Chapter 10: What's the story
Castle, having been thoroughly distracted by an idea for his next chapter and consequently having written for half the night, is not wholly focused the next day. In fact, he's gone to the precinct because he feels comfortable there. He's not supposed to be there. He's supposed to be available, because his book's gone on general release today, but he's scared. Scared of the critics, scared what they'll say, scared that with every book he puts a little of himself out there and what if the public sees through him, sees through the public personality that everyone loves, what if the critics crack his shell like a lobster and pull out the insecurity within? (You're not my friend, Ricky Rodgers. I don't like you.) What if they don't like him any more? What then? But already, being at the precinct gives him something that isn't connected to his books, or the public personality, and, though he doesn't let himself know it, he finds it very reassuring. When he screwed up, he was raked down for it – but that was the end of it. It's never been referred to again. Not like his supposed playboy reputation and his failed marriages, dragged up and smeared across the tabloids every time he turns around.
Inspiration had struck before he'd done much about coffee, and he'd forgotten his plans until he makes the mistake of drinking some more of it. While he's still making faces into the cup and describing the awfulness of the taste, Detective suddenly-far-too-perceptive Beckett pulls the same trick on him that he had on her and tells him exactly why he's sitting there, displaying a substantial degree of more than slightly malicious pleasure at the insight. He tries to cover up, but he doesn't think that it works. And then her phone rings and they've got a case and – well, just phew. He doesn't like her digging into his feelings. She might find out that he isn't… something. That's articulate, Rick. Thought you were a writer? He tries to shove that thought away. He's enough for her. He has to be enough to keep her for as long as he wants her. And he'd been plenty enough for her the other night. He thinks idly that it's time to repeat that, and then a great deal less idly about how to achieve it. Starting with coffee.
While he's in the car, instead of annoying Beckett by playing with all the tempting controls, he researches coffee machines instead, and when they've finished the day's work (it's clear that Beckett despises politics, and he's deeply relieved – though he doesn't admit that to himself, either – to find that it's not just he whom she instantly detests) he starts to make some calls. He knows what's required – it'll need to be hard-wearing, though, because the precinct as a whole mainlines coffee. Beckett, in fact, is just the most extreme example of the species. It's another facet of her overdriven personality, he thinks. Obsessed with murder, with justice, addicted to coffee. She doesn't seem to have a speed between dead stop and full on; no rheostat to dial it back. She'd been the same in bed. Maybe that's why, he muses, she wants someone else in control. So that said other someone – he – can slow her down, defuse the primed bomb of Beckett's obsessions and anger, keep her from exploding. Maybe she can't do that for herself. He could. Oh yes. So many ways to keep her on the edge, to defer gratification.
He steers away from that intensely erotic thought. For now. Her car is not the place to start his campaign. He remembers with slight annoyance that she's already snapped at him that the only reason she didn't kill him already for messing with the radio is because it would be recorded. He thinks even more irritatedly that if that includes sound then he'd better forget any plan of talking dirty in the car. Being arrested isn't in the game plan. It's not he whom he wants to see in handcuffs. He cuts off that line of thought pretty fast, too. But he makes a little mental memo to investigate the recording specs of NYPD unmarked cars and cruisers. He'll need it, sometime, so it's only research.
He goes back to coffee machine specifications. And if he's thinking that providing them with good coffee will wheedle him into everyone's – Beckett's – affections faster, just like candy, and later illicit beer, used to do at each new school, at least those times when there was money for luxuries, well, he isn't letting that piece of forgotten history hit his conscious mind. (Wanna be my friend? I got candy.) It's just that he's sick of bad coffee. He's Rick Castle, and he doesn't have to put up with anything he doesn't like. And since he has no intention of walking away from this new, interesting occupation of catching killers and being at the precinct, or this new, interesting occupation of actually chasing a woman, he'll simply ensure that the coffee matches his requirements. There's no question that the woman does.
He finds a suitable machine and the minute he manages to get away from Beckett by pleading a restroom break (she rolls her eyes and tells him that cop work requires bladder control – it's the first time she's snarked at him like she does with the boys, and he doesn't think she even noticed) he applies pleasant but authoritative words and not a small amount of money and arranges for the machine, and a tech to fit it, to arrive at the Twelfth on Monday, as early as possible.
