Title: Far from the Tree
Disclaimer: And they, the two, overthrew the entire ABC studio and gained power. And then woke up, from a weirdly connected dream.
Author's Note: A co-authored story by Chezchuckles and FanficwriterGHC.
She couldn't for the life of her figure out what she'd done wrong. Just as she'd had this huge revelation, which had left her reeling even as he paid the check and slipped his card back into his wallet, his eyes had clouded over, and he'd pulled his hand away.
She stood and slipped into her coat, watching him, his hooded eyes, sunken face, slumped shoulders. He was radiating defeat and she just didn't know why. She'd thought she was proving something to him, with the eye contact and the hands, and honestly how could he have missed it when it crossed her face? But he took no notice, made no admission, didn't jump right in when she was weak, with that sixth sense he'd catered to her.
Then again, as she watched him slide his own jacket up his arms, perhaps he was just too preoccupied. Beckett-sense probably took a lot of concentration. This new-found Castle-sense certainly did. He was harder to read than any suspect, even the most recalcitrant across the table, mute and unforgiving. It was painful to know that, unless his father was after no more than his son's fortune, Castle didn't want anything to do with the man—understandable, but painful none-the-less.
And when she'd tried...What was going on? He wouldn't look at her, even as he guided her out onto the street. She'd given him an out, and he'd just retreated into himself. She watched him for a few minutes as they meandered back up the avenue, soft flecks of snow falling down around them only to melt on the sidewalk beneath their feet.
She couldn't send him off to the meet up like this. She'd said they'd do something fun, but what the hell was that supposed to be? Dinner hadn't helped, and she didn't think he should have more alcohol. The only place she'd think of taking him was the Haunt, and it probably also wasn't a grand idea to flaunt his own wealth in front of him right now. And without those options, what should she do with a mopey, unreadable, frustrating Richard Castle?
"You don't have to do this," he mumbled after a few minutes.
Her eyes swung back to his face. "Do what?"
"Entertain me. I can find somewhere to camp out, pass time," he shrugged, hands in his pockets, still walking more than a foot away from her.
That really should have been the first flag. They rarely walked anywhere without being attached by the shoulders, especially with the cold. And he took advantage of that little allowance as frequently as possible. So now, tonight, after the dinner and the looks, why was he all the way over there? She'd have to give herself permission later to ponder over just when a foot of space had become 'all the way over there.' But she had more pressing matters to attend to.
"I'm not...entertaining you, Castle," she said slowly, coming to a halt. It took him a moment to realize she'd stopped, and he actually had to walk back to her. If he'd just make eye contact, she could figure it out, but he avoided her gaze, looked at the lamp post, at the small sheen of snow on the top of a nearby mailbox. "I just want," she gave a frustrated sigh and ran a hand through her hair.
That got his attention. "I get it," he said softly, taking a step closer to let a passerby walk around them. "And I appreciate it."
"No," she argued, finally finding his eyes. "I don't think you do."
His eyes narrowed and she watched in some alarm as that tick in his jaw wavered. He was angry? What had she done, other than hold his hand, squeeze his fingers, try to understand, open up, give him something to hold onto, no matter how small and nearly pathetic it was?
Oh. Oh, damn. That was it. She'd given him something, but it wasn't enough, and he thought that it was just...pity? Regret? Sympathy?
"Beckett?"
It was her turn to avoid his eyes, because the very thought that he would automatically assume that her care and compassion weren't genuine had knocked the wind out of her lungs, stung at her heart, pricked at her eyes. And when she was hurt, she lashed out. "What do you think this is, Castle? A pity date?"
His eyes immediately brightened, eyebrows raising. "Date?"
It knocked the anger out of her just like that; she quirked an eyebrow at him. "Figure of speech."
"Uh-huh."
"And to be perfectly clear—which I know we don't usually do—no. This isn't about pity. Date or otherwise." She watched some of that lightness come back into his face, the ease that had been missing at the end of dinner.
"I think you said date. I'm gonna go with that-"
"This is a lousy date, Castle." She stepped in closer to allow two men to pass them on the sidewalk, her face turned towards them, ever vigilant, hyper aware.
Which should have made Castle's touch at her elbow a foregone conclusion and not the complete surprise that it was. She startled, which made her fingers brush at his belt, shockingly intimate, lightning down to her bones.
