He'd said his goodnights to Beckett and the boys at the precinct, his heart humming with hope after witnessing the tentative conversation between Cano Vega's wife and daughter, holding to his belief that they'd each found someone special in the wake of their loss. But that same exchange was also what pushed him through the weathered door of a bar he'd frequented when writing his first novel; in fact, he credited The Old Haunt with a heavy dose of inspiration found in the splinters of the wooden seats and the faces of the writers who'd watched him from the walls years ago, some mixture of encouragement and skepticism in their stares.
Relying on that familiar company, he slid onto a barstool and ordered something just strong enough to soothe whatever part of him still dwelled on Cano Vega's missed opportunity to be a father.
A father. So much of who Castle had become, in the shadow of a man he'd never known.
He hadn't exactly lied to Alexis when he'd said it didn't bother him, that missing branch of his family tree. It wasn't a constant ache, the kind of pain that pressed against his chest and made it hard to breathe. It wasn't an open wound, bleeding freely and leaving him exposed to the world around him. No, it was more like an occasional itch, tugging on his consciousness just often enough to remind him of its existence, but not enough to do any lasting damage. He was, as Beckett had explained to Esposito, famously fatherless, and he'd learned to shrug it off long ago.
Still, if there was one thing his time with the NYPD had driven home – even more so than his success as a mystery writer – it was how much satisfaction was gained when cases were closed. He'd told his daughter that he was free to imagine his father as anything in the world, a man placed on a pedestal and never toppled, but now he wondered if a few answers would be better than every maybe he'd woven into his suit of armor.
A quick tip of his glass had liquor washing that thought away; the itch was persistent, but it remained out of reach and there was no reason to wish things were different. He had so much to be grateful for, so he drank to all those who'd proven to be his family, genetically bound or not.
It was late when Castle returned to the loft, Alexis greeting him from where she was curled up with a book. She'd barely had the chance to offer him some hot cocoa when his phone sang out from his pocket, his eyebrows arched in surprise at the call, even as he answered with a smile.
"Beckett, the ink isn't even dry on your Cano Vega paperwork yet. Can't the generous murderers of New York City give you a few hours off?"
The nervous laugh he received in response threw him for a second, but Beckett found her voice and brought him back. "Actually, I do have a few hours off. And I was wondering if you wanted to meet me somewhere, but it's late and if you are busy or would rather—"
"Are you asking me on a date, Detective?" His question drew his daughter's attention, her wide eyes and eager nod doing nothing to help the swell of optimism threatening to pull him under.
"Slow down, Cassanova," Beckett began, but enough of her nervousness lingered and made him doubt the rest of her argument. "It's not a date, just an idea I had. Something that might be fun."
"An idea that might be fun. You're really selling me on this."
She groaned, but didn't hang up or call him names. On the contrary, she told him where she'd be waiting. "I'll see you in twenty minutes, Castle. And wear something warm, but comfortable."
After scrambling to change his clothes and convince himself that he was not about to go on a date with Kate Beckett, he met Alexis at the door a few minutes later, a thermos in her hand.
"Hot cocoa for two."
The sharp chill in the air made him grateful he'd brought a blanket along. And while he couldn't help but question the wisdom of meeting at a park so late on a winter night, he heard echoes of Carole King singing in his ear.
Where you lead, I will follow.
Perhaps Beckett had dreams of a moonlit picnic. Or she really enjoyed geocaching at midnight. Or there were ghost stories to be told or swings to be swung or—
"Did you break into the Yankees' locker room?" he hissed, looking around as though someone was about to bust her for standing in the middle of baseball field next to a huge pile of bats, balls, gloves and some kind of metal tripod with which he was utterly unfamiliar.
"It's more than we really need, but I wasn't going to argue." She shifted her weight and narrowed her eyes at him, her words accompanied by visible puffs of air. "What? You're not the only one who knows a guy."
He couldn't help the way his head fell back with his laugh. "Okay, so you 'know a guy' and are apparently more interested in playing baseball than sleeping, but may I ask why? I mean, I'm always happy to keep you company, but I assume this isn't a regular thing for you."
