Chapter 11: Love over gold
He should have known that kissing Katie Beckett again in any fashion, even a peck on the cheek, was a really, really dumb idea. Because now he's back, instantly and idiotically, to thinking of her as his Katie who he could kiss as if she belonged to him, as if she'd always belong to him. He'd only just cured himself of that. It's simply that he'd gathered her into a hug and then he'd bent down a little because she's barefoot and pecked her on the cheek but then – he'd lost it. Only because of her nearness and the feeling of her in his arms and the mile wide protective streak towards her that he's never really lost even though she doesn't appear to need protected from anything at all and she has a gun – and he kissed her all over again just like he did when he asked her to prom: protective and possessive and passionate all together.
Which was just plain downright dumb.
Except that she hasn't killed him yet. Yet being quite definitely the operative word in that sentence. She's not exactly passionately responding to him either. He hauls himself away with considerable difficulty.
"I'm sorry."
"No, you're not."
"I am. I didn't mean to do that." There's a very odd expression in Beckett's eyes, as if she hadn't expected that statement.
"So you're sorry that you kissed me?"
"Yes." There's an almost imperceptible wince. That was the wrong answer. "No!" Another tiny wince. How can that be wrong too? She raises cool eyebrows at his incoherence.
"I think you should go home, Castle. Sleep off the wine. Don't come to the precinct if you have a hangover. It's really not a good idea to be in the bullpen while suffering the morning after." She almost sounds sympathetic. She opens the door, politely, and sees him out the door with a small, closed, buttoned-up smile, set on her closed, buttoned-up face and her closed, buttoned-up posture. As the door shuts behind him he has the uncomfortable feeling that he's mis-stepped. The only problem is that he doesn't know if the mis-step was kissing her or stopping.
Safely behind her closed door, Beckett looks at the crumbs of cake and the smear of too-rich frosting and the dregs of wine in the bottle and glasses. And then she sits back down with a thump and starts to weep soundlessly as the whole disaster that her world is becoming falls in on top of her.
Her father is an alcoholic and inevitably, unstoppably, he's heading towards death, hand-in-hand with Jack Daniels and Jim Beam. He doesn't care enough for her to stop. He never has. She knows that this is the wrong way to think, she's been to Al-Anon: it's not that he doesn't care, it's that it's the disease – but right now she can't go through the exercise of resetting the thought pattern. It hurts too much and it's all far too real and she has another two days to get through before she'll know the whole truth.
She hates not knowing the worst even more than she will hate knowing the worst. She always hates not knowing the answers. Which thought brings her to the other looming disaster. Castle. Rick-fucking-I-still-want-you-Castle. She doesn't have time for this. She doesn't have headspace for this. Her father is dying and trying to stop that is the only thing she has any time for outside the job. And yet Rick Castle has blown all of that apart by showing up and bringing cakes and wine and listening and holding her hand and cuddling her in a very comforting manner and getting her back to some form of calm before she lost it in front of him. And then he went and kissed her in a way that resonates into her bones as not even Will had managed. (It's fifteen years since she's been kissed in any way even close to that.)
But no matter how much it might have felt so very good in different circumstances, there's no point. Sex doesn't cure grief, she knows that, it only hides it. Especially when you're grieving in advance. She hadn't even reacted. A week ago, even Thursday, if he'd kissed her like that she'd have dragged him into her bedroom and stripped him naked, pretence of neutrality and truce or not, and showed him what they could be. Because over the last month or so, he'd simply stopped pushing and cast off his superstar status and arrogance and been once again the boy – man – with a mind to match hers, the one she'd held hands with and kissed. They'd been tentatively starting to be friends again, even if she hadn't admitted it to anyone including herself: because it's all still there: everything that there once was, only now she's all grown up and knows exactly what it means.