"A lousy date?" he said, his voice rising in indignation.
She took in a shallow breath and shifted back, tried to get herself back on track. "You're supposed to show a girl a good time. But you're moping around."
"That's so sexist, Beckett. Why don't you try showing me a good time instead?"
She narrowed her eyes at him, felt her mouth trying to betray her with a smile. She twisted her lips and brushed the hair behind her ear, effectively dislodging the touch at her elbow. "Fine. You're on."
Glancing down the avenue towards the busy intersection, she mentally planned the route. "Okay, we need a cab. We're headed to 5th Avenue."
"Ooh. Where are we going?"
She slid her hand through his arm and tugged him towards the curb, hailing a cab as a couple empties passed. One stopped for her—of course—and she hustled him inside, giving the address to the driver.
"5th and 58th, please."
She leaned back against the seat and shot him a look, certain the cross streets would have tipped him off. But he was eyeing her with curiosity, his eyebrows knit.
"Ever see that movie with Tom Hanks—Big?" She knew she was sitting a little too close, but she was supposed to be showing him a good time, right? That was her excuse.
"Yeah. . .long time ago."
"I was eight when it came out-"
"Oh jeez, you seriously aged me, Beckett." He put a hand to his eyes and groaned at her. She laughed, biting her bottom lip at his theatre.
"Mm, how old were you?"
"If you were eight, that makes it...1988?"
"Good math skills." She watched his hand drop back to the seat between them; her pinky twitched toward his.
"I was..." He heaved a sigh and cast her a pathetic look. "Please don't make me."
She pressed her lips together, but let it slide. She knew exactly how old he'd have been in 1988. Older than her. "You remind me of him—Tom Hanks in that movie."
"Okay, that's the one where the kid wishes to be big and he wakes up the next morning and he's an adult Tom Hanks, right?"
"Right." She leaned in and felt her pinky hook over his, saw his head swivel around to look at her, confusion all over his face. "Just a big kid."
She was pleased to see the confusion melt from his face, replaced by a kind of childlike glee that made his eyes crease, those crows' feet that disappeared into his temples. She had to bite her cheek to keep from reaching out to brush her fingers through his hair.
Back on track, Beckett.
"When I saw it in the theatre, I was so excited about that one scene. I made my dad take me so I could do it too-"
"The big piano," he grinned, his mouth matching his eyes. "Chopsticks on the flat piano in the middle of FAO Schwarz."
She nodded. "We hung out all day long trying to get at it. Everyone was there. I never got a chance to play, but it did inspire piano lessons."
"You play the piano?"
"I can pick out some stuff," she gave out, shrugging at him.
"So you wanna play Chopsticks on the piano at FAO Schwarz? How cutely touristy is that?"
She glared at him, her hand flexing and inadvertently squeezing their fingers together. Castle was grinning ear to ear at her, the sight so very welcome that she couldn't even maintain the narrowed eyes, the scowl.
"I figured it was right up your alley," she murmured.
He laughed at that. "Yeah, okay, sure."
"So, you up for that?"
"Bring it on."
The rest of the ride was quiet, and he was caught between focusing on the fingers she'd threaded through his and repeating the word 'Date' in his head, like the child she liked that he was. And that thought kept the smile on his face, wiped the doubt from his mind.
There were always things to worry over with the woman sitting next to him, smile on her lips, body relaxed in the back of the cab she'd hailed with little more than a look. But even the thought of a wall he'd yet to scale and a murder board in his office couldn't erase the almost giddy delight of a 'date' and the idea that she actually enjoyed the fact that children's toys could excite him as much as a night at a bar.
"Castle?"
He jerked his head to look at her, surprised. He'd thought they were doing their patented, contented silence thing. And tonight it was infinitely better, because she was holding his hand—well, his fingers, but why pick at the little details?
"Hmm?"
She smiled, that tight smile that had replaced the eyerolls since she'd come back in the fall. He was rather fond of those. "We're here."
Ah. She was waiting to get out, and he'd just been sitting there like a love-sick dope. "Right. On to stage two of our date," he said easily. He leaned forward and paid the cabbie before she could even reach for her wallet, and then he opened the door and pulled her out of the cab.
She stumbled into him, toe catching on the curb as he gently tugged on her arm. He caught her and they stood there pressed together for a moment before she cleared her throat and stepped away. He should regret being too hasty but couldn't find the energy, not when her cheeks looked like that.