For a long moment she kept her lips pursed and her focus elsewhere, and he considered apologizing for a sin he hadn't realized he'd committed. But she finally sighed and shrugged her way through silent uncertainty and came out on the other side of it, her eyes connecting with his.
"I know you don't freak out about not knowing your father, and I'm guessing you've created this magical vision of him in your head…some kind of CIA agent lion tamer astrophysicist who also happened to invent whipped cream." Castle found himself nodding along with her description. "But it still makes me sad that you didn't get to experience a dad. Just a regular dad who could take you to ball games and teach you how to play catch. So I came up with a way you could."
His head whipped toward the tripod and he gasped. "Is that a time machine?"
"It's a pitching machine, Castle."
Under other circumstances, he might have faked disappointment, pretended to be dismayed at the lack of magic working to make his dreams come true, but the night was magical, and he was pretty sure she knew it, too. This wasn't the type of thing people did for him; he was the one to make grand gestures for those who mattered and wasn't used to the scales tipping the other way. Coughing in an attempt to dislodge some of the emotion in his throat, he found a bench to hold the blanket and thermos, then hurriedly returned to Beckett's side.
Neither of them paid any attention to the time nor the temperature, the absurdity of playing baseball enough to make them forget about anything but each other. He tried on several different gloves before settling on one, not because he knew the difference between them, but because she stood so close to him, touching his forearm unnecessarily as he debated his options. His errant throws went over her head instead of falling short because he enjoyed watching her bend over to retrieve the ball, and he had little doubt the sway of her hips was intentional. And when it was time to face the pitching machine and swing at a ball or two – well, he truly had no idea how to position himself and couldn't have manipulated the situation, but it didn't matter. Beckett was pressed against his back with her arms draped over his, the tips of her toes just barely allowing her chin to rest against his shoulder while her knit cap tickled his temple and she breathed instructions into his ear.
It was the best 'not a date' experience of his life.
Eventually the cold made itself known again and he nudged her in the direction of the bench, allowing her to get comfortable with the blanket while he poured their drinks. Then she motioned for him to join her and he had the fleeting thought that he'd passed out at the bar and was dreaming the shy twist of her smile. Though there was almost no room between them, she attempted to scoot closer, entangling their free hands while they sipped with the others.
"You think about him more than you let on, don't you? Care about him more than you think you should."
Castle startled at the question, though it was nothing more than a whisper. "Yeah, I guess I do. How did you know?"
"Lucky guess." She titled her head toward him. "There are things I think about more than I let on. People I care about more than I think I should."
"Do you think it's a bad thing? Caring about people?"
"Sometimes. If the feeling isn't mutual when you want it to be."
He thought about that for a while, his words slow with her body close. "So what do you do? Keep thinking about things without letting on? Keep caring while telling yourself not to?"
Beckett hummed in agreement. "Or I gather up some gloves and bats, make a late night phone call, and see what happens."
"Well, that resulted in a questionable demonstration of my athleticism." Then he brushed his thumb along the back of her hand before squeezing it tenderly. "And this."
Another hum. "I like this."
"I like you." And before he could study her reaction to his declaration, he lowered his head and caught her mouth with his, the kiss softer than he would have written, but perfect for the quiet surrounding them. When they parted, neither moved far, their foreheads falling together and the subtle scent of cocoa offering a touch of calm.
"We should probably get going soon."
It was true, but he was in no hurry to leave, at least not without one more kiss. Castle let his lips open to capture a bit more of hers and was welcomed by a moan he wouldn't forget any time soon, finally shifting to murmur against her cheek. "So what happens now?"
Beckett laughed, low and beautifully. "Well, I don't think you need to worry about being called in as Vega's replacement, but you might be able to warm the bench at the annual precinct picnic."
Their grins made his eye roll futile, and they stood together to gather the equipment and fold his blanket, moving quickly to keep the chill at bay. It was only when they had said goodbye, made a promise to talk the following day, and begun to walk their separate ways – however reluctantly – that he turned to ask one more question.
"Before I show up at any precinct picnics, do you think you could teach me a thing or two about second base?"
Her smile was brilliant when she twisted just enough to answer him with a question of her own. "Oh, Castle, why would you want to stop at second?"