Chapter 37: Black, my world if she's not there

Beckett spends the early evening of Tuesday on the phone to various professionals to chase along the management of her father's estate. It doesn't make her any happier. Nothing seems to progress as quickly as she'd like – or indeed quickly; or, indeed, at all. Then she puts her phone on divert to voicemail and starts to work on the papers she's entirely illicitly brought home from the precinct. The harder she works, the less she needs to think, and anyway work makes her feel better. While she's working she doesn't need to feel guilty about her mother's case, because she won't work on a cold case (she winces as the pain stabs through her) while there's a live one; and she doesn't need to feel guilty about her father, because she's blocked that away.

Nothing to be upset about. Nothing at all.

She works late into the night and doesn't think about anything other than the live case, wakes early and goes back to it. She repeats her illicit overtime and defiance of Montgomery's instructions the next day, too. She's not actually disobeying. He hasn't told her not to work, just that she's not to be in the precinct or out on the job past shift end. Which is what she's done. She has to work. It's the only thing that's making her life bearable, and it's the only thing that's letting her hide from herself.

So yet again she simply buries her feelings of hurt and guilt and anger under a thick layer of thinking about the case and doesn't deal with any of it. She's perfectly pleasant and friendly to Castle. He doesn't need to worry about her and she won't give him any more reason to think that he should. Her problems are not his to bear, and she won't make them more of his problem than she's already inflicted on him. They've each apologised and everything is friendly, adult and civilised.

But when Castle outshoots her (how'd he manage that?) and then asks her round to look at the files, she refuses. It's best to keep this to a civil work relationship, nothing else. That works well. She's not in a good place for anything else, right now. She'll just keep this to something she can handle, where she's not asking for anything or imposing on his good nature. It's not as if he wants anything more. Besides which, she wants to think about the case in peace and quiet. She must be missing something. They can always discuss it in the bullpen tomorrow.

She's completely forgotten – or no longer believes, following his words – that Castle hadn't cared if she was strong or not. She's forgotten – or no longer believes that he was happy about it – that when she'd really needed support, she'd gone to him and he'd provided it, every time. And she's completely misunderstood why he was worried and upset and angry: because she thinks he couldn't cope with how needy she thinks she'd been; because that's what she understood him to say. So she'll just take time to sort herself out, and when she's fixed, if he's still around then maybe she'll try to do something about him then. Not now. She's too fragile, and it's not fair, and anyway he doesn't want her the way she is now. Then. If, of course, he still wants her at all. Which he probably doesn't. She goes back to her work.

She thinks about the case all evening, through the light dinner that's all she wants, through reviews of all the papers and the photo she'd surreptitiously taken of her murder board and timeline, but late on she still hasn't felt anything pop. She wrinkles her nose and chews her lip. She's about to do something that Montgomery will have her ass for – but only if he finds out. So she'll just make sure he doesn't, by doing it alone. She's going to go over to the crime scene and have another look around.

And if, subconsciously, she's also trying to prove to herself that she can cope with a messy, bloody murder – well, she's not admitting that; still less that she's trying to prove she doesn't need anyone else to prop her up through it.

She stands outside the door and the crime tape and seals for a few moments, telling herself that this is normal; that it's just another part of the job; that she can do this. Gradually the unaccustomed revulsion at the thought of the pooling blood slips away, and she breathes as quietly as she can to focus on the sights and sounds of this block: to understand, internalise and then discard the everyday noise, scents and surroundings in favour of anything that might be out of place.

There is something out of place. She can hear muted voices, someone's tread. It's not Espo or Ryan, neither of whom would bother with quiet. In fact, anyone who feels it necessary to be quiet shouldn't be here – and how did they get in anyway? Their buddy with the bump key is still in Holding – such a shame they hadn't finished processing the paperwork when shift was over – so who the hell is this? Her hand goes to her gun, and as she turns the key in the lock she's already raising it, ready for anything.