Never mind half the bullpen, half the precinct's come to sample the wares from the new machine. Beckett is appalled by the noise and chaos and disruption that her annoying writer causes – hold on. Her annoying writer? He's not hers. Not at all. Just like she's not his Detective. She's got nothing to do with him. It wasn't her idea to have him here and life would just be so much easier if he left. He's almost entirely devoid of redeeming features. You just keep tellin' yourself that, girl, says Lanie's irritating voice in her head. Maybe you'll even convince yourself.
She's not going to be bribed with coffee, even if Ryan and Esposito are already bought. She defiantly continues with the revolting – but caffeinated – liquid that she's used to, and resolutely ignores Castle's knowing smirk. She can't imagine why he's still showing up. She'd have thought he'd be bored by now. He's seen her naked, so why's he still looking her over with his intent, undressing gaze? He's a playboy, and he had his fun, and she really wishes that he would stop looking at her with eyes that say let's do it again. Now. Because each time she sees that look, her good resolutions take another hit and the memories send heat down her spine and liquid to her core and she remembers very clearly how she used to be a bad, bad girl, running with the bad, bad boys.
Then, suddenly, in the quiet of the late evening empty bullpen, staring at her desk and the murder board and thinking about the case, she remembers that odd, unnerving look, and the strange hint of protectiveness, and that he'd made it clear he wanted to see her again. And he's still making that clear, and it (he) had been so very, very good. That's one redeeming feature. The boys like him, and they're not easy to impress; used to sussing out lies, evasions and insincerity. In fact, they seem to approve of him, and it's not just the bribe of good coffee. Two redeeming features. (can't count one for each of Ryan and Espo, they come as a pair) Montgomery likes him. That's… very interesting. She respects Montgomery's judgement of people more than anyone else in her life; even more than her own. Montgomery doesn't give respect easily, and when he does it's always justified. Hmm. That implies that, smug irritatingness aside, there might be a character lurking behind the playboy. And if there's character, then just possibly she might be able to trust him. A third redeeming feature. She tries not to let the claws of her desire, which have only been sharpened by that hot, dark night, make her decision for her.
Finally, as important as the rest, Lanie might be right. She's not had any fun – the dinner and subsequent events aside – for a long time. She knows she's too serious, never putting the job aside, no longer able to switch off. When she isn't dreaming those hot, edgy dreams, now, she sees their faces – not the victims, but the grieving families and friends. It's a bad sign, the first step towards burnout. She needs to deal with that: needs to find a way to bring herself back, step away from the case at the end of the day. But. But she doesn't do casual. If she goes in for this, then the inevitable ending will hurt, however irritating he is, however much she tells herself it's just physical relief. She doesn't see an answer to that.
She's alone, and there's no-one to see if she succumbs to the temptation of strong, hot coffee. Maybe caffeine will help her think: help her find a way through. Because she wants him. Really wants him. But she can't stand the idea that he'd still be following her round for research after it all falls apart. Keeping your feelings under wraps is fine if the cause of those feelings isn't there. It's a bit more tricky if it's right by your desk. He annoys her enough without adding hurt to the mix. But. But she knows what she likes and he was exactly what she likes. And if she can trust him – and she trusts the judgement of Espo, and Montgomery, and Ryan – then she'll be able to go further down the route of what she likes. She's pretty sure that he'd like it too.
She checks surreptitiously around her and, satisfied that no-one will see her concession, takes a cup from the break room and rapidly presses the correct combination of buttons. Just the enticing aroma, redolent of twilight evenings in small booths and intimate circumstances, starts to clear her mind. Maybe… maybe it could work. Okay, it's never going to be some long-term affair, but if the boys and Montgomery and Lanie all think that there's something more than just the spoilt rich playboy then it's not likely to turn nasty: not in the way that Sorenson had. It's not like there's a clash of careers here. As long as he leaves her past alone, stays in the present, it'll be fine.
She's lost in her reverie, standing over the filling cup, when an unexpected voice startles her and the coffee spills and she only just avoids a nasty scald. It is, of course, Castle. He's had an idea. At nearly ten o'clock, he's had an idea and he's come to the precinct because – of course – he thinks he'll find her here. And, worse, he's right. Okay. That is it. That is absolutely enough. If even some short-stay irritating far-too-sexy Writer-Boy can work out that she spends her entire life in the precinct and never really goes home it's time to do something about it. She can't afford to burn out. Homicide is her life, but she has to be able to do the job.
