Chapter 36: At that time of the night

When Beckett stalks into the bullpen Ryan and Esposito instinctively flinch. She looks utterly pissed off, in a way they very rarely see and know potentially means trouble for everyone around her. A second, furtive, glance tells them that Castle is also utterly pissed off, in a way that neither of them have seen to date and that Ryan, at least, finds very surprising. Esposito puts the atmosphere together with his off-the-record discussion with a very different Castle from the precinct's happy-go-lucky version and decides that this may be a good day not to make cheap cracks about anything that might be interpreted, in any way at all, even in one of Castle's parallel universes, as them having a relationship.

"I'm just going to go make a coffee," Ryan mutters to Espo. "Hope you've got something to give Beckett. She doesn't look like she's in a good mood."

"Lanie bet on six weeks. I thought she was dumb, seeing how they were behaving Friday."

"Bet on what?" comes a unctuous, quiet voice behind him. Espo jumps like a jackrabbit.

"Nothing, sir. Nothing." Montgomery comes to stand in front of him and fix him with a penetrating stare.

"Hm. Detective Esposito," – he turns his head and includes Ryan in his glare – "Detective Ryan: if I thought either of you were wagering on the possibility of a sexual relationship between Detective Beckett and Mr Castle I would be truly disappointed…" he pauses, meaningfully. "I would be truly disappointed that you had not included me in your pool." Esposito chokes. "So I'll expect a visit from one of you at an appropriate time to allow me to place my bet." He leaves. Ryan hightails it to the break room before anything more can go wrong, and promptly scalds himself.

Esposito does indeed have some new information for Beckett: he is simply well aware that she isn't going to like it. It seems that their nice suburban lady had been lying to her husband. She doesn't have a job – at least not where she said she did. If she's been lying about that, what else is she lying about? Suddenly selling sex in an SRO seems like a likely call, and from there it's just a very short and completely irresistible step to all sorts of theories.

Beckett is wholly and sarcastically unimpressed by the theories. Her tone could be used to tan leather at a hundred paces, and it's all directed at the three of them. She's clearly winding up to deliver a skin-flaying dressing down (which Esposito thinks – despite his active participation in thinking up all sorts of ridiculous theories – is very unfair, since it's hardly his or Ryan's fault that the victim was lying, nor is it their fault that Castle's irritated her again) when the victim's husband walks in. He looks absolutely devastated. Beckett's bad mood falls off her in an instant as she ushers him into the interview room. Castle automatically follows her.

The devastation is rapidly explained when Mr Goldman tells them that his wife wasn't who he thought she was. Not just the usual meaning, that she'd been cheating or lying or any of the normal ways in which murder brings deception to light – but she actually was not the woman whose name and Social Security number she'd used. That's astonishing. Astounding. It's straight out the Day of the Jackal. Beckett feels wholly sorry for Mr Goldman. He'd trusted his wife, and it had all been a lie. There's nothing worse than your trust being destroyed: than people lying to you.

Beckett sighs, as soon as Goldman's out the door. Now she and the boys have to try and find out who the victim really was. It's going to be a long night of chasing DNA, fingerprints, and as many other databases as she can think of. If she's lucky, she'll get a few hours downtime. If they find some leads, that'll be postponed till tomorrow. Or the next day. And it'll be the break room couch for downtime and snatched naps, until it's done.

She doesn't notice Castle standing in the interview room as she walks out into the bullpen and starts rapping out the orders in her normal brisk fashion. She doesn't notice that he doesn't follow her out. And she doesn't notice when he goes home, without a word to anyone. She's far too busy following up anything that might provide a lead.

Ryan notices, though. Ryan notices Castle leaving: very stiff about the shoulders, looking unusually large, very intimidating, and extremely angry. And it's Ryan who, as soon as he can do so without anyone noticing, taps out a text to Castle. What's up?

