For Jill, who deserves all the good things in life.
Post 2x06 Vampire Weekend. Happy Halloween, folks!
Castle lifts his wine glass to his lips, downing the last of his Halloween themed drink as he allows his thoughts to wander. He was apprehensive at first when he extended the invitation to the homicide department at the twelfth, unsure if anyone from the precinct would even show up at all. He shouldn't have worried though, because his loft was almost overrun with people and as far as he could tell, everyone had enjoyed themselves. There were even several requests for a repeat invitation next year.
All in all, it's been a good night.
He rolls his shoulders and leans on his elbows over his kitchen counter. The too sweet aftertaste of the Halloween concoction coats his tongue and he runs it along the top of inside of his mouth, trying to savor the flavor.
He surveys the rest of his loft from his position in the kitchen and a small smile graces his features. He turned the main lights off at about ten so that the only illumination in the apartment had been the soft orange glow of the candles flickering in the dark from within the numerous carved pumpkins around the room.
That had been a few hours ago now, so only a few candles are still lit up and he's mostly cloaked in darkness. He finds that he likes it. Appropriate, he thinks. Halloween and all. It's spooky. Haunting.
Even the mess of paper plates and half-finished drinks strewn about can't bring down his mood. He's feeling warm and fuzzy all over, all tingly from the fact that he'd had a genuinely good time with people he cared about.
The best part of the night though was when Beckett arrived. Beckett, who had seemed so very reluctant to accept his invitation at first, but came nonetheless, much to his pleasure. She was all smiles, tormenting him with her effortless beauty, laughing at his jokes, adhering to his costume-only rule with that terrifying pop-up frog thing she'd worn under her very sexy trench coat.
And when he turned the lights off, she even indulged his request for a ghost story, her voice all low and spooky in a clever retelling of what may or may not have been a true story of a past encounter with the other world.
Her eyes twinkled with mystery and suspense, teasing him as she wove a tale of ghostly figures haunting her family cabin upstate. He found himself lost in her story of an old lady at the foot of her bed, crooked fingers pulling at her blankets, mouth open in a gaping yawn, bloody and –
Castle shakes his head and brings himself back to the present, not wanting to relive the creepiness of Beckett's story. He'd been enthralled with her then, but now - now that it's past midnight and he's alone and the last of his Halloween candles are dying out, he'd rather not have that image in his mind.
His gaze falls onto the stuffed crow he'd had on his arm early on in the night, sitting next to a toothy pumpkin, the glimmering candle inside it casting a long shadow over the table. He cocks his head at the sight and frowns.
Beckett hadn't quite appreciated his joke about giving her the bird, and as punishment had taken it quite literally, relieving him of it for the rest of the night. No amount of pleading could get her to give it back to him, and eventually he'd acquiesced and parted ways with his prop.
So why didn't she take it home with her? He gave it to her. His chest constricts at the thought that she'd left it there on purpose like some kind of sign. He huffs.
He's being irrational. He has no reason to be disappointed at the fact that Beckett left the bird there. Not like she was leaving his heart behind. It doesn't mean anything. She just... she probably didn't even know he serious about actually handing it over to her.
Leaving his now empty glass on the counter, he walks to the bird and picks it up, broad fingers curling around the fake feathers on its body. It's unusually warm and he lifts it up to examine it, curiosity piqued. The dark beady eyes of the stuffed animal stares unseeingly back at him and he narrows his own eyes at it, noting that nothing actually seems amiss.
Just as he replaces the bird on the table, the hair on the back of his neck start prickling and he stills. A shiver travels down his spine, wholly unbidden, and he swallows. Odd. Very odd.
Then a door slams and he jumps out of skin. His left knee bumps against the coffee table and the bird totters on its feet, threatening to fall over. He ignores the jarring pain from the sharp contact and he turns around slowly, pivoting on the balls of his feet, jaw clenched. Alarm bells go off in his head.
Doors don't slam on their own. But...
No one else is here.
His guests have all left, including his mother and daughter, both opting to move on to other parties earlier in the night. He's alone.
Or he should be.
His heart skips a beat.
He clears his throat, banishing the more sinister thoughts skirting around in his head to the back of his mind. He's just a little tipsy, that's all. The alcohol is playing tricks with him.
But why then, does he feel like someone's watching him?
