"Agent Fallon?" The female's tone sounded incredulous, which put the former agent on high alert. He whirled around to greet the voice's owner.
When his sharp eyes landed on a familiar detective, he allowed himself to visibly relax. "Detective Beckett," he greeted, holding out his hand for a shake.
She reached forward and grabbed his offered hand, pumping it up and down as she took in his casual attire. The man cleared his throat politely after a beat too long.
"Uh, Detective?"
Beckett's eyes snapped up to search his face, just as his traveled down to their still clasped hands. "Mind if I get that back?" The tone of his voice suggested that he could have been joking, but she couldn't tell either way.
"Yes. Yeah. Sorry," she hurriedly blurted. She released her firm grip on him. "I'm sorry."
"So you've already said." He perked a dark brow at her. "Are you okay?"
He could see her mouth working to form the programmed response for whenever someone asked that question, but the words didn't fall out as easily as she thought they would. Instead, she raked a hand through her brown tresses and shook her head. "Not really, no."
She seemed as surprised at her blatantly honest answer as he did, and for some reason that made the agent feel a little better at having run into a former acquaintance. Normally, those situations didn't end well and were more than a little uncomfortable for both parties.
Fallon glanced down at his watch, and then back to Beckett. "I don't have to be anywhere until later. Would you like to grab a cup of..." He trailed off and looked her up and down. He noted how tired and rundown she appeared, and gave her a small smile. "Something?"
Confusion and surprise battled for a place on her face, and Fallon couldn't blame her. The last time they had spoken, there was a nuclear bomb about to blow New York into oblivion, and he had been overwhelmingly tense and unpleasant to deal with. He held up two fingers, slightly spaced apart. "Just a drink. No funny business. Scout's honor."
A smile finally graced her countenance, and then she let out a little laugh. "That's the peace sign. You were never in the Scouts, were you?"
Fallon shared her grin, and shook his head as he lowered his hand. He shrugged. "I never claimed I was."
This time it felt like he was under her scrutiny, as she scanned him from head to toe. She took in the worn jeans, and the white v-neck tee he wore. He was even smiling, barely, but it was there and it was noticeable. He looked like an entirely different person than the hard-ass she had met before. She was curious about what had changed over the past years.
"You know what? A drink sounds wonderful."
She kept the "Hell, why not?" to herself.
Several minutes later the two occupied a corner booth of a dimly lit and practically empty bar. Beckett settled into her seat as she watched Fallon stride across the room and raise his hand to get the bartender's attention. She allowed herself the alone time to study the man she thought she knew. The way he moved and conducted his body was like a groomed boxer striding down the hall before the big championship showdown. He commanded attention and respect, but he also seemed less intense than before. She watched as he came back, carrying two glasses. He set the one full of an amber liquid before her, and then slid into his seat.
She carefully picked her drink up, and took a sip. She grimaced but nodded.
"I wasn't sure what you drank, so I took a gamble."
"Bourbon. It's right for the occasion," she replied, taking another sip. She watched as he took a long draw from his own glass, and when she squinted she realized it was water. "Now that's hardly fair," she said, motioning to his glass.
He smiled faintly, almost painfully, and shrugged. "Six months sober." He canted his head to the side. "To the day."
"Oh." She pursed her lips in thought. "Congrats."
He nodded curtly. "Thanks."
They sat in relative silence for a few more minutes, before Beckett shook her head and sat back. "Okay, what gives?"
"I'm sorry?" He furrowed his brow. "What do you mean?"
"I mean, what's with you? You've changed. A lot." She frowned and added, "You're nice," almost distastefully.
To her surprise, he threw his head back and let out a barking laugh. "Yeah," he sighed, "I guess I am."
"So?" She cocked a brow, awaiting his answer.
Suddenly, the man before her seemed uncomfortable. "I was 'relieved of duty,'" he stated, drawing out the phrase with a mixture of disgust and anger. To her inquisitive expression, he pressed on. "Do you remember when I pulled my gun on Hayes?"
"Yes." How could she forget?
"And you pulled your weapon on me?"
"Yes." Occasionally she had nightmares.
"Well," he leaned back, "This time they didn't call my bluff." He carefully tugged at the collar of his shirt, revealing a nasty warped scar at the base of his neck, close to his left shoulder. It looked painful, even now. "I crossed the line, and was shoved back into place. The hard way."