But right now there's no point, and no time, and no space, and no real interest. He can help with the cases and be there at work and that is it. He can't help with this. He can't save her father, she can't save her father: only her father can save her father. Well. It's not at all true that there's no interest, but she wouldn't have her heart in it: it would only be a filler, something to take her mind off the bigger issue. That's no way to play. That's just using someone, and she won't do that. It would work, she's sure of that, but it's not fair.
The slow tears trickle down her cheeks while her mind snaps back to the bigger issue. What is she going to be able to do about her father? He could stay with her: her mother's legacy bought her a two-bedroom apartment, though the second is quite small. That way she'd be able to ensure he ate (she ignores the irony) and didn't drink. She could get Lanie to keep her bottles, or drink them first, to drown her sorrow. She thinks suddenly, bitterly, that her father living with her would be rather restrictive. No ability to invite friends round for a drink, and no ability to invite a lover round. If she had one, of course. Which presently is extremely unlikely. She likes her own space, and she'd have to give it up.
But it's her father, and she can't fail to do everything she can for him. Tomorrow, she'll make a list of possibilities. She can't think straight now, through the shock of frankly admitting the possible outcomes. She'll simply go to bed, and hope that sleep will help her organise herself.
"Yo, Beckett, what'cha doin' there?" She's been staring at a sheet of paper and chewing the end of her pen for twenty minutes, and Esposito's noticed.
"Thinking, Espo," she retorts sharply. "You should try it sometime." Esposito raises an eyebrow.
"You get outta bed the wrong side this morning, Beckett?" It's rare for Espo to call her out. She looks up.
"Sorry. Yeah. Late night." Esposito looks a little more carefully at her. Late night seems an understatement. Or a face-saving lie.
"What's his name?" That's an interesting reaction. Beckett clearly saw someone last night. That little twitch of her eye – Espo's only seen that tell when she's about to be evasive; normally when she's avoiding an order that she thinks she won't like or she's about to do something dumb.
"What're you implying, Espo? I don't go in for one-night stands." She forces an evil grin and attacks. "You can get help for that if it's how you roll, you know." Esposito splutters a bit at the implication and performs a tactical retreat from that line of interrogation.
"What's up, Beckett? C'mon. You've been staring at a blank sheet all morning. It's not even like it's your murder board."
"I'm fine, Espo. Just thinking." She looks back at the paper, which is providing her with no help at all.
"Hey," Castle's arrived with his usual brightly happy noise and fuss. Beckett starts. Esposito looks at the tiny flicker of expression that runs across her face and decides instantly that whatever is wrong, Castle has something to do with it. Or at the very least, knows more than Espo does. Which is just out of order. He, Espo, has Beckett's back, not some blow-in celebrity who hasn't known Beckett for more than five minutes and hasn't been down in the mud and the blood with her. Okay, he's shown respect for the last month or so, but Esposito hasn't forgotten what Ryan had said and he thinks it's time for Big Brother to come out to play. He hasn't had a chance to intimidate anyone for a whole week and he's missing it. Why, he'll get out of practice soon. And Castle should have done plenty enough research by now. He's not needed, causing trouble and upsetting Beckett and disrupting the team.
"Hey, Castle."
"Yo, Castle."
"Morning, Castle" – that's Ryan, who's as enthusiastically star struck as ever. Esposito scowls blackly at him and notes Ryan's automatic small wince with unworthy satisfaction. He makes a small, discreet but emphatic gesture toward the break room and follows Ryan's trot inside.
"What's with Beckett and Castle?" he starts. Ryan looks confused.
"What about Beckett and Castle?"
"What's goin' on?"
"Nothing, far's I know."
"You spent Friday bein' Miss Matchmaker" – Ryan grimaces – "so what'cha think you've done?"
"Nothing. 'S been just the same as last week. You're imagining things." Ryan is unimpressed by Esposito's line of thought. "Espo, are you thinking that it's time to talk to him?" The emphasis on talk makes it clear what Ryan means. " 'Cause he hasn't done anything at all that you can object to."
"He knows something about what's wrong. Even if he didn't cause it." Espo's scowl is still black.