"Um, hello? Is... is anyone there?" he calls out, eyes darting around the room.
It should make him feel better that he doesn't receive a response but it doesn't. In fact, everything is just a little too quiet. Too still. It's unsettling.
Goosebumps form on his skin and he crosses his arms in front of him as he makes his way across his lounge room. His heartbeat thunders in his ears, pounding erratically as he tries to tell himself he's being ridiculous.
He can only imagine what Beckett would say if she could see him right now. Skeptical and all eye roll-ey. Ghosts do not exist, Castle.
"Yeah, well, tell that to the stupid self-slamming door," he mutters. Oh, great. He's talking to an imaginary Beckett now.
He licks his lips, casting another long look at the space around him. Everything looks as it should, nothing out of place, nothing... levitating. Squaring his shoulders in determination, he sets off to investigate the mystery of the slamming door. He's a civilian investigator who hangs out with great detectives every day. He can do this.
He's about to through his office to check on the door to his bedroom when he hears it.
The low hum of something echoing around him. He stops dead in his tracks, his previous efforts to calm himself down now gone in the wind. Nope. Not calm anymore.
The strange sound gains in volume and it oh, crap, it sounds like a death rattle. It's a slow, monotonous, breathless, croaking that seems to be coming from everywhere at once. Right behind him, next to him, in front of him…
He abandons all pretenses of being completely unaffected, and he scrambles away, whipping his head around trying to locate the source of the noise.
"This isn't funny anymore!" he cries out. He turns again, and to his horror, just as he blinks, he swears he sees a woman, pale and ghostly, standing just in his peripheral vision and his heart leaps out of his chest.
The white of her dress glows in the semi-darkness, long dark hair obscuring the figure's face. He can't see much else, but there's just enough light from the candles for him to know she's there. Waiting for him.
He gulps.
Nope.
This cannot be happening. He squeezes his eyes shut, standing stock still, and slowly reopens them. But the pale shimmer of the woman remains in the corner of his vision. He inhales a shaky breath, trembling as fear seeps into his blood.
He's facing the entrance of his apartment, the front door so very enticing right at this moment. If he dashes, if he runs really quickly past the table in his way, he can just – wait.
Where is the bird?
It's gone.
The bird that he knows he placed back on the table is no longer there. And the pumpkin with the toothy grin – he one Alexis carved earlier in the day – now features a menacing frown, sharp teeth, angry eyes, and dripping down the sides of the pumpkin is a dark liquid, thick and coagulating and –
Is that blood?!
He whimpers and he's most definitely, a hundred percent scared out of his mind right now. Things don't just disappear on their own. Doors don't just slam shut. Scary women don't just materialize in his home. Blood doesn't just appear.
The temperature around him drops all of a sudden and his eyes go wide. He can't move.
Something cold drags over the back of his neck, wet and slimy.
"Don't be scared, Rick..."
Castle yelps at the voice in his ear, startled, completely freaked out. Something flutters above him and it's like someone's running their hand over his head. Bony fingers, gripping the strands of his hair, digging into his scalp and all he can think of is Beckett's story and the haunting, faceless, old lady with her outstretched arms and he lets out a blood-curling scream.
He reaches up over his head only to find air and as if he's triggered something, he regains control of his legs and he runs.
He knocks over the scary pumpkin, not caring as it smashes all over his floor, the candle inside winking out into darkness. He nearly trips over a discarded plate but he regains his footing and skids to a stop at his door.
The bird. The one that had gone missing.
Right in front of him, a rope around its body so it's hanging down from the ceiling, spinning in the air, eyes glinting at him with every full rotation around.
He's terrified. Doesn't know what to think. Nothing makes sense and he's so neck deep in horror and fear that he almost misses the fact that there's something tied to the bird's feet.
A roll of paper.
He reaches out with trembling fingers, closing his fist around it. He doesn't want to turn around, afraid of what he might see, so he looks down and unfurls the scrap of yellow.
There's writing on it.
Turn around.
A nervous chuckle escapes from between his lips and he won't admit it but he might just cry from the sheer terror coursing through his veins.
He doesn't want to turn around. He just wants to leave.
"Don't be scared, Rick."
