likes it when he wins. But for a little while now, he's been thinking that it would be a lot more fun if they started playing a game that they could both win, simultaneously. All the time.
The summer had been surprisingly, disconcertingly, lonely: he'd missed both the bullpen and Beckett. Sometime when he hadn't been looking they'd both sneaked up on him, inserted themselves into his life and become fundamental to his happiness. And (not that she would ever admit it because she is so damn competitive) because she'd let him win the investigation challenge on which his return depended, he thinks – he's sure – that deep down she might just feel the same. So now he's going to try to entice her into a new challenge, one that could last for a long time. A lifetime.
And he thinks he knows exactly how to achieve it.
He wanders into the bullpen bearing coffee, bear claw and an infuriatingly insolent smile the very next day. Beckett, who he knows to be scrabbling around for any information she can glean before prints and phone data are achieved – currently expected in no less than three days' time since the lab is, as ever, overloaded – is not in a good mood. He knows this, too. And he also knows, and intends to use for his own nefarious ends, that when she's in an irritable state it is not difficult at all to bait her into accepting a challenge.
Or in this case, the first of a series of challenges.
A little later in the day, he begins. No point risking his life or ears by trying this before Beckett has a blood-coffee level of a sufficient ratio to bring her to humanity instead of early-Star Trek Klingon.
"I reckon I know a better place to get a meal than the food truck or Remy's," Castle smirks annoyingly, best know-it-all smartass expression pasted on. "I bet I can guess your favourite food, too."
Beckett looks up, familiarly irritated.
"You think?" she snaps. "I don't."
"So prove me wrong. I'll select a meal and if I'm wrong I'll" –
"You'll keep your mouth shut for a week except when I say you can open it."
"A week? No no no. Totally disproportionate. An hour."
"Four days."
"One."
"Three."
"Two."
"Done." Beckett smiles sharply. "So where's this place with my favourite foods, then?"
Castle smiles back with immensely smug satisfaction and watches horror dawn on Beckett's face with even more smugness. "That, my dear Detective Beckett, would be where we're going for dinner tonight." He smirks evilly as her mouth drops open. "I'll pick you up at seven-thirty. Bet you'll be under-dressed, too."
"I will not be," Beckett hisses.
"Prove me wrong."
He saunters off to the pleasing sound of Beckett imploding in a toxic cloud of black smoke and vile imprecations all directed at his impervious – and smug – back. He only just doesn't add a happy skip to the saunter. That wouldn't be smooth, suave or sophisticated. Instead, he controls himself all the way down in the elevator and then can't resist a little skip, to the amusement of the desk sergeant, as he exits the Twelfth. Beckett can't see it, so he's quite safe.
Step One and Step Two, accomplished. He's going on a date with Beckett (not that she knows it) and she'll dress up. He bounces home, thoroughly pleased with himself, and occupies the intervening time in constructing the outline of half a chapter of Nikki Three and achieving a new high score on Angry Birds, in not at all equal quantities.
He showers, shaves carefully (he's long past the scruffy stubbled look, which anyway didn't really work for Beckett), applies a touch of an aftershave that he's sure she likes, and dresses in perfectly pressed navy dress pants, a toning blue shirt which he knows emphasises his eyes (at least, even his mother says he looks good in it, so it must be true) and a well cut navy jacket. He smiles happily at his reflection in the mirror and waits until he can legitimately pick up Beckett without being embarrassingly early. He is very anxious to see what she is wearing.
Beckett had gone home on a riptide of furious irritation that she had been suckered into going out for dinner with Castle and that she can't wear scruffy, ripped jeans and a paint-stained t-shirt just to prove it doesn't mean a thing. However much she knows that he's playing her, she is certainly not letting him claim victory unopposed. So she picks out an ostensibly demure dress in a deep shade of crimson, showers and makes up carefully, and then adds a splash of perfume. She tells herself that the last action is to block the insidious aroma of Castle's aftershave and doesn't admit that she both likes his aftershave and knows perfectly well that he likes this perfume.
Nor does she admit that she is looking forward to a dinner with Castle that isn't a quick burger during or after a case. Instead, she clings to her irritation that he suckered her.
Castle is perfectly on time. He raps confidently on Beckett's door, prepared for almost anything. (And hoping for short or tight or both. Or nothing at all, of course, though that seems vanishingly unlikely.) He's a teensy bit disappointed at the apparent modesty of the dress. Still, she's dressed up. Pretty colour, full skirt, demure neckline, heels.
