Chapter 10: Going on around me

Castle takes himself back out to the bullpen, thinking furiously, which matches his furious mood. About the only good bit of the last few moments is that Beckett hadn't dragged the boys into this fuck-up. They've managed that all by themselves. He'd thought that the boys had accepted him. Clearly not. He directs a vicious scowl at Esposito's bent head, while he's showing Beckett something.

He's none too happy with her either. Why couldn't she – oh. Why on earth would she? As far as she knew – till Saturday – she'd not fitted into his world. And then she'd heard him saying that Demming had a clear field, which would have confirmed her views that he didn't care. Nothing like hearing it from the horse's mouth.

Well. This is a fine mess he's got himself into. Not without help, though. Certainly not without help. If Beckett had said why she moved out… if he'd realised what was going on… if either of them had ever spoken to the other about it afterwards…

And, of course, if Alexis hadn't started it all off in the first place.

But if they'd talked… they might have found out earlier.

Noise and bustle indicates Beckett and O'Leary returning with identically nasty smiles, well before Castle's decided what to do.

"We got another one," O'Leary starts. "Hispanic. Same MO. Angelita."

"Guess your theory was right," Beckett adds.

"Good call," O'Leary says, "'specially on no evidence."

"So now," Beckett says, gloomily, "we all get to go and explain to Montgomery."

"Why?"

"Because now we've got four. And four is definitely something Montgomery needs to know about."

They troop into Montgomery's office. Courtesy of O'Leary's shoulders, there is barely space for all three of them, and Montgomery's mischievous smile indicates that he hasn't missed that it looks suspiciously like Beckett's under arrest.

The smile slides off his face instantly when they tell him the news. "Are you sure?" he checks. They nod, dismally. "Dammit. That means we need to call in the big guns. Who was that profiler?"

"Jordan Shaw, sir," Beckett says, without any particular happiness. She knows where this is going.

O'Leary looks interested.

"She caught the guy who tried to blow up Beckett," Castle whispers. "Really cool toys."

"Well, I hate to do this, but the case is bigger than we can manage. I'll see if I can get you Jordan. You worked fine together last time. Can you hold off on any interviews till I get hold of them?"

"Yessir." Beckett doesn't sound happy.

"Dismissed."

The three of them trail out. Beckett is radiating frustrated, irritated disappointment. O'Leary is mildly disappointed. Castle is thinking of all the cool toys the FBI had last time and therefore bouncing gently and happily on his toes.

"They'll come in and take over," Beckett grouses. "We're doing just fine."

"Not if they remember you from last time, they won't," Castle points out. O'Leary's caterpillar eyebrows wriggle up his forehead. Castle turns to him. "Beckett went toe-to-toe with all of them and then when the killer took Shaw she – Beckett, I mean – just took charge and they all went along with it."

"Only works once," Beckett mutters.

Castle and O'Leary, quite in charity with each other, exchange disbelieving glances. If the chips are down in the same way, they are both quite certain that Beckett will take charge in the same way and will get away with it. In the same way.

Beckett is giving off considerable indications that she doesn't want company. Castle, with nothing much to play with and no-one to theorise with, relapses into some focused thought, which only serves to increase his annoyance with both Ryan and Esposito further.

O'Leary, having decided earlier that a little gentle interference to set Castle and Beckett straight won't hurt (he's too big for either of them to hurt him), and no longer inclined to wait for Beckett to be sensible (which would take weeks, on normal terms) begins his campaign with the easier target.

"Coffee, Castle? You can show me how your fancy machine works. We don't get that at Central Park."

"Sure," he assents, and they wander off to the break room, where O'Leary quietly closes the door. An audience is not required.

"I found out something interesting this morning," he rumbles.

"Yeah?" says Castle.

"Found out why Beckett might be unhappy with you." Castle raises eyebrows, and, very interestingly, doesn't seem to look surprised. O'Leary wonders if someone's said something to him, and if so, who. "She heard you an' Demming. Or mebbe I should say that jerk from Robbery?" Castle doesn't react at all, which confirms O'Leary's suspicion that he's found that out too. "She told me this mornin'. But you already know, don't you?"