Beckett winced and found herself leaning forward, almost fascinated by the pink and purple puckered flesh. She reached out, until she realized what she was doing and snatched her hand back. She looked up, and Fallon met her hazel-eyed gaze with his own. "It's okay," he murmured.
She touched it with as much tenderness and care as she could, as if any force would reopen the wound. "Ouch," she whispered, before resuming her seat.
Fallon gave her a wry grin. "Tell me about it."
She almost wanted to reveal her own scar, but the location wasn't exactly the best for show and tell. She settled for, "Oh, I know." His eyes bored into hers, and flicked down her body, as if looking for the proof. His face softened.
The detective took another sip of her drink, and cleared her throat. "So, what happened then?"
"Medical leave." His tone was as clipped and blunt as she remembered. "I had no job. I had no-" His voice broke, but it was so brief that it was nearly unnoticeable. "No family. I kind of lost my mind." He forced a quiet laugh, but didn't look up from his lowered gaze.
Beckett recalled what Ryan had shared with her and Castle, years ago, about the agent's wife. Not only had she been killed during the 9/11 attacks, the poor man had been on the phone with her when she had died. She couldn't imagine the grief and pain that came with that kind of knowledge.
"What did you do then?"
He glanced up, and frowned. "What do you mean?"
She waved her hand in the air. "You know, what did you do then? You're obviously not in that place anymore."
"I got a dog."
She nearly choked mid-sip. She grabbed for a napkin, then dabbed at her wet lips. With a slight hoarseness to her voice from the burning alcohol, she replied, "A dog?"
"Yeah. A dog." He took a sip from his water, and grinned almost boyishly at her. He looked years younger when he did. She thought he should do it more often. "They're therapeutic as hell. You should think about getting one yourself, Beckett."
"Oh, no." She shook her head in amusement. "No, no, no."
"C'mon," he said with a slight laugh, leaning forward. "Why not?"
She looked at him as if he had grown a third head. "First off, my job isn't exactly conducive to having a pet of any kind, much less a dog."
He tilted his head to the side, in concession to her response. "True, but-"
"But nothing, Fallon." Her smile widened, and she laughed once.
There was another moment of quiet, filled with the tinkle of ice against glass from Fallon's empty cup. But this silence was nowhere near as uncomfortable as when they first entered the bar. In fact, it was companionable, and Beckett was surprised that she could use that word in the same area that Fallon occupied.
"A ferret then?"
This time Beckett couldn't suppress the burst of laughter from escaping her lips. She covered her mouth with her hand, trying to hold the bourbon in her mouth rather than spitting it all over the former agent and the table between them. Once she managed to swallow, she winced and coughed. "Oh, wow, that burns!"
"Want a sip?" He offered her his glass, and she shook her head. "Good. I'm out anyway."
Beckett rolled her eyes, and watched as he excused himself to get some more. As she tried to compose herself, a sharp whistle caught her attention. Fallon pointed at her drink and raised his thick brows. He mouthed, "Another?" though she could have heard him perfectly if he had spoken aloud.
She nodded.
The detective was enjoying the loosening and warm feeling she got from the alcohol, and even admitted to herself that having Fallon turn and order another drink gave her another glimpse at his fit backside. She blushed at the thought, and covered a giddy smile with her hand.
"Okay, detective," Fallon started when he slid back into the booth and pushed her drink towards her. "Now on to you. Why'd you agree to drink with me?"
Beckett suddenly felt like the bourbon she just swallowed turned into a stone, and was finding it hard to swallow past the lump. "Technically, we're not drinking."
Fallon narrowed his eyes, and frowned. "Technically, we are, detective. Don't avoid the question."
She suddenly felt like no time had passed at all, and she was looking straight down the barrel at the formidable Agent Mark Fallon. Without giving him an answer, she took another sip.
"What have you heard?"
He seemed a little confused, and shook his head. "Nothing. Not since we've last spoke." He offered her another wry grin. "Sorry, detective, but the going ons of the NYPD aren't any of my concern once I'm gone. I have more pressing matters to worry about." He perked a brow. "Like the security of the nation."
"Fair enough," she replied with a half shrug. "Long story short?"
He nodded once.
She took a deep breath. "Roy Montgomery was killed. I was shot. And Castle and I are-were dating." He didn't miss her quick correction, and the sad look that crossed her face, but he said nothing.
Fallon pursed his lips and his eyes widened fractionally. He exhaled and blinked a few times. After a moment, he furrowed his brow and asked, "Montgomery is dead?"