What the actual fuck? She's so shocked to find that it's Castle there – and was he talking to himself, which is perfectly plausible since he rarely shuts up on a case, or has he dared to bring someone else on to her crime scene? – that any residual horrible memory and discomfort is flamed off on the instant. What the fuck is he doing here?

"Castle?" His hands are in the air. Good.

"Hey. What's going on?" He looks very, very nervous. So he ought to be. And – which he also ought to be – he looks extremely embarrassed. In fact, he's shifting from foot to foot like a small child caught filching his mom's chocolates. Which Castle probably did, though on reflection actually it was more likely her wine at the after show party, not that he'd ever mentioned anything much about his pre-high school life.

It occurs to her that, pleasant as it is to terrorise him by holding her Glock on him, and however much he deserves to be terrorised for coming to a crime scene without a cop, it's very bad practice to keep pointing a gun at someone she has no (good) reason to shoot. She holsters the gun and Castle's tension level lowers notably.

"Out!" she orders. She escorts him out as if she were escorting him to a cell. Which is really quite tempting, because he's spoilt her plans for coming to the scene and listening to it whisper to her. Or not whisper to her, of course, if nothing pops. But it might whisper to her, which she had thought was definitely worth a go and worth risking the wrath of Montgomery. Whose stool pigeon is standing right in front of her. He'd better not tattle, or she'll reconsider shooting him.

"What are you doing here? Who were you talking to?" It sounds like an interrogation even to her own ears, and she definitely means it to be one. She intends to stay in control of this conversation, because he cannot simply waltz into her crime scene without one of her or her team. Just as well the CSU sweepers had finished yesterday, or he'd have messed up her evidence too. Doesn't he know this yet? It's been months since he arrived, and he really should have learned it by now. She meditates sending him to some CSU tech – who's got into her bad books recently? Sending them Castle would be ample revenge – for a long and detailed lecture on procedure, and parks it for another day. However, she'll deliver her own lecture. He's here to learn how her team do it – and they do it right.

"Er… We wanted to look at the scene." Even more nervous. Good.

"We? Who is we?" Now she's really annoyed. Castle at least has some knowledge of procedure, which she's knocked through his head. But has he really brought someone else? Her team don't do their job by letting stray civilian consultants contaminate the scene and even bring their friends along to help mess it up.

"Er… I've got a friend." He sounds wholly terrified, now. Even better. If he's too scared to think – which is definitely the aim – then he's also too scared to start any sort of a discussion that doesn't relate to the case. She doesn't want any of that sort of discussion. Besides which, right now she is feeling totally Detective Beckett, and she's going to get all Detective Beckett on Castle's ass.

"I've got friends too. But I don't bring my friends to sealed crime scenes in the middle of the night. What is this, Castle, crime tourism? Not on my cases. You want crime tourism, go take a walking tour. Better still, if you want crime, go walk through Harlem right now. I'll drop you off. I'll even detour to make sure you get the opportunity."

She's still berating him as they arrive at the precinct. He hasn't had a chance to force a single word in. She's said more words in this half hour than she's said in one go in three months – or possibly in total in three months – and he is now absolutely sure that it's so that he can't ask any difficult questions or open a conversation that doesn't involve this case and specifically what he was doing at the scene.

"So who was this friend anyway."

"Powell? He's an ex-jewel thief." And… boom. How to explode a Detective, in one sentence.

"You brought a thief to a crime scene?" He brought a thief to a crime scene? What is he on? Acid? Uppers? E? He's off his head. If they weren't already in the bullpen she'd definitely leave him in Harlem. Leave his cold dead corpse, that is.

"It was very helpful."

"It was criminal trespassing."

"To-may-to, to-mah-to." She will shoot him, if he carries on like this. That is not helpful at all. Doesn't he realise that it was wrong?

"Tell your friend to keep up his disappearing act. And the next time you show up at a crime scene without me, I'll show you how my Taser works." Which will be almost as satisfying as her Glock, and won't get her put in prison. Hmm…. Maybe she should try it now.