"Oh. You mean he knows something you don't and you're still on this kick of he don't belong here like you were last week?"
Espo opens his mouth to rip Ryan into ground beef. Then he shuts it again. Then he looks very, very embarrassed.
"Yeah," he mutters, in a very defensive voice indeed. "We got her back."
"Espo, it would take a whole platoon to cover Beckett's back. One more to help isn't gonna change matters here. Just 'cause you behave like you're her big brother don't mean that we can't all get along. You got your head up your ass about this and it's not like you. What's your problem? You didn't do shit like this when I joined. You didn't do shit like this when he first showed up a month ago."
"You're a cop. He's not. He don't belong. He's been hangin' around here long enough." Ryan looks carefully at Espo.
"That's it? We're cops and he's not? For Chrissake, Espo. Thought you were better than that. Get your stupid head out your stupid ass." Ryan leaves Esposito with a look which scrapes right down Esposito's bones. Ryan just looked at him like he was an idiot. What's worse, he's right. But Esposito, not a man who normally stays in contact with his touchy-feely side, doesn't have to like it when it's stretched out in front of him. He glares ferociously at the coffee machine. He really doesn't like the feeling that he's acting like a jealous kid whose best friend is off with some new kid in the playground, and Ryan's just called him on that behaviour. Fuck. He'd better go to the gym tonight. Some hard work and sweat is just what he needs to sort his shit out. He makes and drains his coffee and makes another, losing the ferocious scowl along the way. Still, shit sorted or not, he's not having Castle knowing something that upsets Beckett without him and Ryan knowing it too. Even if Ryan's right and it takes all three of them to cover her back. He's not going to make it easy on Mr-Rich-Writer-Casanova there.
It hasn't occurred to Espo, or for that matter to Ryan, that Castle might not be a pushover; and it certainly hasn't occurred to either of them that he might have known Beckett before he showed up in the Tisdale case. The other thing that hasn't occurred to the pair of them, and should have, is that Beckett is not going to appreciate them prying into something that's none of their business. To wit, anything that she doesn't choose to tell them directly. Ragging and jokes about what she, or anyone, gets up to off-duty is one thing, and she can and does dish that out and take it with the best of them. But her private life is off-limits, and considering that all the boys have ever known about the Fed is that she was with one, whom they met in passing if he picked her up from the bullpen, it got pretty serious, and then they broke up, they really ought to know that.
Beckett has got no further in covering the blankness of her paper than she had in the two hours before anyone else showed up. Sleep would have been helpful, but around 5 a.m. it had become clear that any more of the broken nightmares would have been even more disturbing than the previous five hours of them had been, so she'd come in to try and do some thinking when the bullpen was dead quiet. Her face contorts briefly. That was not a good choice of phrase. And now everyone is here and Esposito is suspicious, which she can do without, which means that Ryan will shortly also be suspicious, which she can also do without, and Castle is sitting next to her and regarding the blank sheet of paper with unconcealed interest. When his gaze moves from the paper to the chewed end of the pen to her face, the interest becomes laced with curiosity and concern.
"Thinking of embarking on a career as a writer, Beckett?" is all he says, however, in his normal bouncy tones.
"Yeah. If you can make money from it, I'm sure I can." Castle takes on the aspect of an aggrieved turkey, blowing out his cheeks and trying to wobble his wattles, which has no effect on Beckett at all. Especially as Castle has no jowls, let alone wattles.
"Writing requires talent. Dedication. Hard work." Beckett's mobile cynicism generator, otherwise known as her left eyebrow, rises slowly.
"Which of those attributes are you claiming to possess, Castle?" He looks artistically wounded.
"All of them, of course."
"You spend all your time here. How is that dedication or working hard on your writing?"
"I notice you didn't question my possession of talent, Beckett." He grins triumphantly. "I knew you were a fan." She growls, not unpleasantly. The familiar banter is a huge improvement on the blank sheet of paper. "Being here is serious research. That's hard work and dedication right there." He reaches for her sheet of paper, folds it a few times apparently randomly, and presents her with a little origami bird that – he demonstrates with childlike enthusiasm – flaps its wings when he pulls its tail.