He smiled to himself and tightened his grip on her hand as she tried to pull away. She'd made it clear that she wasn't there to pity him, and she'd offered the digits on her own. There was no way he was giving them back now.
She peered at him, cheeks tingeing pink, whether from a blush—the one he loved to watch spread across her face and down her neck—or the cold, he couldn't be sure. Apparently she decided that he could keep her hand in his, because she turned and pulled him toward the store. It looked remarkably empty as they pushed the big doors open, and he realized that it was probably near closing. It had to be about 7pm.
They sighed in unison as they got through the second set of doors, warm air assaulting their bodies. Kate shifted on her feet beside him and her fingers squeezed his palm. He glanced over at her and caught her smile as she looked around.
"We should probably head up to the piano before they close," she said as his eyes strayed over her head to a large wall of laser tag gear. "We can look around on the way back, Castle."
He let her lead him up the escalator, his eyes bouncing from shiny toy to electronics to dolls, memories barraging his senses. Bringing Alexis here to pick out a doll for her first report card of straight As. Coming here to buy enough presents to spoil four children, letting Alexis pick five she wanted, and then going with his little girl to the charity drop at his mother's preferred theatre-run charity. Shopping here for himself, buying his daughter a stuffed animal so he could buy three remote-control helicopters before he'd graduated to the big leagues.
He glanced back at Beckett when he realized she was leading him up another flight of stairs. She looked dangerously amused and he assumed she'd been watching him remember. Though, if the soft look around the corners of her eyes was any indication, she'd been doing some remembering on her own.
He stopped short, bumping into her shoulder when she came to a standstill, a smile slowly spreading across her face. He stared down at the shabby, slightly dingy keyboard the size of two of his couches. How had he never dragged Alexis up here to do this, maybe when it was shiny and new? It would be a let down to bring her now.
Though, he had to admit that maybe the keys didn't really matter, not when Kate Beckett was dropping his hand to step gingerly onto the C, hands curling and uncurling at her sides. The key made a low sound, and she jumped, spinning nimbly in the air to face him, producing a louder, clearer, tone. If the sight of her jumping hadn't done it, the infectious grin on her face, sparkle in her eyes, pink of her cheeks certainly did.
He followed her lead and leaped to the A below her. His tone joined hers and they simultaneously frowned. A minor triad—how melancholy. She stepped up to the first sharp and he jumped again, turning their sadness into chordant joy.
"You know, this isn't the right chord for Chopsticks," she offered, stepping up to the D. He was rather impressed that she always got an even sound with those heels, though he really had no idea what the sensors were like beneath the well-loved plastic.
"No," he agreed. "But we could recreate every pop song pretty easily. How's your knowledge of chords?"
"Basic," she laughed, and he felt the tension in his chest easing with every laugh, every smile, every brush of her fingers. "But I'm game."
She returned to the C and he dropped down to the G, waiting for her nod. Together, they played four beats of a C chord and then shifted a G, a bit clumsily. Beckett seemed to know what she was doing, and after a few rounds, they were rather impressively keeping up the basic backing for anything.
His mouth fell open as she began to sing, her voice low to accommodate the only key available to them on the limited range. "Don't stop believin'," she sang, voice ringing throughout the upper floor.
He let her go through two lines of the chorus before joining in, chest filling up with the delight in her eyes as they sang together. Children. They were exactly like children—one friend cheering the other up, bringing him to something magical and light.
"You've got a nice voice," she offered after a few minutes of soft singing, cycling through Journey, to the Beatles, to Lady Gaga, which they both sang with some embarrassment, staring each other down.
"You sound like a sexy club singer in the 40s," he replied, feeling his eyes widen as hers did. That had come on stronger than he'd meant it to.
She laughed, the sound ringing out just as an employee stepped up onto their floor, looking guilty. A young kid, maybe 22, with shaggy brown hair smiled at them, big hazel eyes lit up, he presumed, at the joy on his partner's face. How could you look at that woman with anything less than boundless wonder.
Oh, man, he was a goner. He was such a goner. Boundless wonder? Honestly, Rick.
"Sorry, sir, ma'am, but we're closing," the kid said, his voice a little rough.