"Yes. Ryan told me. This morning, when I asked him outright. He and Esposito knew since Friday."

"Ouch," O'Leary comments, which doesn't quite seem to cover the case or the hard glint in Castle's eye.

"Same as they knew you were gay, and let me think you were dating Beckett."

"Unkind," O'Leary agrees. Castle elevates his eyebrows again, in a manner indicating that O'Leary's comment is somewhat understated.

"So why are you telling me?" Castle asks, aggression underlying the words.

"'Cause I think you need to know. I think both of you are unhappy, an' you need to make up. Told Beckett that, too." Castle stares at him. "So what're you goin' to do 'bout it?"

Castle drains his coffee cup in one gulp, and walks out without a further word. O'Leary finishes his more slowly, decides that least said now will mean soonest mended, and goes back to find out what, if anything, is happening; and if nothing, to return to the search for proper ID by way of work visas and/or green cards.

Beckett, irritated by the likely addition of the FBI, and determined to push the cases as far as she can before anyone else messes up her investigations, is less observant than normal, but as the morning progresses even she notices that Ryan won't go near Castle and that Castle is avoiding interacting in any way with Esposito. She has no idea why they're arguing, but in her current state of irritation she's more likely to chop heads than mend fences if she tries to fix it. She concentrates on her investigation and keeps her head firmly down. Castle departs noticeably before lunchtime, unable or unwilling to help with the tedious round of cross-checking and information gathering. The atmosphere is not notably eased thereby, and Ryan, at least, remains skittish and nervous every time there's an unexpected noise.

Matters do not improve over the course of the day, and reach a general nadir when Montgomery informs them all that the FBI will be rejoining them the next day. Even though it's Shaw and her team, it's annoying.

What is even more annoying, at least for Beckett, is that she has run out of information and data to match up, and therefore has no excuse to remain in the bullpen long after hours. In short, she has no excuse to avoid returning to her chilly, half-furnished apartment. O'Leary's gone home to his Pete, and she doesn't think that Ryan and Espo are keen on anyone's company. They're shuffling off together, very surreptitiously casting her awkward, unhappy glances. She lets them go. Tomorrow will be soon enough to establish just what is wrong between the three men.

Instead, she leans back in her chair, still in the bullpen, and considers the last day or two. Mostly, she considers O'Leary's astonishing interference and statements of this morning. I think you should kiss and make up? Say what? O'Leary never interferes. It's why she likes him so much. Anyway, it takes two, and they have made up. Friends again. Kisses, well, not so likely. Not that she would mind, but they're not on genuine offer and she won't beg.

Ryan had, some considerable point earlier in the day, managed to tip off Esposito that Castle knew the truth and – not to put too fine a point on it – he wasn't exactly impressed. They agree to park the issue for later, and discuss it in the company of comforting beer.

"So how did Castle know Beckett overheard, anyway?"

"I dunno," Ryan says uncomfortably. "He knew O'Leary was gay, too. And then he just said it wasn't our business, asked when we knew" –

"And you told him? You dumbass."

"You'd'a told him too. He was scary-calm."

Esposito makes a very disbelieving noise. "Castle? Scary? Maybe to you, but I think you just caved 'cause you wanted to tell him."

"I told you you were wrong not to tell him first off, and now he's mad with both of us. Just said we closed ranks and walked off."

"So?" Esposito says, full of bravado. "What's he gonna do 'bout it? We're on Beckett's team. He had his chance an' didn't want it, an' he can't bitch if someone else did."

"You just keep saying that, Espo. 'Cause I'm not betting against Beckett finding out 'bout this whole screw-up and not being happy at all. Maybe you're cool with that. I'm not." Ryan thinks of something else. "And where's the mountain fit into all of this? He's been pals with Beckett since back practically at the Academy, and you can't scare him into going along with you if he thinks you're wrong. You aren't good friends with him." Ryan drains his beer bottle. "I wish I hadn't listened to you," he says dispiritedly. "I should just've told Castle when I first found out."