"Thank you," says Beckett dryly. "Was that dedication or hard work?" She looks a touch irritated. "Now what am I supposed to write on?"
"Wow, the city really must be broke. No more paper?"
"Sure it's broke, Castle. That's why they let you come and play cop. Can't afford a real one, and you do it for nothing."
Castle splutters, then acquires a happy grin. "You said I do a cop's job. I knew you liked me." On the other side of the room, Esposito humphs. Ryan throws him a warning look.
The rest of the morning passes far too slowly. Beckett has apparently sidestepped the budgetary constraints and found another sheet of paper, which remains as blank as the first, while occasionally paying some attention to a cold case file of minimal information and maximal boredom. Esposito is tenderly cossetting the black cloud of his atrocious mood, Ryan is reviewing surveillance footage and complaining about the lack of information, and Castle is playing with his phone and sneaking glances at Beckett, who is yawning at every other sentence in the file.
At lunchtime Beckett claims that she has errands to run and no company is needed or wanted. Castle doesn't comment on the fact that she's taken the paper and a pen with her, and wanders off to pursue his own interests for a while. He hasn't missed Esposito's vicious stare at him, nor the slight constraint between Esposito and Ryan. He feels that it might be safer to be out the way while he works out how to handle this. He can sense a discussion heading for him, and he'd rather have that later on than now. Ruins the digestion, conflict before lunchtime.
Beckett is lurking in a small booth in a greasy diner some way from the precinct, in which she is unlikely to be discovered though the likelihood of salmonella poisoning might betray her tomorrow, and miserably scribbling down all the thoughts which have occurred to her. She doesn't like any of the options, and she doesn't think that her father will either, but there really are only three: he stays where he is and she spends all her time over there when she isn't actually working or sleeping; he comes to live with her; or he goes into residential rehab. Then there's the cost of his treatment, on top of residential rehab. She'll need to find out about that. She'll need to ask her dad (she could use her power of attorney, but that seems very…final) how he's funding it this time, or next time. If there is a next time. Her face twists, and her lips pinch, and she doesn't cry. Not before she goes back to the precinct. She returns to her thoughts and her scribblings.
The afternoon passes very much as the morning has. Beckett, astonishingly, disappears one second after the end of shift, before anyone can even say goodbye. Castle, deprived of any chance of protection, has no option but to bite the not-quite-literal bullet (though Esposito's expression renders its imaginary quality a little doubtful) and invites both detectives for a drink. Pool, he says, is optional; beer, or other alcoholic drinks, is not.
Castle and Ryan open a discussion about Ryan's previous roles as a cop, and Castle is flatteringly interested in his work in Narcotics and undercover roles. Esposito stays festering in the corner until the second round is sunk, when he gradually condescends to get involved in the conversation and admits to his Special Forces past. Castle doesn't show by a whisker that that single statement has told him everything he needs to know about Esposito's relationship with Beckett. Brothers in arms. Well, siblings. So that's why Espo looks at him with black suspicion and not a little jealousy. He, Castle, has come in and been assigned to be Beckett's shadow, and Espo doesn't think he's capable of protecting her (Espo is dead wrong about that, but that can wait) and is not a little annoyed that he's been side lined. He wonders with some small amusement, heavily hidden, how soon Esposito will start on, undoubtedly barely veiled, threats. Oh well, he's dealt with plenty brothers and fathers. He is a father, and he knows exactly how to deal with any boy smooching up to Alexis. Not that he's needed to, yet, but he's been practising.
It really doesn't take much longer for Esposito to thump his forearms on to the table, lean forward in his best interrogation style and open with both barrels.
"What'cha do to Beckett?"
Thank you to everyone for your reading, reviews and good wishes.
Contrary to my expectations yesterday, I am not yet dead. Therefore my inimitably irritating cliffhanger style is likely to continue.