"Promise?" But not if he's going to enjoy it. At least he's not trying for any deep and meaningful conversations. Maybe she'd misjudged his intentions earlier. "So, why were you there?" he asks.

"Seeing if there's anything I missed," Beckett deadpans. "So?" It might have been damn stupid of him to go there – and take a thief – but she won't pass up a single opportunity to move this case along.

"So?"

"Was there?" Did he find anything? C'mon, Castle. Stop playing dumb. She knows he's got something. He's got that I-know-something-you-don't-know look in his eyes.

"Did Mitchell make bail yet?" And now she's certain he's got something, and he's holding out on her just to be irritating. Well, she's not going to bite.

"Paperwork's not done yet." He might be giving her a very oh-yeah look, but she's seen the flash of relief in his eyes. "I'm holding him out of spite."

"I want to talk to him." Does he now? Well, they can both talk to him.

"Why? We already know he wasn't involved." She wants to know where Castle's going with this, to fit it into her own thinking and spark a new line of enquiry. It'll give her something new to ponder, and keep her occupied with the case.

"Something Powell said. I think Mitchell knows more than he's saying." They all know more than they're saying, Castle. They're criminals. That means they don't talk.

"And what makes you think he'll share it with us?"

"Not us. Just me." What the hell? This is not a solo flight, it's a team effort. She is a mature and civilised adult – unlike Castle, who appears to be playing a very childish game of I'm cleverer than you – and therefore she is not going to wallop him around his smirking, stubbled face. It doesn't stop her repeatedly thinking about how satisfying it would be, though it does stop her thinking how satisfying kissing him was. Not that that's going to be happening any time soon.

Her almost improved mood rapidly deteriorates when she realises that Castle's calling Montgomery.

"What are you doing?" she bites.

"Making sure it's okay." And making sure, he thinks, that when they're done Beckett leaves with him. He's already tired of pleasant, civilised, and wholly shut down, even if it's better than being shot. He really, really wants to talk to Beckett. Properly. Preferably where she has to listen and can't keep disappearing, and where he can force her to talk to him in return.

Montgomery shows up not long after. His first act is not, to Castle's severe disappointment, to get Mitchell up from the cell and settle him in Interrogation. In fact, if Castle wants to talk to him, he'll need to go and share the cell. This was not really the plan, even if he does get to wear a wire. Well, a small transmitter.

About that point Castle finds out why Beckett was not at all happy about him calling Montgomery. Montgomery is looking at Beckett with a very displeased attitude indeed, and Beckett is almost squirming under it. She looks almost as embarrassed as he must have done when she caught him at the scene.

"Detective Beckett," Montgomery says coldly. "Did I or did I not inform you that there was to be no overtime unless I approved it personally?"

"You did, sir. But I was following a lead."

"Where are Detectives Ryan and Esposito, then?" Castle jumps in.

"I was there." Montgomery's head snaps round. Castle wilts a little under the glare, but holds the gaze.

"Hmm." It's not entirely certain that Montgomery believes him, but it is the absolute truth. It's just not the whole truth.

"You're not Ryan or Esposito." Castle gives Montgomery a very meaningful look, and coughs. "But I suppose you'll do. You're off the hook, Beckett." For now is not being said, very loudly. "But be very careful about your hours." He turns back to Castle. "So what's this plan of yours?"

Castle explains, and after some fast talking in which he manages not to give the slightest indication that Beckett hadn't been in the room with Powell and him, Montgomery approves the plan.

Much to Beckett's astonishment – and delight – it works. Mitchell sings like a canary as soon as Castle suggests he needs to know everything for his next book – she'd give a fortune to be out of his next book, but clearly different rules apply to low-lives – and next thing she knows Montgomery will be rousting the sketch artist out of bed and handing him the recording and his pencils are whizzing over the paper. Or at least she assumes so. She won't actually know, because Montgomery has ordered her to go home.

Castle follows her out.

"Thought you'd want to see the product of your labour, Castle?"