"Right, of course," Beckett said, hopping off the keyboard and extending a hand toward Castle.
He almost fell over himself in his haste to take her outstretched palm. She was extending it, out in the open, in the presence of another person. He'd do whatever it took to catch her fingers, even tripping over his own two feet, which he did rather spectacularly. But reach her he did, and he let her guide them past the grinning kid and back down the stairs, across the floor, through the aisles, down the second escalator.
All the while, her fingers held his, palm to palm, her cheeks flushed with exertion and happiness. His own were warm and his body felt light. Could they do this in a few years, some little child, all dressed for bed, clinging to her hand, eager for a 'late night' adventure to the big piano to play a lullaby? Kate would probably roll her eyes, tell him it was far too close to bedtime to traipse across the city, but the little boy, with her eyes and his hair would pout up at her, begging her to listen to Daddy.
He could be a father again.
His breath quickened at the thought, and then another realization crashed into the first, pushing the phantom little boy and Kate's reluctant nod, her tight-lipped smile right out of his head. Father.
This child could have grandparents—more than one—three. His mother. Her father. His father? He slowed to a halt beside a large, red, colorful kiosk with a beleaguered employee leaning against the counter.
"Castle?" Beckett asked, turning back to him, twisting herself so their hands didn't jerk. "What's wrong?"
He shook his head, unsure. The melancholy he'd felt all day was creeping back across his mind, mixing with the bizarre, aching, unfounded hope for a family with a woman who'd just held his hand for the third time in four years. It was visceral and real, a strange desire, juxtaposed with an ancient hurt that left him winded, completely unlike the breathless happiness from three floors above.
"Castle," she repeated, her other hand straying to his arm, bringing his thoughts back to her.
His eyes scanned toward her face, but stopped, his inner child glomming onto the first thing it could to escape the questions on her face, in his head, in his heart. Muppets. You could make your own Muppet. They simply had to. It would be fun, and distracting, and would keep her with him, so he could sort out the fantasies in his head, the heartache of a child who never hurt, the hope of a man who hurt for a woman who hurt.
Her eyes followed his, and, with a reluctant sigh, she shifted to stand beside him. "Muppets."
She headed for the kiosk, discovering that it was an entire workshop through which this was the portal. The woman at the counter was giving her a death stare, so Kate checked her father's watch, sighed.
"It's well-past closing time," she murmured, turning her head to look at him. "And you have to meet. . .soon." He nodded, as if it didn't truly matter to him, so she hooked her arm through his and steered him away. "Next time."
His arm pressed hers against his side, he brought his other hand up to cover her fingers. "Next time," he echoed, and something in his voice sounded both hollow and rich. As if he'd been gutted out by whatever it was he saw in his head.
Muppets? Well, all right. "Did you see the new Muppets movie?" she asked, just to keep the conversation going as they stepped out of the toy store and into the night.
"Of course. Three times."
She grinned, trying valiantly to tame it down, keep it under control, but it broke all bounds, smeared across her face as she walked beside him. She felt his chest rumble against her shoulder (when had they gotten quite this close?), and then he was humming with pleasure.
Kate glanced over at him and saw his gaze fixed on her smile, clearly pleased with being able to bring it about. She gave him the moment, then reached over and tugged on the lapel of his coat.
"We can get a cab back. So you can get going."
"Yeah," he said, but he was still watching her.
Kate rolled her eyes at him, automatically trying to put some distance back between them. She headed for the curb, waiting on a cab to pass, drifting slowly north, watching Castle amble after her.
When a yellow cab came into view, Kate stepped down, lifted her hand; there it was. Feeling a little silly after playing around in the toy store, she held the back door open for him, nodding him in. Castle gave her a look, rolling his eyes back at her. Even the cabs stop for you. She knew it, she could read it in his whole posture; he shook his head and got in the cab first.
She followed, felt her body slide in against his as she shut the door and the cab peeled away. Castle had apparently already given the address and the guy was in a hurry.
She debated leaning forward and informing the man she was a cop, just to slow him down a hell of a lot, but they probably didn't have enough time for that.
It was creeping up on 8:30 and she figured Castle would want to get there first, prepare himself. A bar called the Dead Poet on the Upper West Side was their meeting place; she felt her stomach muscles clench in nervous anticipation, just for him.