Esposito is unimpressed. "Cops stand together," he says. "Castle ain't a cop an' he's not one of us."

"He's not one of us?" Ryan says, very sarcastically. "Naw, he's not. Because none of us was there running into burning buildings to pull Beckett out. 'S not our fault she's not a crispy critter."

Esposito stares at the unusual sight of Ryan really, truly, fundamentally disagreeing with him. Instead of considering whether Ryan might be right, however, he ignores the twinge of conscience.

"Never thought you'd come down on Castle's side," he says angrily. "I'm with Beckett. You kiss ass if you want."

"Like you were right this time. You're wrong, and I'm not going along with it. Do your own thing."

Ryan stands and leaves, Espo staring after him.

Beckett packs up and trails uptown to her apartment. It's chilly, more in atmosphere than temperature, and the walls have not acquired any decoration in the thirteen hours or so since she left. All her pictures and photos had been destroyed in the explosion. It occurs to her that she might be able to get copies of the photos if she asked her dad, but she can't do that until she's got some tables or shelves on which to put them. She puts her shield and gun in the bedroom closet, on a shelf – she needs a safe: another item to come off her next paycheque – and changes into bedraggled sweats and tee, face cleansed and hair in a messy ponytail. Dinner, while necessary, is not pursued with any enthusiasm, and in fact half of it is returned to the fridge.

She's sitting at her small desk, reviewing her list of items to purchase and dispiritedly matching up the likely cost of each item with her available budget – she doesn't want to dip into her limited savings any more than she already has, because who knows what disaster will strike next and anyway it's not like she spends much time here so why bother – when the door is rapped.

Castle, incapable of sitting in the bullpen any longer without revealing his feelings towards Ryan, Espo and O'Leary about interference, and towards Beckett in general, lasts only around an hour after O'Leary's words before departing untimely for home.

Fortunately, it is a school day and his mother is out. Castle does not want company of any sort. He's in quite bad enough a temper already, without adding other irritations.

He is, in fact, very deeply hurt and angry that neither Esposito nor Ryan had let him know the truth. He's always been aware that Esposito would come down on Beckett's side, but he'd thought that Ryan was a little less biased. Seems not. Well, he intends to have a detailed discussion with Esposito in the not-too-distant future. Ryan can simply stew.

O'Leary, however, is simply weird. He doesn't know Castle, he's been friends with Beckett for years, and yet he's weighed in almost even-handedly (today, anyway: previous times were a little less pleasant) and hasn't taken sides. Yet. And at least he had the courtesy to let Castle know that there was another issue: not just his daughter's efforts. He even told Castle not long after he'd found out. Hmm.

He has some lunch, then turns to his laptop, and constructs a series of confrontational scenes, none of which fit yet, but all of which might well be used later. It's only partially successful in soothing his feelings. He gets why Beckett wouldn't have told him – who opens a discussion along the lines of why don't you want to date me? at any stage, let alone someone who's convinced that you don't want to know them? – because her pride is such that she'd never, ever admit to any of it, still less to feelings that are (apparently) unreciprocated.

Well, now he knows the whole of the problem with Beckett, he can think about how to fix it. Especially since O'Leary, who seems to be Beckett's confidant, also seems to think that Beckett might want it fixed in a rather more – er – intimate fashion than she's ever let on to him. Castle has no grounds for thinking this except that if O'Leary's talking to him at all at this stage then clearly friends isn't the sum total of Beckett's thinking. If it were, O'Leary wouldn't need to talk to him, because they're being friends.

Writing and thinking has occupied a reasonable percentage of the day. Castle can hear Alexis arriving home, and pokes his head out of the study.

"Hey," he greets her. There is a grunt, and Alexis starts up the stairs. "Aren't you going to answer me?" he asks.

"You're being totally unfair," Alexis jerks out.

