Disclaimer: The only part of Castle that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.
Richard Castle's brain is buzzing, and not just because he's sitting, feet up on his office desk, nursing an excellent Scotch. Terrible puns and thematic similes are chasing themselves around in his head, nipping at each other like Jack Russells (there's one). Apparently this is what happens to your mind when you can't think straight, when you've got a case of very, very grown-up puppy love (oh, God). Good thing he's not trying to write, because it would be nothing but doggerel (there's another).
When it comes to Beckett, he's a persistent guy. Dogged (ditto), even. He's been dogging her footsteps (yup) for years, though she'd probably say that it's more like hounding (that's six). But son of a bitch (stop!), could it have been this easy, all the time? The Mystery of Katherine Beckett? If only he had known then what he knows now, he'd have cracked the case, gotten the collar (oh, yeah), ages ago: the way to her heart is a dog.
Man's best friend is woman's. Doggone it (heh), he knows. He's positive. After he dropped off Royal, who had belonged to the vic in their most recent case, he overheard every word that she said to the pooch. True, he was standing outside her door, eavesdropping. Still, he heard her squeak Mr. Squeaky and call the dog, clearly inviting him to join her on to the couch. He's man enough to admit that he felt jealous when he heard her coo, "You're so cute." When they closed the case yesterday, she was calling Royal right there in the bullpen, trying to win him over. Castle saw the disappointment in her eyes when Royal left with Kay Cappuccio, even though she said it was probably for the best, that there was no one home at her place to play with him.
Well, he's here to volunteer. Ready to play, anytime. Because it's time. He knows her soft spot and he's going for it.
Valentine's Day is three weeks away and he's working on a plan. Right now, it's his own personal Dog Day Afternoon, minus the robbery or hostages. The only thing he's plotting to steal is her heart. Geez, this corniness has got to stop, but he can't help it, not when his computer screen is filled with pictures of puppies and he's imagining Beckett with one of them in her lap. And him next to her. Very next to her. Maybe even the dog in her lap, and both of them in his.
He picks up the phone, setting the first part of his plan in motion, and calls her.
"Hey, Castle."
"Hey, Beckett."
"What's up?"
"Oh, nothing. It's just, I'm missing Royal, aren't you? He's such a great dog."
"Yeah, he is."
"I really like golden retrievers."
"Me, too."
Okay, check golden retriever on his master list of Possible Breeds.
"If you had a dog, is that what you'd get?"
"Maybe something smaller. I don't have a zillion-square-foot apartment like you."
"Like what?"
"What?"
"What kind of dog?"
"Why?"
Uh-oh, maybe this isn't going to be as easy as he'd thought. Should have known she'd go all investigative on him.
"Just wondering. Thinking I might get a dog, since Alexis will be going to college in a few months and it'll be lonely around here."
"That's sweet."
He doesn't want sweet, he wants answers.
"Maybe I should go the small-dog route, too, you know. Better in the city. What do you think?"
"It's your dog, Castle."
Shit.
"Well, yeah, but if you were me, what breed would you look at?"
"Terrier. They never let go of anything, either."
"Very funny, Beckett."
"Trying to be helpful."
Might as well just ask directly, what the hell. "You have a favorite?"
"Terrier?"
"A favorite favorite. Not something you're comparing to me."
There's silence for a while. He thinks he can hear her swallowing.
"Dachshund. My favorite dog book when I was little was Pretzel, about a dachshund. Must have read it a thousand times."
"Really? I don't know that one."
"It's adorable. By the Reys, you know, the Curious George couple."
He writes DACHSHUND, all capital letters, on his master list.
"Must be great, then. You still have it?"
Another silence. Uh-oh.
"It blew up. With my apartment."
"Oh, Beckett, I'm sorry. Didn't mean to bring up something painful."
" 's okay. I'm over it."
"Well, still, I'm sorry. Hey, gotta go, just saw the time. I'm, uh, meeting my mother in, uh, fifteen minutes."
"See ya, Castle."
"See ya."
Not so hard after all. He can scrap the master list because there's only one dog on it now—until a quick search turns that one into six. Who knew dachshunds came in three varieties? Smooth-, long- or wire-haired, and two basic sizes, miniature and standard. Oh, God, the six just ballooned to some huge number. It seems that dachshunds come in a multitude of colors and patterns, too.
He sits up straight. Aha! Back to one. All he needs is a real-life Pretzel. He looks up the book and quickly finds that the dog is red and smooth-haired. Choice made. Except that Pretzel is also billed as the world's longest dachshund, which probably isn't a good thing. A standard would be good, though, right? Not that there will be anything standard about Beckett's dog. Absolutely not.