"Yes."
"And you were shot?"
"At his funeral."
Her companion's eyes widened even more, and he pushed himself away from the table between them, his back making a cushioned thump sound when it connected with the red upholstery. "At his funeral?"
"Yes, sir." It was easy to slip back into that mode. She was a detective, always.
He mouthed the word "Wow" to himself, his eyes trained on her face. He took a deep breath, and leaned forward again, resting his strong frame on his elbows. "That's not what you're upset about, though. Is it?"
Again, Beckett felt her brain and mouth working to give him the response that she would have given anyone else. The, "It's nothing. I'm fine," response. But she accepted his offer of a drink because she knew him well enough to feel safe, but not enough to feel as though she was too close. He was the perfect fit of the person whose ear she could bend. She knew that was why he offered in the first place. The man could see her beginning to spiral out of control, the way he apparently had. He was a damn fine agent.
"No," she said, her voice resigned but strong.
"So, Beckett." The way he said her name made her look up, and she realized that she had been trying to drill a hole through the wooden table top. "What's really bothering you?"
The sound of a group of people coming into the bar served as a brief relief from his burning gaze, but when she turned her head back to look at him, she could see there was no escaping the question. He looked at her through his long, dark lashes. "Castle." The name rolled off his lips as a statement, rather than a question. The agent tilted his head to the side, ever slightly.
"Yes," she whispered, ignoring the sting of tears in her eyes. She grabbed her glass and took a long sip. The burn felt good.
"Y'know," he lowered his voice, as if telling her a secret, "I thought you two were dating when we first met." He smiled, but more to himself than at her. "I guess my intuition wasn't too far off the mark."
Beckett felt her jaw tighten, and her hand clutch the glass a little harder. Her internal battle of emotions paused when she heard Fallon laughing. It started off as a low, rumbling chuckle then slowly turned into an outright bark. She felt her face heat up in anger and embarrassment, until she saw Fallon wave his hand as he fought to hold in his amusement.
"I'm sorry," he sighed, the merriment still lacing his gravelly voice. He held up two fingers. "You just told me your captain was killed, and that you were shot at his funeral," he ticked the two appendages as he spoke, "And the one thing you're hung up on is Castle?" He glanced at her now empty glass of bourbon and puffed his cheeks out. "A woman scorned," he muttered to himself, then to her added, "You need something stronger."
Before she could protest, he was out of his seat and gently tugging on her wrist. "C'mon," he said to her bewildered look. "Trust me."And she did, so she allowed the agent to drag her out and after him. He let go of her as soon as they got outside, holding up a hand to wave down a taxi.
Beckett shivered as the cool air seeped into her thin jacket, but she zipped it up as far as it would go regardless. Shoving her hands deep into her jean pockets, she watched as Fallon took a step off the curb in his vain attempt to flag a cab. She wondered where he was taking her, and why she was so willing to follow. She trusted him, that much she knew, but it didn't mean that she knew him.
In fact, all that she knew of Mark Fallon was that he was a smart cop, driven, and had a killer instinct. And that he was on the phone with his wife when the tower she had been working in collapsed during the terrorist attacks. It seemed that her initial assessment of Fallon, that he was a "douche," was no longer the case. So, what did she know of the man?
"Hey." He stepped into her line of sight. "Cab's here."
She nodded to show she was listening, but said nothing as he held open the door for her and allowed her to climb into the taxi. The vehicle dipped slightly as he joined her, and shook when he slammed the door shut. She didn't listen to the address he rattled off to the driver, but leaned against her side of the car and looked out the window at the bustling city around them.
Fallon looked askance at the detective, and smothered the glower he felt tugging his lips down. It wasn't Beckett he was frowning at, but the situation the younger woman was in. It was horrible to be alone. He knew it first hand. He engaged his new job the second the phone cut off his wife's last scream, and married it the minute he buried her. He could see that the detective was following a similar lifestyle.
A few minutes into the drive, he looked out of his own window and asked, "So, who was it?"
Beckett turned her head marginally in his direction. "Who was what?"
Fallon faced her slowly, his serious expression softened by the concerned crease between his brows. "Who drove you into this job?"
As Beckett was saying, "What makes you think-" the older man cut her off with a sharp, "Don't kid me, Detective." She could practically hear the capital "D."
When she didn't immediately answer, he resumed looking out of his window. He watched the people hustling down the sidewalks, heads down as if they were watching how fast their feet could carry them to their destination. "My wife."
