Mad Doctors and B Movie Nazis
a post The Third Man fic.
A burger and a shake was not a date, at least not the kind to which Rick Castle was accustomed.
Dates, in his experience, were filled with flirting and facades, expensive restaurants and conversation that mostly centered around his many (many) accomplishments. Dates with women whose starry-eyed vision of Derek Storm comfortably eclipsed the reality of Richard Castle.
Leisurely dinners, charming smiles, cab rides punctuated by whispers and fondling, and him collecting his clothes before morning, promising to call. The limited and marginally satisfying life of a playboy, now more habit than interest.
Sometimes he called.
Most times he didn't.
And so he'd traded in pate for a sirloin, a vintage Cabernet for a strawberry milkshake mustache.
Exchanged artificial giggles for genuine, even affectionate, laughter and fannish accolades for playful ribbing.
A single night's conquest for...a burger and a shake.
***
A burger and a shake was not a date, at least not when you were sitting across the table from Rick Castle.
Number 9.
In weaker, distant moments she might have imagined this. When the face on the dust-jacket was her favorite author. When she still confused the man with the mysterious, handsome, brilliant character. Before she knew the middle-aged man-child, single father, raising his teenage daughter *and* his mother.
Usually her dates were with men Lanie had chosen, or the occasional chance meeting with a number pressed into her palm. Pretty faces, good jobs, great bodies and little real connection.
They were filled with flirting and facades, half-hearted attempts at genuine conversation that usually centered around Beckett avoiding any mention of her work. Her dates were usually so intent on getting her into bed, they didn't notice (or care about) her detachment. Every so often early morning found her shepherding a half-awake, fully-naked man from her bed, with a promise to call.
She had unconsciously given up on the idea of a mate, a date, a life, finding work more fulfilling and less taxing than sociability.
Without much thought, Kate Beckett had long ago trashed the idea of a storybook romance.
And yet here she was out to dinner with an author.
***
It was the sugar rush of ginormous shakes and real whipped cream that sent them careening into central park at a quick clip. Spring was still nothing but a distant hope, so the air was chilly, their breaths clouds of vapor, and Castle's arm warm as it brushed Beckett's. He was touching her more often this evening. Offering his arm, guiding her with a hand to her elbow, the brush of his palm against her waist to steady her. And she was equally guilty - during dinner she let him sit for a good 15 minutes before brushing the pad of her thumb across her upper lip, enjoying the way his eyes widened and whatever inane joke he was making fell away into silence.
Richard Castle was a very tactile man, and Beckett would file the information away to be used to her advantage.
A shortcut through the park, that really wasn't a shortcut at all, was Castle's thinly veiled attempt to get Beckett alone in the dark. Perhaps when she wasn't comfortably full, slightly chilly, and pressed to the warmth of his side, she would call him on it.
Perhaps then, but not now.
The trees were thick in this corner of the park and they tottered together, half-drunk from exhaustion and the crash of a sugar high.
"Warm bath." She muttered, more to herself than to Castle.
"Is that an invitation?" She could just *hear* the winging eyebrows in his remark.
"Hardly." Said with just the right note of exaggeration, although she wasn't quite sure she meant it.
The shifting shadows of dense tree cover created a cocoon of silence. This was life in a vacuum, thousands of unseen stars overhead and the chill of the night drawing them closer together. He seemed oblivious yet still poised, and she wondered if he thought they were a forgone conclusion. Everyone else did.
"Why would I be bad for your image?" Beckett asked the question that had been bothering her for days. Until this point she had not been particularly concerned, as Castle's validation was not high on her list of priorities. Only his extended silence made her stomach clench slightly and the worlds tumbled on into the void. "I mean, I realize that I'm not vapid enough to be a #3 and I haven't asked you to sign my chest and I definitely don't buy into your juvenile antics and..."
"Alexis didn't approve of 3." He'd already forgotten her name, a fact that made Beckett mildly (absurdly) pleased. "I learned after the last mistake that my daughter has what her father lacks common sense, a responsible bone in her body and, most importantly, a pretty good judge of the wily female character. I decided then that for all the fun I could have, there wouldn't be another that Alexis didn't like. And as long as she doesn't like them, the groupies and models and threes of the world are safe. Diversions. Image-makers."
"You date bimbos to sell books?" She didn't meant to sound judgemental, but could tell her tone was more abrasive than disbelieving.
"I date bimbos to avoid commitment, to have fun." He considered. "And to sell books."
"I'm not a bimbo."
"Oh, I have my theories about the Beckett Onion." He nudged her shoulder with his. "No. You're not."
"So I'm..."
"Fishing for compliments." He chuckled. The vaguest hint of traffic was carried on the chilly early morning breeze.
Was she? No, that wasn't it, not exactly. She needed...
Do it now, in a void, in the dark, no consequences.
Just pretend, for once, that life out there doesn't upset the fiction of this moment.
Re-write history, ignore the future. Live a little and not alone.
And so, just outside a pool of gold light, on the fringe of the real world, Beckett twisted her fists in Castle's lapels.
***
Later, when she was back home in her quiet apartment, neck-deep in a warm bath, Beckett would watch dawn paint red-gold streaks along her ceiling.
She would muse about night, and day, and Castle.
He tasted of strawberries and cream and sass, and he hadn't let her go.
His crooked smile. Her self-satisfied smirk.
Most definitely a date.
A good one.