Castle's gone home to soothe his savage feelings before he does something stupid. Stupid, in this context, meaning starting another wholesale row with Beckett in the precinct. He can't believe the extent of her capacity to hurt him without even realising it. He can't believe he's got himself into this position. But this time it isn't his fault that they fought. It isn't, he thinks angrily. Even if he lost his temper first, she started it. How can she still think they don't have a relationship?

Or… does she?

He likes that thought much better. Almost enough to calm down. Certainly enough to partake of a soothing glass of good red wine rather than his first inclination when he came in, which had involved throwing back several fingers of whiskey. Under the gentle influence and the comforting warmth of the alcohol on his tongue, he retrieves a thought he'd first had some days ago: that Beckett is quite astonishingly uncomfortable with openness and emotion. Any openness and emotion: her own, his, or from anyone around her.

Umm. He'd already seen that: he'd noticed that every time she opens up she promptly closes off and backs away; he'd noticed her extreme and unjustified discomfort with his family's enthusiasm. He also, now he thinks about it, notices a pattern. Open up, inadvertently; divert, distract, deny – with sex or with anger, or both; back away, pick a fight, try to make him step back, break off. Every time he inadvertently tries to take care of her, every time he does something, anything, that might make her think that they have something other than a series of one-night stands, she backs off twice as fast and slams the barriers into place.

Running away. She's – running away from a relationship. She's running away so fast because she's scared. I see you, Beckett. She's scared that this might mean something more to her than a one-night stand. He's winning. She's fighting it, fighting him, fighting herself, again, but he's winning. It soothes the sting of his hurt, and the bruise to his pride. Because, he realises, this time she hadn't just admitted a little bit of her past, she'd as good as said she'd needed him.

But running is not the way it's going to be. She doesn't get to run away from him till he's ready to let her go. And she won't need to run any time soon. He just has to go back to what he'd realised, less than ten days ago – how could he have forgotten so quickly? – that all he needs to do is play along, act like he's happy with the present situation, and wait for her to realise that he's not a luxury, but a necessity. Which she will do, because she needed him last night. Then she'll stop this running away trick. He's just got a bit ahead of himself, that's all. Stupid, Rick. You knew what to do. Just do it. He can act. He can play it cool. He's very patient, when he wants something.

In which case, in pursuit of the far greater goal, he can mend this particular fight. He just needs to apologise, even if it's through gritted teeth, for the mis-step and take a bit more care with his words. (he does far too much of this apologising business where Beckett is concerned, but he can bite the bullet – and last time she apologised too, which helps, so maybe this time she will as well) But she is still going to turn up at his loft and answer his questions. He's not letting her avoid that. Or avoid him. If matters should go well, and if she happens to believe that that's another one-night stand… well, ain't that a shame, as the song goes?

And he's got his trump card, still tucked away, too. Clark's got the file, and soon enough he'll have some answers for her; something to take her pain away. Then she'll understand that he's the only person who can satisfy her needs effectively, whether it's in bed or out of it; she'll see that someone taking care of her, in moderation, is a good thing (he doesn't want a clinging vine, just a little give and take – especially take, mmmm) and everything will fall into place at that point, if it hasn't already. She likes him best – or he irritates her least (well, outside bed) - when he helps her solve a murder in the precinct, so she'll be delighted if he helps her solve this case, because this one means far more to her. He smiles ferally to himself. Okay, he's resumed normal service. Now he's ready to advance on the new front in this scene from the sex war.

His phone beeps cheerily. Ryan: What's up? Well, that's an interesting development.

He replies Not good at searching databases. It's boring. If you finish before the bars close, I'll buy you a drink. If not, see you tomorrow. Let me know. He wants to know if Beckett's like this with the others, or just him. If it's just him… well. That's an admission that Beckett won't realise she's making. You don't react like she does if there aren't some pretty strong feelings there. But, although it would be quite contrary to what he thinks he knows of her personality, it's worth finding out if she behaves like that often, or with everyone.

He wanders off to prepare dinner confident that he's got a winning strategy. He's still going to make it work, exactly as he chooses. He'll get exactly what he wants, just the way he wants it. It's just taking a little longer than he expected.