Kate reached out and grabbed his hand, because if she was feeling like this, she couldn't imagine how it loomed for him. The distraction in FAO Schwarz, which she felt rather proud of, had done wonders to relax them both, but now that it was nearly in front of him-
"So, Castle." She tilted her head and glanced at him, for a moment caught in the way the lights of the city flickered over his face.
"Hm?"
"Ah, so. Did I show you a good time?"
He barked out a laugh and gave her a wide grin. "I might call this the least lousy date I've ever had."
"Damning with faint praise, Castle." She glared at him, felt her fingers accidentally slide between his. Totally accidental. Still, she didn't let go.
His grin turned soft, even while his eyes sparked with something else, something hotter. "Give me something to gush over then, Beckett."
"Gush," she murmured, her voice entirely opposite of what she'd intended to go for here. Scoffing just wasn't coming to her. "What are you—a girl?"
"Do girls kiss on the first date?"
Her mouth dropped.
Castle laughed at her again, his eyes predatory; this wasn't the man who'd morosely sat across from her at dinner. This was the man who'd teased her while they skipped from key to key on the piano in FAO Schwarz, the man who'd gotten that look in his eyes when they'd left, like the next time they'd be there, it'd be under entirely different circumstances.
At the wedding, hadn't it come out of her mouth entirely of her own volition?
Third time's the charm.
"Some girls do more than just kiss on the first date," she shot back, steeling herself for it.
He grinned back at her. "I'm not one of those girls, Kate."
She bit her bottom lip, entirely too thrilled with this conversation (for her own good). "Hm, that's good to know. My respect for you-"
He snagged her hand and pulled her in closer, his arm wrapping around her shoulder. For a hug. Not exactly what she'd expected, but-
"Will you come with me?"
She turned, found that his head was tilted down towards her so that their mouths were aligned, close, and she lost track of the question, everything, as her gaze flickered from his mouth back up to his eyes.
She felt his breath catch under her palm; she'd somehow rested her hand against him for balance, or maybe to push herself away, and now she could feel the wild stutter of his heart.
"What?"
"Come with me."
"Castle," she sighed, pushing back, loosening his arm, breaking the spell. "You don't want me sitting there while you have what can only be the world's most uncomfortable conversation."
"We've had a few of those already, so what's one more?"
She had to smile at that, a slight one, and shook her head at him. "No, Castle."
"Just. You could just sit at the bar. Moral support, Beckett."
She raised her eyes to him, was immediately done in by the need in his face which belied the off-handed tone. "Okay."
"Okay?"
"I'll sit at the bar. Where you can see me. Nurse a drink."
He gave her a relieved grin, leaned his head back. But of course, Castle's more immature nature reared its head in a second. "Of course, if guys start buying you drinks, Beckett, I might have to do something about it."
"I'd be insulted if you didn't," she said back. Because she knew. And he knew as well, didn't he? There was nothing else for it.
His hand slid back into hers, squeezing. "Thank you."
The bar was nothing special, but nothing shabby either. And he couldn't pretend that he didn't enjoy the title, despite the circumstances for encountering it. Why, of all places, his father had chosen this place played in his mind, spinning stories like the ones he told himself as a child.
But his father was not a writer, a world-class poet, an academician playing with words like Rick so enjoyed. No, his father was a washed-up actor who was more likely to beg him for money than embrace even his littlest finger.
He'd been staring, he realized, as Beckett's fingers tugged on his.
"Castle?" Her voice was tentative and he found the strength to release the bar from his view and turn it instead to the radiant woman beside him. The look in her eyes sent him reeling and he opened his mouth, catching flies.
"Come on, let's go in. I'll buy you a beer, send you to a table, find a spot at the bar," she said gently, guiding him inside, her hand tugging on his.
He followed her, he always did. But tonight there was no dead body, no mystery he wanted to solve. He didn't like the mystery presented—wanted to turn around and rewrite the ending. He'd take the dead body. Hell, he wasn't ashamed to admit that at this moment, even with the woman beside him stroking the back of his palm with her thumb, he'd take the damn tiger instead.
She led him to a booth, tugged on the lapels of his coat, watched as he got himself together enough to take it off and slide onto the bench. She squeezed his hand one last time and turned to walk away. He reached out at the last moment and snagged her hand back, needing...something. He didn't know what. But now, far away from the toy store and the cab and the warmth of her body pressed into his, he wasn't ready.