Castle spends the next several hours giving himself a college-worthy education in dachshund. He's found one of the world top breeders just an hour away, who even has a litter almost ready to go. He's about to make an appointment to drive out to see the puppies when an article catches his eye: rescues. He reads it. And then he reads it again. Forget the breeder. Beckett would kill him when she found out what he paid, anyway. But a rescue? How could she resist?
He uses all his spare time during the next week looking for a dog. When a new homicide requires them to spend a considerable amount of time outside, he's thrilled, despite the single-digit temperatures. He misses no opportunity to comment on any dog within 50 feet of them.
"Look at that little guy!" he says, nudging Beckett as they trudge through several more inches of new snow and see a Scottie at the corner, wrapped in a plaid jacket. "And his coat? How cute is that coat?"
"How cute is that coat?" Esposito repeats in a cloud of horror, overlaid with icy contempt. "Could you be a little more manly, Castle?"
"Just making an observation, Espo. Man and his dog, boy and his dog, a tradition that goes back centuries."
"You ain't been a boy in years."
"Tell that to Beckett. She's always calling me a child."
He's close enough to feel her inaudible chuckle. "It's true, I do," she says. He's pretty sure she's trying not to smile.
Eight days after he began what he calls his Press for Pretzel, he finds what he has been looking for.
In Akron, Ohio.
The dog is fourteen weeks old. A family in the area had bought him from a pet store at Christmas, and discovered after a few days that having a toddler, a new baby, and a puppy was one element too much. They had asked the vet to take him; fortunately neither child was old enough to have been scarred by the dog's disappearance.
He talks to the veterinarian. Skypes. Presents his bona fides. When he discovers that the receptionist is a hard-core fan of both Derrick Storm and Nikki Heat, he shamelessly overnights the newest book, signed with a message of deepest, deepest appreciation. The dog is his.
Or rather, Beckett's. Soon.
Late Thursday afternoon, when he's putting on his coat, Beckett looks up from her desk. "So you're not coming in tomorrow?"
"Afraid I can't," he says honestly, having arranged to take the earliest Friday morning flight to Cleveland and then make the 45-minute drive to Akron in a rental car. "I have an all-day meeting." It's the truth, sort of. He'll be spending much of the day meeting the dog. And the vet. And the hard-core fan receptionist.
"Have a nice weekend, Castle."
"You, too, Beckett."
He takes off in the dark on a 5:59 flight, his only baggage a soft-sided carrier that is currently empty but will be full of puppy on the afternoon flight home. Snow is thick on the ground, but the highway is perfectly plowed, and after stopping for coffee, a bag of doughnuts ("Akron's Finest Since 1959!" the sign promises; he hopes the doughnuts are a few hours old, at most, not celebrating their fifty-third birthday), and a bouquet of roses, he pulls into the vet's office at 9:30 a.m.
He's in luck. The only person in the waiting room, an over-fed woman with an equally over-fed cat, is being shown into an exam room, leaving only the receptionist.
"Monique?" he asks, as though he weren't entirely certain of the identity of Northern Ohio's greatest Richard Castle fan. "Hi," he says, offering up the dozen long-stemmed reds. "I'm Rick Castle. So happy to meet you."
He suspects that she's blushing but it's hard to tell, given the Plumberry Glow—not for nothing is he the attentive father of a teenage girl—that is already heavily dusting her cheeks.
"Mr. Castle," she says, pumping his hand enthusiastically and half-rising from her chair. "For me?" With that question, her other hand floats gently to her pillowy chest as she eyes the bouquet.
"For you," he confirms, giving a courtly bow. "It's a token of my gratitude for all the help you've given me over the adoption. May I meet him?"
"Oh, yes. I'll just phone to the back and have Johnny bring Pretzel out. We started calling him that so he'd be used to the name by the time you came."
"That was so nice, thank you. What did his name used to be?"
"Snoopy," she says, barely concealing her disgust.
"Are you kidding?" Castle asks. "Everyone knows Snoopy is a beagle."
"Got that right," Monique replies, conspiratorially.
Their chuckle fest ends with the arrival of Johnny and the squirmy puppy. Castle offers the bag of doughnuts to Johnny, explaining that "they're for everyone in the back, at least the ones with two legs, not four," then drops to the floor and extends his hand to the dog for sniffing purposes. Pretzel immediately climbs onto his lap and licks him.
"Looks like you have another fan in Akron," Monique says.
Castle beams. Not long after that the vet, Ann Campbell, is ready to meet him, and they go over Pretzel's paperwork, diet and everything else that either of them can consider. By the time he leaves, having posed for infinite numbers of photos with Monique, he's already wondering if he can share custody of Pretzel with Beckett. Or…But he's getting ahead of himself.
TBC