He utterly fails to realise that he isn't just playing a whole different ball-game from his previous encounters with women, he's now playing a whole different sport.

Beckett and the boys are running endless searches, till their eyes are close to bleeding and their vision blurring. None of them are helping find the real identity of this woman, and the tech team can't get them her laptop in an accessible fashion till the morning. Around nine-thirty, all the enquiries that they can make tonight have been made, and Beckett releases Esposito and Ryan to whatever nocturnal experiences might take their fancy. In the elevator Ryan's simultaneously texting and explaining to Esposito that Castle's paying for the beers, which finds considerable favour, even if they will have to listen to way-out theories. A bar with pool tables and some good microbrew is selected and arrangements made.

An hour and a half later there's a cheerful three-way contest on the pool table. Ryan's losing, but he's used to that. Espo and Castle are, again, neck and neck. Castle, still carrying a heavy undercoat of wanting to win Beckett, is not inclined to lose at anything else, and is gradually defaulting towards the focused, hard-edged personality that he normally keeps well hidden in the precinct. When Ryan comes back with another three bottles of beer he notices the change. Not being nearly as stupid or as naïve as a number of unfortunate and jailed criminals have thought him to be based on his looks, however, he bides his time until Espo's taken a short break.

"You okay?" Castle takes his shot and smiles with feral satisfaction as the ball drops cleanly into the centre pocket. Ryan applauds gently.

"Yeah." It sounds true to Ryan. "Why shouldn't I be?"

"You left a little fast. Didn't wave goodbye or anything. Don't you love us any more?" Castle manufactures a sheepish look and, since he's been handed the perfect opening, rapidly constructs the way to find out what he wants to know.

"I'm buying the beer, aren't I? Why would I stay around to watch you run searches and get bored, with Beckett in that mood? I didn't want to be responsible for multiple homicides. You gotta admit she was revving up for it." He pauses, fakes concern for his own safety in the presence of a seriously irritable Beckett well enough to fool Ryan. "Does she go off on one like that often?" Ryan shrugs.

"Naw. We wouldn't work with her if she did. Who wants to work with a diva?" Castle winces. He lives with one, and had been married to another. "Hardly ever, and only if she's really stressed out."

"What d'you do to sort it out?" That's a dangerous question, treading very close to the line of what he might be able to ask without alerting Ryan to his real motives.

"Leave her to work through it; or sometimes call Lanie and drag us all into a bar. It's always because of the job. She gets twitchy when nothing pops on a case. She's kinda insulted when that happens. But if we leave her to it, she'll keep working till she finds something. It's easiest that way."

Ah. More than he'd hoped to learn. Much more. So, she's not normally as easily angered. He puts that together with make me forget and deduces that she's not just been infuriated by him, but she's also been seriously disturbed by this case. She's heading for burnout. That's interesting. More interesting, though, is that she deals with it by working through it. In which case… she'll likely still be working now. In which case… he could usefully go home via the precinct and (ugh) apologise. Mend matters. Show he's the bigger person. If she's not there, then he's not going to follow her home, though. That's a long step too far. He's not a lapdog.

While he's been thinking, he's mechanically kept potting balls. He's down to the eight-ball now, and sinks it neatly in the left corner. Ryan looks at him a little oddly.

"That was impressive. Little more focused than usual, Castle?"

"Just lucky." He smiles in his usual happy-go-lucky way, reining back any other aspects of his personality. "Want another beer?" But he's noticed Ryan starting to look at the door, and when Espo returns it's clear that the boys are ready to quit. He doesn't argue.

Castle hails a cab and makes sure that the boys are out of earshot when he gives the Twelfth's address. He thinks he's gone as far as he can by questioning Ryan, who's sure to mention it to Espo at some point, without giving them food for thought and what would be likely to be entirely too accurate deductions.