There it is again, the haunting, disembodied voice from before, whispering in his ear. It almost sounds familiar to him, and he wonders if that's what ghosts do. Trick you into thinking they're someone you know and then lure you to your death. His skin crawls at the thought. He's not ready to die just yet.
"Turn around."
No, he doesn't want to. He doesn't want to deal with any of this. He's going out of his mind and he's not going to listen to a ghost ordering him around. The only person who can order him around is Beckett, and he barely even listens to her, much less a-
Hang on a fucking second.
The fog in his head clears, realization dawning on him like sun peeking out from behind the clouds on a rainy day. The truth hits him like a freight train.
No. Way.
He takes a step back from the door and turns around, still cautious despite what he suspects.
And there she is. In the flesh. Devastatingly gorgeous, her short hair curling at her shoulders. She lets out a bark of a laugh and doubles over, her body shaking with mirth.
"Katherine Beckett." He chokes, his voice laced with everything from horror to awe. His mouth hangs open as he stares at her, arms hanging limply by his side. "How..."
Her grin is so wide, tongue peeking out from between her teeth as she chuckles at him. She's so smug. Two fingers come up to her lips, long and lithe, like she's trying to hold back her laughter. She walks to him, a knowing glint in her stare.
"You were so scared," she murmurs around a smile. She's still wearing her trench coat, but the buttons are undone and she has a white dress underneath - not what she was wearing earlier in the night. She's biting her bottom lip, sheepish, as if she regrets scaring him.
He knows she doesn't.
He's affronted, grumpy, full of questions, a little embarrassed, but most of all he's amazed. His heart is calming down, back to the steady drum beneath his chest and he sucks in a long breath.
He tries for a stern glare; wants her to know how not funny he thought all of this has been, but all he can do is blink at her in awe and disbelief.
He takes another step in her direction, not quite comprehending how she managed to pull all of it off without him knowing. "You did all of this?"
She nods and then laughs again, so happy and free and he really loves this look on her. Her right hand dives into the front pocket of her trench coat and when it reappears, she's holding a black wig in her hand, gnarly and tangled up. She arches an eyebrow and tosses the messy clump of hair at him.
He doesn't even attempt to catch it, letting it fall to the floor in a heap. He pouts at her. "You were the ghost."
"Yes, and I scared you good, didn't I?"
"Beckett. I thought I was gonna die." He sounds like a child whining, but honestly. He almost had a heart attack because of this crazy smart, wicked, evil, witchy woman standing before him. He's allowed to be whiny.
"You're so dramatic. It was just a couple of schoolyard pranks," Beckett says, a hand coming up to pat the side of his cheek. The glide of her fingers along the line of his jaw is arousing, electrifying, and this time when he shivers, it's for a wholly different reason.
She's standing so close to him, smirking, clueless as to how his body is reacting to her proximity. She taps him lightly against his cheekbone, her fingertips sending another wave of desire down his body. "I promise there are no ghosts here. Just me. Boo."
"I invite you to my Halloween party, and this is how you thank me?" He's struggling to maintain his composure, but his voice has taken a more gravelly tone, gruff, and he thinks that maybe the adrenaline from his scare before is making him braver than he thinks he should be.
He catches her hand that's still lingering against his jaw, trapping her fingers in his big palm, bringing it to rest against his chest. He wants to hold it there forever. "By laughing at me after scaring the living daylights out of me?"
By now he's sure she can feel the rapid beating of his heart but she makes no move to pull her hand from his grasp and it surprises him. In fact, she seems wholly unaffected by his display of assertiveness, inching closer still.
Her other hand creeps up the side of his body, fingers toying with the material of his giant black coat. Her eyes dart up to his, then down to his lips, before flicking back up his eyes again.
Like she's daring him to do something about it.
He swallows, Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. He's not sure what exactly has happened, but he's gone from being scared for his life to being so turned on and he's helpless. He's fixated on her lips, pink and so kissable, and he has to stifle a groan when her tongue darts out to paint a wet stripe along her bottom lip.
"I'm sorry I scared you," Beckett sighs, not at all sounding like she's sorry. She's feigning innocence, as if she doesn't know exactly what she's doing to him. But she does. He's sure of it. The usual green of her around her pupils are so dark they're almost black. Shining. Dangerous.
"Whatever can I do to make it up to you?" She asks, breathy. She exhales, a wave of hot air mingling between them.
He kisses her.
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