Disclaimer: The only part of Castle that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.
She has a secret. Hell, who hasn't? But she mentioned it, and if she mentioned it, it must be really something because Beckett is the Empress of Zipped Lips. Except for that freezing cold night six months ago, when they were in the alley behind that warehouse. Oh, her lips were decidedly unzipped then. Those lips unzipped and welcomed him in and—. "Don't go there," he mumbles, shaking his head like a large, wet dog.
What's more important right now: trying to figure out what her secret is, or making coffee that she's so desperate for that she texted him five times in an hour? After 24 days of silence. Very late at night. From her bed—presumably her bed—of pain. Although she doesn't appear to be feeling any pain at the moment, judging from the content of her texts.
That does it. No way he's waiting until 7:30 in the morning to come to her rescue, be her own personal Juan Valdez, with a sportscar instead of a donkey. "Where the hell is this cabin?" he screams at his laptop.
Maybe it's the screaming that breaks up the logjam in his brain. He'll go over to Jim's Beckett's apartment, wherever it is, and ask. After all, Jim had come over to his, unannounced, four weeks ago, and asked him a favor. He can knock quietly on the door. Jim might still be awake. If he doesn't answer, Castle will text him. He has his number, got it for an emergency. Okay, didn't exactly "get" it, he'd copied it from Beckett's phone when she wasn't looking. Good thing, too, the trouble she gets into. But how is he going to find out where her Dad lives? The white pages online, that's how! Jim's an old-fashioned kind of guy, he's probably listed there. Castle enters the information: no dice. Not so old-fashioned, after all. He squints at the screen. Wait, here's a thing. For $19.95 he can get immediate access to all kinds of stuff about James Beckett, Esquire. His birthdate; who he lives with, if anyone; where he lives. Who knew? He'd pay a hundred times that just for the address.
Sixty seconds and twenty bucks later, Castle is putting Jim's address in his phone. He fleetingly wonders how P.I.s stay in business, considering how much information is easily obtainable on the internet. Pocketing his cell and his wallet, he goes to the garage, fires up the Ferrari, and drives uptown to a handsome old brick building on West End Avenue. There's even an available parking space opposite it. Let's see. Apartment 8A. He knows the layouts of these 1920s "pre-war classics"; Jim's place must be on the eighth floor, on the hmmmm. On the southeast corner. He looks up and counts. Almost every window in the fifteen-story building is dark, no surprise, but there's definitely a light burning in one room of what he's reasonably sure is 8A.
He runs across the street and enters the lobby. There's a doorman, of course, who will announce him, but Castle doesn't want announcing. Doesn't want to give Jim time to think about what he's doing here. He strolls confidently to the desk, where a doorman who looks as if he passed retirement age some time ago is reading the Bugler.
"Hello, I'm Rick Castle, here to see James Beckett. I was wondering if I might ask you not to—"
"You about to ask me if you can go up without my calling Mister Beckett?" The doorman takes off his reading glasses and puts them next to his newspaper with a certain amount of hostility.
"Yes. I—"
"Little late for a social call. You a one-man surprise party?"
Shit, who is this guy? "No, but I'm a friend."
"Never seen you before. Can't be that much of a friend."
"I work with his daughter."
"Don't look a cop to me." He leans forward slightly to stare at Castle's feet. "No cop I know'd wear those Italian shoes. Even if they could afford them, which they can't."
"Consultant. I'm a consultant to the NYPD, and Kate Beckett's my partner."
"I know who you are. You write those books. Covers have that silhouette of Katie in the altogether. I've known her since they moved in. First-grader in pigtails. I was standing right here when she argued with her Mom, may she rest in peace, about why she should be allowed to have a Wonder Woman lunch box. Don't appreciate your taking liberties."
God, a six-year-old in pigtails with a super-heroine lunchbox. She must have been adorable. "That's not really her on the covers, you know, it's—"
"People figure it is. People like me."
"That's all the publisher's doing. Thinks it sells copies, whereas I think the stories do that. I have nothing but respect for her, nothing." That's not strictly true. He completely respects her, but there are many, many, many other things he has for her, some of which involve visions of both of them in the altogether, as the doorman so quaintly put it.
"Got your name on the cover. Letters must be three inches tall."
"Again, not my decision. Look, I don't want to wake Jim, which is what will happen if you ring up, right? I thought if I just tapped on his door and he were awake, he'd hear me and let me in. If you're not willing to do that," he waves his phone, "I'll just text him."
"Be my guest. I got orders, you know."
"Right." Right, you baboon reading that rag that masquerades as a newspaper. He glowers as he types. "Hi, Jim. I'm in your lobby and wonder if I could come up for a moment. Nothing to worry about, I promise, but I'd really like to speak with you in person if possible." He clicks send and waits, carefully avoiding the baboon's glare.
A minute later both participants in the Great Lobby Standoff jump when the desk phone rings. "The Century," the doorman says. "Oh, Mister Beckett. Mmhmm. Right, sure, I'll send him up."
Castle manufactures an impassive expression while mentally high-fiving himself.
"Go on," the doorman says, jerking a thumb towards the elevator. "But if I see that stop anywhere but eight your life won't be worth what I paid for this paper."
Whatever you paid for that crappy paper is too much, Castle thinks, but nods and gets in the elevator. When he steps off on the eighth floor he sees Jim's head sticking out from a partially opened door. Beckett's father silently beckons him.