"Nah. My talent lies with words, not sketches. I'll see it in the morning." He tries for some connection. "Wanna share a cab?"

"Not the same direction, Castle. Thanks, but no point. I'll see you in the morning and we can see what Mitchell thinks of the resemblance." She smiles. "Good one, Castle. Looks like you've broken this open."

The unusual praise doesn't really help. She's determined to hold him at a distance, it seems. However, late at night is not the time to start this. It really, really isn't, and hauling her into him, kissing her into Jell-O and then kissing her some more and taking her home with him is not actually a good plan. Which doesn't stop him thinking that it's a very attractive option, all the lonely way home.

Beckett is just as shuttered as ever the next day, and it's certainly not helped when she tells the charity organiser who's dealt with the fundraisers that are common to all four victims that she's not with Castle. Even if she does explain afterwards that it's just to make sure that there is no gossip going around. He thinks that the original statement is all too likely to be true. But then he puts his brain in gear and has an idea.

He wanders off at lunchtime – Beckett had already disappeared to her secret, soundproof stairwell, and he assumes she's dealing with her 'stuff', not that she'd tell him – has a very pleasant chat with the organiser, hands her a check which she clearly finds more than pleasant, and returns on a cloud of satisfaction to the precinct. He finds Beckett taking out her frustration on her keyboard and, from the wary looks on the boys' faces, only an inch away from applying her wrath to them. He makes a couple of flippant comments and then waves the golden tickets under her nose. Perfect.

It's even more perfect when he tells her it's a black tie event, reads her reaction precisely, and wanders off again. She doesn't have a dress. Scratch that. She doesn't have a dress, yet. Time to visit another friend.

Oh, oh, oh. Oh no. Why did he buy this dress? Why did he give it to Beckett? And most importantly, why are they going to a fundraiser when all he wants to do is take her straight back home and peel it off very, very slowly?

And then he looks at her eyes and the shutters are down and she's treating this like any undercover operation and he's just her work partner. They might look like they're a couple but they're anything but, and it's killing him. He can't resist escorting her with a hand on her back, though, and he is extremely interested to notice that, before she stiffens up, her first movement is to curve into it. Hmmm.

If it hadn't been for the fact that they had taken in a suspect, Castle would have described the fundraiser as an absolute disaster. Beckett may have taken dancing lessons, but just as she was starting to loosen up and be comfortable in his arms rather than dancing with all the enthusiasm of a condemned prisoner, Powell had shown up. Then his mother – who is supposed to be on his side, dammit – had auctioned him off, during which Beckett was no help at all – she laughed at him – and then Beckett had taken the dress off and washed up and, although she's always beautiful, sitting with a lowlife in Interrogation, even with Beckett, really wasn't quite how he'd imagined the end of the night. Not that he'd have got a different ending, anyway. The case came first, and if he were honest he wouldn't want it any other way.

But suddenly it's all raids and action and bad guys practically falling on his head and he's stopped him for long enough for the bad guy to get taken down, and for the first time in a few days she's got an expression in her eyes when she looks at him that isn't just blankness. It's not the expression he most wants to see, but it's a depth of friendliness and respect that has been missing since the start of this week.

"Good work, Castle. I'll have to drop you at yours, and then I need to go tell the daughter it's all over." He can't argue with that. If it were he who had been bereaved, then he'd want to know immediately, were there news. And he is absolutely not opening any discussion in the fifteen minutes or so that they'll be sharing a car.

When his door sounds, mid-morning the next day, the last person he was expecting was Beckett. She hadn't indicated in any way that she was going to drop by. Now's his chance. Because she's come here. He hasn't gone after her. She's come here and now he is going to have a conversation with her. Carefully.

She's holding out his mother's necklace.

"Come in, grab a chair," he says, just about managing not to sound like a cat with the mouse trapped under his paw.

"Oh, no. I just came to return your mom's jewel-"

"You saved my life. The least I can do is make you some eggs." She's staying, however he can achieve it.

"No, really, I – I have to get going..."

Thank you to all readers and reviewers.