She knows she's close to letting her body make her decision, not her mind, and suddenly she doesn't care. It's been so long, and she wants this so much. Not him. This. If she gets hurt, she gets hurt. (she ignores that she will. She can try, but she knows she won't be casual. She doesn't remember how.)
First, though – the idea. The dead demand so much more than the living. She tamps down the hot thrill of desire, fired not by her dreams, now, but by memory, reality; and starts to work with this idea of Castle's. It's very plausible. She challenges and questions and tries to tear it down, but the more they argue about it the more it fits the evidence. An hour flashes past, and at the end of it she has a list of matters to start the boys on in the morning. She realises, rather unexpectedly, that this has been fun, as well as useful. She'd thought he might be intelligent, back at the beginning. Now she's sure of it. He might even be as clever as she. She likes matching wits; the cut and thrust (oh Kate, what a choice of language) of debate; sketching out a theory and then building the structure on evidence. His insane theories spark her thinking: her thinking fires him to tell the story – and somehow, it all arc-welds together into one coherent complete solution. And then there's the other solution, body and brains, beautifully wrapped in that bad-boy, dangerous package, sending midnight thrills down her spine.
Castle also has some thoughts of his own. He'd had his brilliant inspiration – with a little help from his daughter – and the idea that he should find Beckett and tell her about it, make her see his usefulness, had arrived only seconds behind. Key three, in fact, meeting Lock C. Being her obsession with murder. Solving homicides, to be precise. And then there's the other reason for coming. He's already decided he doesn't like her trying to leave him. It's not what he wants. And now he's almost sure it's not what she wants.
He'd been sure she'd be at the precinct. A little light conversation with Ryan, who's slightly more naive and much less close-mouthed than Esposito, has given him what has now proven to be the perfectly correct idea that Beckett basically lives at the precinct. Apparently she goes home to shower, to change, and to sleep. Most of the time, anyway. It's time she went home for something else, too. Something a little more… sociable.
An...nd – she's utilising his coffee machine. Ha. So much for her principled refusal of its wares earlier. He watches silently from the dark shadows around the bullpen, running over his plan. Offer up an idea, discuss it for a while, appreciate that razor-sharp mind. Then it'll be late. Escort her home – and kiss her goodnight, with that edge of bad-boy dominance that she'd liked so much. Appreciate certain other of her assets. Let's see where that takes them. He thinks it's only too likely to take them back to her bed.
But if it doesn't then he'll… well. He won't force her to acknowledge her attraction. He's not that man. He's seen those men. Casting couches and backstage "favours" and insincere flattery and using power to get what they want. Whether or not the recipient wants it. (You want the role? Better be nice to me.) He's seen the tears, after, through the night. He will never, ever be one of those men. He might always get what he wants, but the other person has always, always wanted it too. Always.
But he might… woo her. See if that works. It would be… interesting. Not boring. It's peculiar. He thought, no more than three days ago, that trying was an unfair imposition on him. Now he thinks it might be a great deal more interesting – and fun – than it being easy. And even if they do fall back into bed tonight – which is absolutely the most desirable outcome – then he wants to know more about her bedroom likes and dislikes. Which will definitely take effort. And time. Lots of time. With her. And discovering Beckett – in bed – will be very interesting. Fascinating. It occurs to him that the last month or so might just have taught him that things that take effort – like solving murders – are quite often interesting; even if the work along the way might be boring. In fact – hmm – he hasn't been bored since he began here. He'd come here to catch Detective Beckett, and alongside that he's found that he likes catching killers, too.
But thinking of bed, if they get there – always assuming that she doesn't shoot him now, though he hopes that she won't – this time he'll make absolutely certain that there's no more trying to leave him. He'll make sure he gives her anything she wants, any way she wants it. Happily, that seems very likely to coincide precisely with the way he wants it. He likes control, and he thinks she likes giving up control. How very convenient, he thinks, he'll get just what he wants, because that's what she'll want. He always gets what he wants, in the end.
He speaks. And has to suppress first a smile at how she startles and then the desire to make sure she isn't hurt, because he's sure that she won't welcome concern from him. Not that that's uppermost in his mind. Oh no. Concern is a long way from his primary emotion, right now. Smug satisfaction that she's sneakily using his coffee machine, oh yes. Desire, definitely. Concern – not required. He carefully ignores the way in which he'd held her in, needed to bring her into him, after he'd made her scream and shatter; ignores his fascination with her pain and off-key reactions and the increasing need to find out why. He wants her. That's what, that's all, he wants. Her story doesn't matter. It really doesn't.