"Evening, Jim," Castle says, extending his hand.
"Evening's long gone, Rick," he replies, moving back a few steps so that Castle can come in.
"That's true," he says, feeling like a 15-year-old boy who's been caught bringing a girl home way past her curfew. Except in this case the girl isn't here, she's where he wishes he were. "Very nice," he says, looking around the handsome living room with one entire wall of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves.
"Thanks. So, to what do I owe the pleasure?"
Whoa, don't mince words, counselor. "Um, it's about Kate. Your daughter."
"Kind of figured," Jim says, taking a seat in an armchair and gesturing to Castle to take one that's angled next to it.
Oh, hell. Might as well take the direct approach, too. Direct if censored. "She texted me a little while ago. Apparently she spilled the coffee beans on the floor and couldn't pick them up, so she asked me to come up there, make her coffee and keep her company. Her exact words." Some of them.
"That's promising."
"It is?" Well, that slipped right out.
"I've spent the last two weeks up at the cabin with her, and I left her alone about six or seven hours ago and came back home. She kicked me to the curb, or what passes for a curb on a dirt road, and said, 'I'm thirty-one years old and can take care of myself.' Her exact words." He smiles gently. "Apparently that's not entirely true. I'd delighted that she called you."
"Texted, actually."
"Texted you. So you spoke to her?"
"Well, no, I um, texted her back. Said I'd come and she texted back that she was going to sleep." And a few other things in between that her father need not know about. "The thing is, I don't know where your cabin is and she seemed really lonely and coffee-deprived and I thought if I could leave now I'd be there when she woke up in the morning and, you know, give her coffee. So I thought," he stops to cough. "I thought if you could give me the directions I could go."
Jim is leveling him with a look that's suspiciously familiar, even though his eyes are not hazel and he doesn't have eyelashes that make Castle weak at the knees. "Right."
"Keep her company. That's what friends are for."
"Uh huh."
"I wasn't sure if, didn't know if you'd be up this late so I just took a chance. Coming over."
"Haven't slept too well since Katie got shot."
"Me either."
There's a long silence. "Probably will if I know you're looking after her."
"Really?" Castle hopes that didn't sound as much like a squeak as he suspects it was.
"Really. You're good for her. Make her laugh."
"Best medicine, they say."
"Yup. Hold on, I'll get you the directions. You want something for the road? Coffee?"
"No, no, I'm good," Castle says, wiping his sweaty palms on his jeans. "Got plenty of coffee up there, then?"
"Oh, yeah."
Did Jim just wink? He disappears down a hallway and comes back not long after with neatly-written instructions on a sheet of white paper. "Rick? It's been tough for her. She's still in pain and she can't do much yet. It makes her, well, I think you can guess."
"Cranky."
"You could say."
"Thanks for the heads up. I'll be going, then."
"Let me know how she's doing, will you? I'm not going to get anything but 'fine, Dad,' from her."
"Will do." He folds the paper in half, shoves it in his pocket and stands up. "Thanks so much, Jim."
"Thank you, Rick," he says, accompanying him to the door and giving his shoulder a quick squeeze.
It's 3:40 a.m. when Castle pulls up to the front porch and cuts the engine. Sunrise is at 5:25, but it'll begin to get light before then. He spent most of the drive up here trying to decide what to do. Stay in the car until it's full daylight? Sit on the porch until he hears her moving around? Or go in the house before that, using the key that Jim told him was in the tool box on a shelf in the garage? If he did that he could sweep up the beans and have coffee ready before she got out of bed. Maybe the delicious smell of it would wake her up, how cool would that be?
He rolls down the window. Wow, the air is great, rich and piney and a little loamy. And it's so dark. There's almost no light pollution here, so the stars stand out. It's all making him a little sleepy. He'll stay in here for a bit. The seat is really comfy.
Something wakes him up, he doesn't know what, but his head had been lolling and he'd drooled onto his shirt. He simultaneously smack his lips and rubs his eyes and realizes that the sun must have been up for at least half an hour. Shit. What if she's awake already? He gets out of the car, closes the door as quietly as possible, and creeps to the garage. He finds the key with no problem, tiptoes to the back door, unlocks it and walks into the kitchen.
She wasn't kidding. The empty bag is still on the counter and the coffee beans are everywhere. The broom is on the floor. Before he sweeps up, he'll start some coffee. Aha, there it is, another bag of Jamaican Blue in the freezer. The grinder is next to the toaster and he worries about how loud it is. How can he muffle it? Ah, his shirt. He peels it off and wraps it around the small appliance; not bad at all, really cuts down the noise. He could be a Boy Scout with the ideas he's having up here in the wilderness. He measures the ground beans and the water, and starts the coffee.
The broom is in the middle of the floor, probably exactly where she'd dropped it the night before. He picks it up and starts sweeping methodically, getting a nice rhythm going as he moves from the kitchen area past the rustic dining table and into the living room. It's warm work, and he's glad that he'd taken his shirt off. It's when he reaches the far corner that he startles. There she is, standing eight feet away, slightly bent over, wearing nothing but a pair of panties, a Rosie the Riveter tee shirt, one pink fuzzy sock, and a shocked expression.
"Castle? What are you doing?"
TBC