He could see her eyes widen slightly, but he knew it wasn't in surprise. "Her death was what drove me to this job. It was what made me that man you met before." There was a rough tinge to his words.
"What I do, it's not who I am. It's just how I have to be. I hope you both understand that."
"I thought the job was what did that," she said, her voice soft and her eyes trained on the stained glass by her face.
He nodded in agreement. "In part."
Again, they didn't speak until they rounded another block and she said, "My mom." It was so quiet that Fallon wasn't sure she had spoken.
"I'm sorry," he said, and he meant it.
She shook her head, the brown tresses falling over her shoulders and down her chest. "It was a long time ago."
"That doesn't mean it still doesn't hurt like hell," he murmured.
They didn't speak again until the cab pulled up in front of a tenement building. Silently, Beckett followed Fallon as he led her up three flights of stairs. Internally, she felt revolted by the worn and nearly brown color of the once purple carpeting. Once inside, Fallon locked the door and offered to take her coat. She allowed him to, and took a few hesitant steps further into his apartment as he fumbled with the light in the closet.
Right off, she could see how small and spartan it was. There were no colors aside from a small splash from a pile of neatly stacked magazines atop a counter. It only took three more strides before she was no longer by the front door, and in the combined living and kitchen space. To her right, she could see a tight hallway that led to two doors. She assumed they were the bathroom and bedroom.
At this point, Fallon was by her elbow, studying her face as she surveyed everything.
"It's not much," he said, his own eyes following hers, "But it's home."
"Very masculine," she found herself saying, and missed his half-smile in response.
There was a sudden and loud noise from the hall to her left, making her jump and reach for her waist, where her service pistol would have been. Fallon's smile widened, and he jerked his head towards the door. "Come meet Butt Head."
At her horrified expression, he laughed and moved towards the room. "It's actually Butler, but I find Butt Head is more fitting."
He opened the door, and an all black dog bounded out. It excitedly greeted his owner with a sharp bark and whine, it's tail wagging furiously, before realizing there was another human being to be met. The dog raced to Beckett, who cautiously took a step back, before a sharp whistle brought the dog to it's haunches immediately.
"Good boy," Fallon said, as he patted the dog on top of his head.
Beckett smiled and knelt before the panting animal. "Hi, there." She laughed as his pink tongue lathered her outreached hand, and looked up at the proud owner. "He doesn't seem like much of a butt head to me," she joked.
Fallon crossed his arms across his broad chest and rolled his eyes. "You don't know him."
"He's beautiful, Mark." His first name slipped out, but neither seemed to care as she asked, "What breed is he?"
The man scratched his head, and shrugged. "I think an Australian Shepherd mix. I don't really know. I just found him one day, on Butler Avenue. Hence the name." He watched as Beckett murmured gibberish to the happy dog. "I don't mind saying that he saved my life."
She knew what he was referring to, and could almost admit that she added a little more tenderness to her caresses with that fact in mind.
With her attention on Butler, Fallon moved around them and towards his fridge. Beckett half turned to watch as he reached into the freezer and pulled something out, then listened as he rummaged in the silverware drawer. When she felt the warmth of his body when he knelt beside her, she unconsciously leaned into it. She let out a loud, giggling laugh when she saw that he was holding an ice cream carton and two spoons.
"You said something stronger," she laughed, standing up.
He grinned and joined her. "I did. Nothing like ice cream to cure a broken heart, they say."
She grabbed an offered spoon, and shook her head. "No one says that."
He shrugged and followed her to the two cushioned couch in his constricted living room. "Well, all the movies do. So, I have to be on to something here."
They settled into their seats, and Beckett called over the dog as Fallon pried the frozen lid off and set it on the end table at his side. As Butler eagerly joined them at Beckett's feet, she asked, "Do you watch movies often?"
Fallon met her eyes and dug his spoon into the ice cream. "I have a lot of time on my hands."
She took a chunk out as well, glad he was holding the container in a strong grip as her spoon slid across the still hardened surface. "What else do you do?"
"I take Butler out for long walks." At his name, the dog perked his ears and tilted his head to the side. "I read. Run." He gave her a shrug as if to say, "You know," but she had a feeling that was the bulk of his life at the moment.
It saddened her somewhat, and she suddenly felt that her so-called problems weren't really problems at all. The sharp agent swallowed the cold cream with a small wince, and frowned. "Hey, none of that now." At her curious look, he motioned at her face with his spoon. "No comparing your problems to mine, and thinking that they're not as significant."