And then he forgets everything apart from arguing out the evidence and the theories and stretching his own mind to keep up with Beckett. Boy, does he have to stretch. She really is as intelligent as he is. No-one's made his mind work this hard for a long time. No-one's made other things this hard for a long time, either. Exchanging theories with Beckett is nearly as good as sex with Beckett, and much more publicly acceptable. He flicks a glance at his watch and realises that over an hour has passed without him noticing, but now they're done for the night. Well, this is done.
"It's late, Beckett. Time to go home."
She looks slightly uncertain, as if she isn't sure she's finished work, as if there's more she should be looking for, running down, searching out: just doing more.
"C'mon. I'll take you home." That fetched her, though not in the way he'd hoped. The spark and sparkle of moments ago is replaced by irritation.
Despite her decisions about getting a life, Beckett is not impressed at all by Castle telling her he'll take her home. If he'd asked, now, she might not have been at all averse to the idea. But she won't be told, as if she's a child, or weak, or a putative victim. She's a cop, and she can protect herself.
"Not required." The implication is and not wanted.
"Don't care, I'm going to." He's taking a chance, forcing just a little. He shrugs off his usual variety of seductive, hint-of-twilight charm and lets the edge of danger slip out in a harder tone, intending to play on her reactions to him taking charge in bed. "I'm not taking no for an answer, Beckett." She looks at him with disbelief, anger, and no desire at all.
"I'm the cop, not you. I have a gun. You don't." He slowly raises one wolfish eyebrow and she blushes fiercely, but continues. "I'm perfectly able to defend myself. I do this all the time. I don't need your help. The answer is no."
Castle abruptly realises how she's thinking. Ah. This is not his private novel, and this is not his toy Detective Heat. Possibly accidentally impugning Beckett's ability to take care of herself was not the best way to introduce the subject of escorting her home. It hadn't exactly been easy to win, when sparring, and he's really a lot bigger than she is. And, of course, she hadn't had her gun with her. Fortunately. He backtracks, rapidly.
"Okay, I didn't mean that the way it came out. My dear Detective Beckett," he says in a smooth, inviting tone, sweeping her a rakish, theatrical bow, "may I please have the pleasure and protection of your company on my way home?" Beckett looks extremely dubiously at him, rolls her eyes, but appears to have lost the worst of her annoyance.
If he'd started with that line, she'd have been a lot happier. Still, he seems to have realised his mistake. She smooths her hackles back down. Marginally. She's rapidly revising her previous plans for the rest of the evening. She's not sure that this will be a good idea any more. "No," she says, very firmly, with an edge of you have got to be joking. If he's going to try the other approach, this will rapidly become nasty, brutish and short. Very short. Non-existent, in fact. She's not looking for a protector, in any sense of the word. It's about getting a life, taking down time from the dead, not burning out. No need for anything else. Maybe if there's nothing else she won't get hurt. Maybe she'll just go home and think this over on her own, out of this suddenly intense atmosphere, where desire is starting to bleed through her veins and into her mind, pushing against her annoyance and her sense.
It's not acceptance, and Castle's hopes sink. Along with other areas. He realises that he needs to take a little – actually, quite a lot - more care. Detective I have a gun and I'm not afraid to use it Beckett is not in need of the usual brand of flirtatious courtesy and consequent implications that (he preens) a large, strong, handsome male presence at her side is a useful form of protection. Whatever she might like in bed. Umm. He likes being very obviously an – the – alpha male, showing off his ability to attract and take care of the most beautiful women, to be the life and soul of the party, to have important people wanting to be friends. (The word peacocking flits through his mind and is not allowed to remain there. He's the leader of the pack, just like he wanted to be. Just like he wasn't, as the permanent new boy. He'll never be treated as if he's nothing again.)
When he looks up from his thoughts she's gone. She didn't even bother to bid him farewell. All that theorising, the swift give and take of suggestion and challenge, all the usefulness he's just displayed, all the connection between them – and she walked off without even saying goodnight. Walked out on him. He's infuriated, all over again. He didn't even get the chance to try to change her mind.
He goes home, seething, and is not at all comforted by his suspicion that she left so she wouldn't be tempted. She ought to be tempted. More than tempted. What does he have to do to have her again?
A small clarification. In this fic, Beckett has not, as yet, told Castle her first name. This is deliberately different from the show.
Thank you to all reviewers. I really like knowing what you all think.