"You look nice in a dress, Beckett, " he says. At least, that is what he'd intended to say. He gets as far as You look, while she's turning away to collect a smallish evening purse and wrap, when he realises that the full skirt and demure neckline are disguising the fact that the whole dress is held together by one small tie at the side of her waist. One small, pullable tie.
Common sense and theatre costume craft tell him that there must be a second tie on the other side of her waist, on the inside. The hammer blow of sheer lust thumping him on the head tells him to shut the door, ditch the dinner, forget the verbal challenges and take the physical challenge that dress offers. Right here in her room on the couch. Or the wall. Or against the door…
"You look… stunning," is what he actually manages to emit, after a very mortifying pause.
"Proved you wrong," Beckett snarks.
"And I'm very glad you did," Castle oozes, recovering some game. "That dress shows off your figure beautifully."
"Enjoy it while it lasts, Castle. It's not like you'll see it again."
He quirks an eyebrow and lets that show all his disbelief.
"Let's go, Beckett. Out on our not-date."
"It's not a date."
"That's what I said. Unless you'd like to prove me wrong again?"
Beckett declines to pick up the dropped gauntlet. Castle looks exceedingly good all spruced up. It's very distracting, but not so much so that she's going to get suckered again. She's ahead on the scoreboard, and she intends to stay there. She locks up and leads off to the elevator and out.
Surprisingly, there is no car outside. A small tendril of suspicion curls into Beckett's brain. Her favourite restaurant is only a few blocks away. But he couldn't possibly know about it. It's ridiculously obscure. She'd never told anyone but... that traitor! That sellout quisling traitorous disgrace to female solidarity! Lanie Parrish is a backstabbing double dealing four flushing son – daughter – of a bitch and when Beckett gets her hands on her she will wish that her morgue-ful of corpses were flesh-eating zombies ripping her limb from limb because that will be better than what Beckett will do to her.
A few far-too-short moments later she is absolutely positive that Lanie Parrish, ME, is a dead woman walking.
Castle ignores the intermittent growls, as he has done for the last few moments. The roiling aura of frustrated fury and realisation that he's picked her pet restaurant – not at all accidentally – is very satisfying. One to him.
"What did you bribe Lanie with?" Beckett enquires through tightly pursed lips. Castle rapidly decides not to pretend innocence. That purse is large enough – just – to hold a Glock. Just because he can't see it doesn't mean it isn't there. Being shot would definitely spoil the evening, even if he is – mostly – sure she wouldn't shoot to kill. Being maimed, mutilated, tortured or vivisected would spoil it just as badly.
"Two tickets to the New York City Ballet, centre front of the first ring." Beckett splutters and chokes.
"You're admitting it? You bribed my best friend!"
"Well, saying I asked every restaurant within ten blocks of your apartment how often you went and how much you liked it would get me arrested as a stalker." He'd stopped himself doing any of that. Just.
"I'll arrest you for bribery instead," Beckett grates.
"How? It's not bribery to give a ballet fan tickets. Especially not if I were to go with her." Beckett chokes again.
"You? Go to the ballet with Lanie?" She looks utterly shocked.
"Why not? I like ballet."
"I don't believe you."
"Prove me wrong, then."
"Okay, I will."
"Done. I've got tickets for the premiere, too. That's next week, by the way. And it's black tie. I hope you've got another dress. You wouldn't want to wear that one. You'd definitely be underdressed. That red one I got you would do."
"What the hell?"
"We're here, Beckett," Castle says, before she can actually explode. With some difficulty, he preserves a perfectly straight face while she mutters vitriolically under her breath. Two to him. Dates, that is.
He politely holds the restaurant door open for Beckett and smiles at the elderly man doing duty as front of house staff. "Table in the name of Rodgers," he says. The man smiles back – straight past him at Beckett.
"Good evening, Detective Beckett," he says enthusiastically. "Nice to see you again. I didn't realise it was you. Would you like your usual table?"
"Yes, thank you," Beckett says, without anything like the maitre d's enthusiasm. The reason becomes clear in a short second. Beckett's usual table is discreetly veiled from the majority of the room. This evening is getting better with every second that passes. Castle forestalls the maitre d', who's clearly known Beckett since she was in bobby socks, to pull Beckett's chair out for her.
"Very gentlemanly," she snips at him, causing the maitre d' to cast her a parentally disapproving look which is entirely wasted. Fortunately he leaves the menus and departs.
"I'm a perfect gentleman," Castle says smoothly. "Or would you like to prove me wrong about that too?"
