Rock, Paper, Scissors

By Rachel C. Astrid

Synopsis: A glimpse into the psychology of Caskett's game of Roshambo from episode 4x13. Castle said there are strategies to the game. What were his, and why did they fail him three times? What were Kate's? Each chapter stands alone.

Possible spoilers for 1x1 ("Flowers for Your Grave"), 3x24 ("Knockout"), 4x1 ("Rise"), and of course 4x13 in this portion.

[TWO: BECKETT'S POV]

"I mean, I don't want you to feel lonely. . . ."

What was she doing? He had already conceded to her, albeit half-heartedly. She had just given him a foothold, and she wasn't even sure whether or not she had meant to do so.

"Well, I could flip you for it," he said, digging into a pocket.

Beckett was a little ticked that he was going to rely on a coin instead of facing her himself. Where was the fun in that? "No Roshambo?"

"Well, I mean, that would put you at an unfair disadvantage." He flicked his head to the side with a shrug, like Gaston. "I'm pretty good at that g—"

Beckett was having none of that. "C'mon, Castle. Let's go." She uncrossed her arms and locked her eyes on him as they prepared to duel.

He murmured something vaguely pompous about strategy, but she was already concentrating on his eyes. She could read him like a book. She almost hated the irony of that.

She hated that she interrupted her own train of thought to question whether she had used the word "irony" correctly, the undeniable influence of Castle's pet-peeve.

Most of all, she hated the thought that, just because Castle had claimed her as his "muse," he might read her like a book, too. Personal rivalries and hormonal complexities aside, losing to Castle would be, at the very least, a slight to her reputation as a detective who owned the interrogation room. She resolved then and there to outwit him.

She knew that look of his. He was plotting. It was his Farfetched Theory face. It was his Surefire Bestseller face. It was the face of an author terrified of being labeled "predictable."

It was the look of reverse psychology at work; Castle was going to do whatever Beckett would assume that he would do, if she were to assume that he was not going to scheme. This time, not scheming was his scheme.

Like a book. Would Castle seriously use paper on her?

But there was more to Roshambo than figuring out the opposition. It was also a matter of figuring out your opposition's understanding of you. Of course, Beckett knew that Castle knew that Beckett was a rock, so Beckett pulled scissors.

Bull's-eye.

Castle's fingers trembled. He pursed his lips, and then he asked, "Two out of three?"

"Mm-hm." She offered him mercy, but she didn't hide her complacency.

Maybe paper next, she considered. She could use his most famed weapon—aside from the pen and his rapier wit—against him.

No, that was what he expected or even wanted her to do. From the first time they met, their banter was built on Castle goading Beckett into playing his game. Using his previous weapon of choice on him now would be like Castle handcuffing Beckett after she'd cuffed him to the car.

Wait, what?

She poker-faced her way out of her simmering fantasy and stared strategically at his face, while he focused on her hand. Her fist of a rock trumped his measly scissors.

He looked like he was about to break a sweat. This was her favorite part of an interrogation; the adrenaline was intoxicating.

He looked up. "Three out of five?"

"Sure," she replied nonchalantly, assuming the position. She tried not to look like she was trying to look fierce. Staring down a suspect or a subordinate officer both required an assumption of one's authority, not an illusion of it.

She tried to rally from the string of thoughts that entangled her with the image of her subordinate, but what replaced it was no more helpful to her: an inner insistence that Castle was, in fact, her partner.

She had won before because she knew Castle so well, but thinking about how well she knew him and how well she wanted to know him was making her head foggy, so she changed tactics and put him back in the suspect's seat.

She raised a brow as he stared into her eyes for the first time during a competition. Switching up his M.O. like that had to mean either that he, too, was changing tactics—more direct intimidation, trying to get inside her head instead of studying her body language—or that he was desperate and just trying to psych her out.

What was that she detected? A look flashed ever so briefly across Castle's face, and she recognized it immediately.

Damn it, Castle. I can feel you fantasizing about me and it isn't helping.

Yet it wasn't the undressing-her-with-his-eyes look, although she knew he wasn't above that. It was the breaking-down-the-wall-with-his-eyes look, and if she was perfectly honest, that look intimidated her even more, if only because each time she saw it he was closer to succeeding.

Still at the forefront of her mind was a memory of Rick's face hovering over hers after she was shot down. It was his most honest face. He'd told her he loved her. She could do nothing but close her eyes and slump back from the intensity of the wound and the weight of voiced truth.

The game, Beckett. Focus.

She couldn't seem to keep him in the suspect's seat. Nevertheless, his reined desire melted into that utterly honest look, and she knew his next move as sure as she knew his heart.

Paper. She could feel it.

She had won yet again, and she tried not to gloat as Castle's face fell. She worried for a moment that he would question her methods, that he might somehow discern how she had learned his Honest Look.

Beckett's scissor-spread fingers mimed a menacing cut in the air, an empty threat against Castle's paper because she didn't dare touch him, even in jest, while she could feel surges of electricity running through her.

He yanked his flat hand back, anyway, and wiped his face with it in defeat.

Beckett smiled wryly, wondering whether his reaction was to the fact that he had lost out on Royal or that he had lost so dismally to her.

After all of her deductive finesse, part of her was almost disappointed that she had won. If Castle took Royal home, not only would he be happy, but she would have a go-to alibi for the occasional visit.

Apparently she had wanted to give him a foothold after all.

"You know," she said, extending yet another superfluous offer of mercy, "there is another way that we can go about this. . . ."