Would it be cowardly to run? Cowardly to force her to sit with him? Cowardly to drink himself to oblivion? For a man so comfortable around people, he found himself utterly at sea.
"I'll have them send you a drink," she said, her voice soft, softer than he could remember. "And you'll be fine. I'll be over there." She waited for a response, but he was lost in her eyes, telegraphing things to him he was too agonizingly distracted to read. Damn his father on new levels. "Kay?"
That brought him back. "Thanks. I'll...We'll get coffee after, my treat," he managed, wanting something to give back.
Her face softened even more and she smiled. "Sounds good, Castle. Take some deep breaths. You got this."
And then she was gone in a swing of hips and a gentle toss of hair, and he sat there, staring at the other side of a dark wood booth, under a hanging lamp, hands clutched together on the deep brown, scratched table top. This place had character, but it was subdued, unlike the Haunt, vibrant and full of life and stories.
This place only held stories no one wanted to hear. Or maybe it was just him. He seriously considered slipping out the back, leaving his coat, his phone, his...woman, partner, girlfriend, Kate here. But then the waiter was sliding a mug of his favorite beer onto the table and stepping away.
In his absence was the figure of Kate Beckett, sitting on a barstool, jean-clad legs crossed, elbow on the bar, head in her hand, eyes watching him. He sat up a little straighter, bolstered by that quiet confidence. He hoped he gave her the same feeling when they were out facing down guns. Shocking, what a simple look could do.
What it couldn't do was block the profile of a man lumbering into the bar, stooped, balding, rubbing his hands together, puffing his cheeks to warm up. His father.
He didn't have to flag him down. His father came all on his own, eyes lighting up in recognition as he spotted him in the booth. There was no hesitation there, just jovial anticipation as he neared. His stomach didn't fare nearly as well. It plummeted at the easy gait and unfettered face.
"Rick Castle?" the man asked as he came to a stop on the other side of the table.
He nodded and unglued his mouth, some part of him willing away the overwhelming doubt. "That's me."
The man grinned, and Castle caught a little bit of his own smile somewhere on the long, round face. His eyes looked like the ones he saw in the mirror, his hands as well. And the grip as they shook felt like a carbon copy of his own. Facts he tucked away, squirreling them into his mind for the book he'd write someday. He just didn't know if this man would play a villain or a hero.
Though, as he sat down, unwrapping his scarf and unbuttoning the brown ski jacket he wore, Castle thought maybe he'd be a nobody. A blip. A second. A sentence.
"I'm Charlie. Call me Charlie. You look just like your book cover," Charlie said, his voice low but kind, normal. Not the crackle of a voice over a space-to-earth connection. Not the boom of the announcer for the NCAA. Not even the graveled voice of a chain smoker who sat as a fat cat at some big Mafia hang out. Just a normal man, a washed up actor.
"Guess so," he managed. It felt like a blow, to know that his father knew him as a picture on a book. Though, it was better than the nothing he'd known of the man across from him. "You look like..."
"You, a little," Charlie said with a small laugh. "Though you look a lot more like Martha than me. Got her full head of hair." If nothing else, Castle could laugh in Esposito's face tomorrow. It was the little things, really.
Castle was about to say something about the hands—pathetic conversation to be sure—when something caught the light, a glint. A wedding ring.
"You're married," he said, his mouth finding the thought before it had really sunken in. Pathetic and abrupt. He was doing a fine job of behaving like a careless, hurt child, wasn't he?
"Oh, yeah," Charlie said with a slight cough. "Forty-four years in a few months."
The physical blow was greater this time. Married. Married for longer than he'd been alive. He glanced sideways, looking anywhere but at the man across from him, and he caught Beckett's eyes, trained on them, concern on her face. She'd probably seen the ring before he did. She caught those things.
"Listen," Charlie said, leaning in. Castle braced himself, turning back to the man while a small corner of his mind filed away the fact that they folded their hands in the same way. "I was wondering if you'd consider coming to this Gala thing my wife's doing. Tables, you know? And you could bring people. Be a way to...spend some time. It's not too expensive, goes to her company—corporate oil consulting business trying to go green...you know how it is..."
But he wasn't really listening anymore.
A sentence. A blip. The tap of a key. Delete. Delete. Delete.