Beckett blushes from the roots of her hair down to her neckline and beyond. She suspects that if she could see her toenails they'd be blushing too. She counts to ten, very slowly.
"You're all pink and pretty and flustered, Beckett," Castle smirks. "What could you possibly be thinking? I think it might be naughty thoughts."
Counting to ten becomes counting to one hundred. Because… she is thinking naughty thoughts. Thoughts in which Castle would not be a gentleman – and might or might not be gentle – and she definitely wouldn't be a lady.
She glares fixedly at the menu until her cheeks return to their normal shade. It takes longer than she'd like, not least because she is intensely conscious of Castle's presence. It's that damn aftershave wafting through the air.
"I know what you're going to order." Aaarghh. He can't possibly.
"You do not."
Castle pulls a piece of paper out his pocket, scrawls on it illegibly – at least when Beckett's trying to read upside down – folds it over and puts a finger on it to prevent it flipping open. "Go ahead and order, and then you can see if I got it right."
A handy waiter appears as soon as Castle flickers an eyelash. That's annoying, too. This is her favourite restaurant and she should be able to find a waiter.
"Chicken cacciatore, please," Beckett says. There's no way Castle could have guessed that. Her favourite takeout is Thai, and laksa has little in common with good Italian food.
"I'll have penne al'arrabiata," Castle follows. "Would you like wine, Beckett?"
"Yes, please." Castle has a brief discussion with the waiter and a good white shortly appears. Beckett can't decide if drinking it is a really good plan – instant amnesia – or a really bad plan – lowering of inhibitions. On balance, something to soften the edges of the evening seems the best idea.
A lot of wine seems like an even better plan when Castle opens the folded over paper and Beckett deciphers the scrawl into chicken cacciatore. Spelt correctly. She always has to think about the c's.
Castle doesn't say a word. He simply smirks. Beckett bites into one of the grissini with more force than is strictly warranted. She is a woman of immense self-control and imperturbability. Therefore she will not give way to her burning desire to scream loudly and throw things at Castle's smug face. Nor will she give way to the very unwanted and reluctant admiration that he does know her amazingly well… and if he knows these very well-concealed pieces, what else might he have worked out?
She does not want to be impressed by Castle. Even if she is. He's good at crime. He's good company. (At work.) And his shatteringly, painfully stupid behaviour just before the summer notwithstanding, he is actually rather good at her. Her coffee. Her need to solve every case. Her way of interrogating and thinking. Her need for a little cheerfulness and optimism in her life. And sometimes, late at night in her quiet, solitary bed, she thinks that he'd be rather good at something else.
Because both of them know that it blazes, but it might only be she who's scared of being burned.
Dinner passes pleasantly, in fact. The wine helps. It even softens the intense annoyance that Lanie has clearly spilled her guts, followed by her liver and kidneys, to Castle about Beckett's favourite restaurant, food and even dessert. (She adores tiramisu. It might be clichéd, but she does. All that coffee liqueur…) It's not until she's sipping the last of her coffee that she realises that the maitre d' is regarding her fondly and looking upon Castle with considerable approval. Paolo clearly thinks that this is a date. No no no. Not a date. Not at all a date. Even if he is also, so it seems, good company out of work.
Since it's not a date, she expects to pay her share and is deeply offended when Castle won't let her.
"I always go Dutch, Castle," she complains.
"Only because I let you. Tonight I invited you and I'm paying."
"It's not a date, Castle."
"I said that first." He makes a very plaintively pathetic face which tries to make a land-grab for the softer side of Beckett. Since she rarely has one, it fails. Unfortunately, she has had wine.
"Don't you want a date with me, then?" falls out of her mouth.
"Why, Beckett," oils Castle, "you've proven me wrong again. I thought you didn't want a date, but you did."
Her mouth flaps wordlessly. Castle takes full and unfair advantage of her speechless state to steer her out of the restaurant with a hand on her back while she's still incapable of forming a single word; exchanges a happy smile with the maitre d', who provides him with a look which indicates complete support of Castle; and orients them in the general direction of Beckett's apartment.
It takes two blocks before Beckett manages any words at all. Not coincidentally, that's about how long it also takes her to notice that Castle still has an arm around her.
"What are you doing?"
"Well," Castle drawls, "you seemed a bit upset that this wasn't a date, so I thought I'd make it a bit more date-like. Even though it isn't."