Beckett felt her shoulders sag. She took another spoonful and ate it. "I just feel like you should be throwing me out on the streets, and telling me to get over my girly problems."
His eyes crinkled into another pained but amused smile. "Six months ago? I would have."
"Turning a new leaf?" Her voice sounded a little biting, even to her own ears.
"Something like that." Of course he wasn't fazed. He was still DHS Agent Fallon, without the rank and title before it. She didn't apologize, and he didn't care.
They ate a few more bites, laughing as Fallon flicked some at the hungry looking Butler, until he cleared his throat and held the carton a little closer to his chest and away from her reaching hand.
"What happened between you and the writer?"
She had hoped that he had forgotten, and mentally kicked herself for being that stupid. Of course he wouldn't forget. She licked her spoon clean and looked down, into the brown eyes of Butler. With a soft sigh, she leaned down and scratched him behind the ears. His thumping tail signaled that he enjoyed the ministrations. "It all boils down to two different worlds."
"Really?" She glanced over to see his partially confused expression. "That's it?"
"No, but it's enough." It wasn't that she didn't want to tell him all about her mother's murder, and the ensuing chaos that it created all these years later, but she figured now wasn't the time. He could tell there was more, but he left it alone. Which mildly surprised her. Fallon was like a dog with a bone.
Instead of replying, he offered the carton to her and stood up. "I'll be back." He left in the direction of the bathroom, and Beckett happily scooped another creamy mouthful. The sweet and cool bite was a nice change from the burning bourbon she was downing earlier.
Her eyes wandered again, and she noted even more things in the small area. There was a tall bookshelf, stuffed with novels and textbooks of varying sizes but all seemingly well read, wedged between the couch and the wall on her side. Adjacent to the wooden shelf was a locked window. The kitchen was visible from where she sat, and it irked her.
The sound of a flushing toilet alerted her that Fallon was nearly done in the bathroom, but she wanted just one more minute alone to study the lone photograph that caught her eye. She glanced towards the hall where he disappeared to, and leaned over the couch to look at the end table that was beside where Fallon had been sitting.
Aside from a small clock, and the discarded ice cream carton lid, there was a framed photograph of a much younger Fallon and a beautiful young woman who Beckett assumed to be his late wife. They seemed very much in love and happy, and Beckett felt another pang of sadness in her chest.
"Her name was Kelly."
Beckett's eyes snapped up to see Fallon watching her from the entryway. "She's beautiful."
He smiled fondly. "She was."
"What did she do for a living?" Fallon crossed the room, and resumed his seat when Beckett finally set the picture down and moved away.
"She was a teacher." There wasn't so much pain as there was heartache in his eyes as he threw in, "Music," with a loving smile.
They resumed a companionable silence once again, the sounds of the city nothing but white noise in the background. Butler had fallen fast asleep on Beckett's left foot, and she didn't have the heart to move it. Beckett realized that it was getting dark outside from the solitary window, and she cast Fallon an alarmed look. "Didn't you have to be somewhere?"
He gave her a full on, shockingly white smile. "I lied."
Beckett decided that he needed to do that a lot more often too. "I see."
Fallon leaned over, very close, and snagged the melting ice cream from her grasp.
"So much for turning a new leaf."
He laughed and leaned back, carton in hand.
"I never said I wasn't to going lie again."
Beckett watched as he resumed eating chunks of gloppy ice cream, admiring his strikingly handsome face accentuated by the scar that crisscrossed his chin and jaw. She decided that she could definitely get used to watching the man eat, or talk, or just sit there. And the fact that that very morning he was a nearly a virtual stranger meant nothing to her. Here and now, Fallon was now another name to add to her very short list of close friends.
Catching her studious look, Fallon smirked. "Something on your mind, Beckett?"
Her eyes softened, and she found herself propping her head with her hand, her elbow resting on the back of the couch. "Kate."
He swallowed, and blinked. "Mark."
"I'll tell you what's on my mind another time, Mark."
"How about tomorrow?" His hazel eyes bore into hers, and she couldn't look away. "Over dinner? No funny business. I swear." He left the spoon in the carton and lifted his free hand into the peace sign symbol. "Scout's honor."
Kate laughed and shook her head. "We'll have to work on that tomorrow, I guess."
Mark smiled and nodded. "I guess."
TBC...
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