"So explain why you did it, then. I told you that we would revisit it when you explained and apologised to me, Grams and preferably to Detective Beckett."

Alexis turns her back and storms up the stairs, without a further word. Castle sighs, and returns to his writing. Surprisingly, it goes quite well, which is more than can be said for either conversation over dinner – non-existent – or his removal of Alexis's laptop at eight thirty.

Having removed the laptop, he informs Alexis – over her vociferous and vehement complaints of his unreasonableness, to which Castle responds by telling her that she knows what to do to resolve the position – that he is going out, and does.

Going out has been on his mind for some time, to be fair. His insight of far earlier in the day, that if they had only talked earlier they might have found out what the problem was earlier, has preyed on his mind till now. Since he's (one) not wanted at home and (two) disinclined to stay in the hostile atmosphere; then he might as well go and see if he can recapture some of the closeness that had been growing between Beckett and him – before her apartment blew up. He is halfway there before he realises that it's going to be after nine when he turns up. Still, he's done that before, as has she. Reasonable visiting hours have never really figured in their lives.

And so he raps on the door and waits.

Shortly, the door opens. Expecting normal-Beckett, the first thing he sees is the top of her head, and it takes a fraction of a second to realise that she's barefoot, and thus some three or four inches lower than he is used to. A brief perusal shows him that she's changed into very casual homewear and is bare faced. It doesn't detract from her looks. She simply appears younger.

Her initial expression of – is that wistful? – surprise only lasts an instant, and then her face slides closed: she's back to precinct-normal Beckett: a little harder, a little older.

"Hey, Castle," she says: perfectly friendly, splendidly null. "Have you got a theory?"

"Um…" he says, and steps forward so that she automatically steps back. Inspiration strikes. "Yes. Well, maybe. We didn't talk about modelling, just about the usual lines of enquiry. But you said that the modelling business was one long bitchfest – which is a fabulous word, by the way" –

"Focus" –

"and I thought maybe if we bounced what being a model was like around a bit we might think of a new lead," he runs down.

Beckett does not look precisely enthused.

"Are you sure this isn't you simply trying to find out what my modelling experience was?" she asks pointedly. "If I find that you're trying to give Nikki a modelling backstory" –

"No, no, no. Promise. No modelling in Nikki's past."

Beckett appears only moderately convinced by that statement.

Why do you need to come by at" – she consults her watch – "nine-fifteen anyway? Why couldn't you leave it till the morning in the precinct?"

"Do you really want to open that conversation in front of the Feds?" Castle asks, in another burst of skin-saving inspiration.

"No," Beckett concedes. "Definitely not." She steps further back into her apartment in a marginally more inviting way. "I guess you'll want some coffee," she says.

"Please."

To say that Beckett is astounded to find Castle on the doorstep for the second time in four days would be an understatement. However, he used to show up randomly at odd hours (as did she) to discuss cases and theories, so maybe it's getting back to normal. Friends. And modelling is certainly not a discussion she wishes to have in front of anyone in the precinct, still less the Feds.

And, well, she's very glad he did show up. Even if it's only friendly on his part. He makes her chilly apartment a little warmer, its atmosphere a little brighter. Even if he doesn't care. They're back to working comfortably together on cases and that's got to be a good thing.

She goes to her kitchenette and starts the kettle boiling: locates French press and mugs and prepares the drinks. Castle doesn't get in her way, but wanders around, peering out the windows to see if there's anything interesting (there isn't); investigating the furniture (that doesn't take long) and thankfully not repeating his commentary on her lack of anything. She brings them through – no tray as yet, it's not a priority when there's only one of her – and hands Castle his. As she does, she surprises a strange expression in his eyes, a slight sadness, as he thanks her. It's gone as swiftly as it's noticed.

Beckett sits at one end of the couch, Castle at the other: mugs carefully in hand or on the floor, out of the way of trailing feet. Beckett, in fact, has tucked her bare feet under her, knees towards Castle. It's not quite defensive. Nor is the gap between them. Not quite.

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