His arm cuddles in a tad more closely, and he notes with some interest that even this very irritated Beckett seems to have forgotten how to maim his ears and/or pull away. There is nothing stopping her doing either. They continue to perambulate towards Beckett's home: Castle perfectly contented with the evening, Beckett chewing on a lemon. As far as he's concerned, she can chew on a whole orchard's worth of lemons as long as he gets to keep his arm around her.
He still has an arm around her when they get back to her building. It's amazing how neatly she fits into him. It's also amazing that he is not dead.
It's even more amazing that he manages to escort her up to her apartment and, while he hasn't exactly been invited in, he certainly hasn't been shut out. Hmm. Maybe he should try the last act of any civilised date, in a moment or few.
While he's been thinking, Beckett has kicked her heels off, sunk four inches, and put the kettle on. He's not much interested in the last. He's very interested in the way she's now just about the perfect height for tucking in. He prowls quietly after her to the small kitchen area, rather than investigating the public areas of her apartment, and is thus practically on top of her when she turns round.
She jumps, squeaks, and covers it up with snark.
"What are you doing in here?"
"I thought you might need some help."
"With what?"
"You appear to be making coffee." Beckett looks rather blankly at the counter, which contains a switched on kettle, French press with coffee already in it, creamer, and only needs mugs to be complete.
"Oh. Would you like some?" She never normally has to ask him. She'd just assumed… Oh.
"I should be delighted to stay for coffee, Beckett. Very appropriate. Not too forward."
"Forward?" she squawks. Really, he should have taken her out for dinner months ago, if he'd known he'd discover this amusingly, adorably flusterable Beckett who really doesn't have a clue about how to deal with him outside the precinct. (In which she generally deals with him by chopping him off at the knees.)
"Pushy. I'm so glad that you aren't expecting anything." This is so much fun. Discombobulating Beckett is the most fun he's had – well, almost since he met her. And he gets to do it all over again, next week, too.
"No…" she says, distractedly. She almost sounds disappointed. Just a little more…. A little more, and she'll be ripe for denouement. And the best thing will be that she'll have got herself into it. He isn't exactly playing hard to get – if Beckett indicates in the slightest that she wants him got he's not going to turn that down – but he's certainly not letting her think that he's interested in pushing the pace. Even if his lips are itching to kiss her and his fingers are itching to tug that very appealing little bow open and find out what Beckett wears underneath.
"D'you want coffee or do you need to get home?"
"Oh," he says, as if he needs to consider – he doesn't – and glances at his watch as if checking, "coffee, please." Beckett stretches up – ooh, that's pretty – and reaches for two mugs. Shortly a tray bearing all the necessary components of good coffee arrives near the couch. Pretending not to push the pace is one thing, but Castle is certainly not prepared to waste the potential opportunity arising from sharing coffee with Beckett late at night when not on a case, and so he unobtrusively hesitates slightly until he's sure where Beckett has planted herself and then plants himself sufficiently far away to be unthreatening and sufficiently close to be able to take advantage.
Beckett is confused. She doesn't like confusion. She likes straight lines of enquiry, neat solutions, and an organised life. Up till now, Castle has not been confusing. He's been very simple. Sees her, hot for her, chases her. Now he's taking Lanie to the ballet? It's definitely not a date? Not sure if he's got time for coffee? Glad she's not expecting anything? Oh. Oh well. Okay then. She droops, for an instant.
It is damn well not okay then. Her spine straightens. She is not going down without a fight. Then it droops again. If she's got this wrong, she'll embarrass both of them. Then it half-straightens. Maybe a hint would do. One that can be safely ignored if unwanted.
Castle is pensively drinking his coffee and considering whether a small amount of encouragement might be a good plan, such as an arm around Beckett's slim shoulders. She's worryingly quiet and turned inward, suddenly. He wonders, with a sudden flash of concern, if he's maybe overdone the not-botheredness. Maybe a little hint would be helpful. He doesn't want her to think he's uninterested.
He stretches to put his coffee down just as Beckett puts hers down. As he sits back, he re-arranges his arms at the exact moment that Beckett shuffles a fraction closer and as a result ends up with rather more of an armful of Beckett than he'd expected.
It's still all a perfectly civilised date. Right up till Beckett looks up at him with huge, doubtful, hazel eyes and bites her lip nervously. He really is not proof against that. He just isn't.
And then suddenly nothing is civilised at all.
Okay, so this is not the long story I'm slowly writing. But you can all blame Mobazan27 for that, because not only did she send me the prompt, but she harassed me daily.