When he slips quietly out of the elevator the bullpen is dark and silent. There's no puddle of light around the murder board, no Beckett sitting on the desk, swinging her feet and glaring at it until it gives her some answers out of sheer terror. Even if inanimate objects don't normally feel fear, Beckett's glare would inspire it in them. She's not at her desk: her lamp is out. The desk is, however, messier than she normally leaves it. That is to say, it has two pieces of paper on it. Neatly on it. But normally when she leaves her desk is completely empty. Her screen is off, though. The break room windows show that area to be dark, and there's no noise from the coffee machine. She must have gone home. Well, he's not pursuing her home so he can apologise. He's not that sorry. He's not that sorry at all, and he's only doing this in pursuit of the greater goal. She ought to apologise, too. It takes two to fight.

Which is when he trips over the protruding edge of the bottom drawer of her desk, invisible in the gloom, and barely saves himself from crashing full-length. What the hell is that doing open, ambushing unwary visitors? He sits down hard in Beckett's chair and peers at the damage done to his calf with the assistance of the light from his phone. The corners of these drawers are unpleasantly sharp. Out of the corner of his eye he notices the handle of Beckett's purse. He reverts to perusing the already-swelling bruise on his leg, and prods it gently. The sharp pain does not improve his mood. On the other hand, it does kick his brain into action. Beckett's purse is here?

That means that Beckett is here. Somewhere. He closes the drawer before it can attack him again, and starts to search. First, the gym. She could easily be taking her frustration out on the punchbag. He quietly slips up the stairs and investigates, prowling through the dingy room and not failing to listen very carefully in case the showers are running. They're not. And there is no sound that would indicate that someone is anywhere within the showers or restrooms. These rooms are completely empty, as he would expect, at midnight. He returns to the bullpen, and does what he should have done first, had he not been distracted by the feral drawer. Though he should be grateful to it, since had he not fallen over it he wouldn't have realised that Beckett was still here. He pads over to the break room and peers around the edge of the door, taking care not to shine the light from his phone screen through it. He lets his eyes adjust to the scant light dribbling into the bullpen from the streetlamps, and listens very hard. Very faintly, he can hear breathing. He slides his phone into his pocket in order not to waken whoever is there – though really there can only be one candidate for this particular form of insanity – and slides around and into the room, silently.

And naturally, there is Beckett, a rolled-up blanket under her head, another one crumpled on the floor beside her, which had likely started over her. Her shoes are neatly placed together at the end of the couch. She's fast asleep, phone by her head, lashes sweeping down and depositing already-smudged make-up on her face; the dark lines against her cheek delineating the dark rings below her closed eyes as bars delineate a cell. In the dim light, the shadows pool around the sharp lines of her cheekbones, the edge of her jaw. She's taken off the jacket she'd had over her scarlet tee, but otherwise she's still dressed just as she had been. Without her driving personality inhabiting her face and posture the traces of stress and tiredness are painfully clear.

Castle gazes down at her for a few moments, sizing up his options and his aims. He'd steeled himself to apologise, which is a pursuit that he abhors; but there is no point in apologising to a sleeping Beckett. He could, of course, wake her: ask her why she's still here (but he knows why); suggest that she might go home (but he knows she won't); and then apologise. If he wakes her, however, she's unlikely to be receptive. Even if he takes the infinitely desirable option of waking her with a kiss. Smudged make-up, tousled hair and slightly dishevelled clothing reminds him of the way he likes to see her, ruffled and aroused, stretched out across a – his – bed, knowing that when he touches her she'll be ready, and open, and his. Dark possessive instinct says wake her, take her home, take her. Vestiges of intelligence and strategic planning say No, stalk your prey more carefully, now is not the time.

He watches for a short while, in case she wakes. Instead, she shivers in her sleep, curls up more tightly against some dream-chill. Castle, since there's no-one to see, indulges his protective feelings, being unable to indulge his more primitive ones, tucks the discarded blanket over her and drops a kiss on her hair. It's hardly satisfying, and he leaves for home edgy, irritated and frustrated.

Thank you to all reviewers, logged in or guest, for letting me know what you think.