Chapter 37: Can't read my poker face

The morning does not bring much peace, or cure Castle's irritation.

Explaining the current state of the case to his overly-interested family merely leads into comments from Alexis that it's crazy, and from his mother that the woman must have been a criminal. Or a spy. Which translates, in Castle's mind, to being an extremely good actress. It would have been okay, if he hadn't then opened his mouth and said precisely that. It could still have been okay, if his mother hadn't taken the opportunity to open her own mouth. She knows he threw the last hand on Monday night. Very fortunately, she (and Alexis) believe that he did it so as not to embarrass Beckett, rather than his real reasons. They're not impressed, though. The word patronising is particularly stinging. When his phone rings and there's a reason to go to the precinct he jumps at it.

Behind him, as Alexis leaves for school, Martha considers her options. Richard had been astonishingly stupid in throwing his hand, and if he actually manages to realise his evident hopes it could be severely deleterious if Detective Beckett finds out accidentally, later in their relationship. Time, she thinks, for some motherly assistance. It's absolutely not meddling. Just… helping Richard to achieve the most desirable outcome. One should always support one's child. When one approves of his goals.

Martha considers the position some more. She very much likes what she's seen of Detective Beckett, though she was as unreadable during the poker game as she had been at any previous time. Alexis likes her, too. Richard's evidently smitten, though. She hasn't seen him as protective as he had been on Sunday morning since… well. Well, well, well. Since Kyra, certainly. On the other hand, Detective Beckett does not appear to need protection. Or, for that matter, Richard. And Richard had better understand that in short order, or it will all end badly. She'd like to see him happy, and if Detective Beckett makes him happy, then Martha will do her best to help him have Detective Beckett. Even if she'd told Richard the detective was far too good for him, that was only to keep his ego in check. Of course they would be wonderful together. It was perfectly clear from the way they looked – and looked at each other - when they were at the fundraiser that they should be together. In fact, it almost looked as if they already were. Martha shakes her head. She's sure that if Richard had already got together with his stunning Detective she'd have noticed. If only because he could never have kept it quiet. But still, any extraneous items that might be in the way should be cleared from their path. Such as deliberately letting Detective Beckett win and keeping it secret.

Decision made, Martha puts in a call and is shortly talking to Detective Beckett, who seems remarkably unconcerned by Martha's revelation. Completely uncaring, in fact. That's rather disappointing. Martha had expected some interest in why she might be calling – which had been noticeably, if very politely – lacking; and some reaction to being informed that Detective Beckett had been allowed to win – which had been completely absent. She wonders, far too late for it to do any good at all, if calling Detective Beckett had really been such a good idea. If she's that indifferent, Richard's already flogging a dead horse.

Beckett had woken early and uncomfortable, though strangely the blanket had still appeared to be around her. That's unusual. Once she'd changed and showered at the precinct, she had spent some time glaring at her murder board until she could legitimately call the cyber team and start to pry the information out of the circuit boards of the laptop. When they have, there's a new lead. With some considerable irritation at the necessity, Beckett tells Ryan to call Castle to come and see. She has no desire to speak to him. She also, however, has no desire to be pulled up by Captain Montgomery for disobeying orders.

She's interrupted by a call on her landline. She doesn't get too many of those, so she's initially puzzled. When she realises it's Castle's mother, that changes to being wary. When she hears what the woman has to say, she's absolutely, incandescently furious. Beckett calls on every last scrap of her self-control to remain utterly calm and not to reveal a single iota of what she feels. Castle's mother had no business ringing her and interfering – and why did she do that, anyway? What possible interest could she have in the outcome of a poker hand that she'd already folded from? And if this is some obscure – or stupid – way of trying to show her, Beckett, how selfless and caring her son is (and by implication hoping to improve Beckett's view of him) then it has backfired quite, quite spectacularly.

Anyway. Neither Castle's meddling mother nor Castle needs to know just how infuriated she is. But she's not going to lose her temper at Castle. She's not even going to shout. She's not going to give either of them the satisfaction. But her sheer, overwhelming rage has overcome all good sense and incinerated her boundaries. She's going to give him back his money (she laments the Ferragamos for a short second) and he can play again – fairly. She doesn't care where she has the revenge match, at his apartment or hers or the middle of Central Park on the carousel. Then she will take him for every last cent in his pockets, or she'll lose, on her own merits. Not because some rich spoilt asshole thinks he needs to be nice to the little woman just because he's slept with her. Patronising, chauvinistic swine. Put together with buying her an evening dress instead of trusting that she had one, (she ignores that she hadn't had one that she would have been happy to wear) it all adds up to one thing: he doesn't think she's capable of taking care of herself. In fact, he's treating her like a child who needs to be humoured in case they'll be upset by losing or looking out of place, rather than a mature woman who can deal with whatever life brings. Worse, he doesn't think she can pay her own way. He can have the dress back, too, then. She can buy her own appropriate apparel. She'll pack it up tonight and deliver it to his apartment immediately thereafter. This is 2009, not 1959. She can pay her own way and manage her own life. Castle can go teach a fish to ride a bicycle.

Castle doesn't necessarily expect Beckett to be in any better mood with him than she had been yesterday, and he is not disappointed. If anything, the fire banked in her eyes and the edge in her tone are more apparent. She's uninterested in his greeting, unaffected by his presence (no matter how close he stands) and indifferent to his comments. His never-strong impulse to apologise is receding faster than the tide just before a tsunami.

It seems that their victim was corresponding with a Lee: and further seems like it's a boyfriend. With no other leads, this one's location is tracked down by the clever techs in Cyber, and shortly Castle is pursuing the rapid, aggravated clack of Beckett's heels, rapping out chilly annoyance with every stride. The same icy irritation infects the cruiser and their journey proceeds in uncomfortable silence. Just like yesterday, really. Except all Beckett's barriers are up, and instead of the heated, fiery fury, that he can just about manage to deal with because at least it means that she's focused on him, it's the glacial permafrost that takes her further away from him with every minute.

He begins to suspect, with a sense of squirming dread, that something else has been added to yesterday's disastrous conversation. This time, however, it can't possibly be his fault. He hasn't done anything… oh shit. Suddenly it's all terribly, transparently clear. Somehow – and he's sure he knows not just how but who – Beckett has learned that he threw his hand. And she doesn't like it.

Whatever yesterday's rights and wrongs, now he really does owe her an apology, because he would never have done that with – to – anyone else. Not that he'd have had the motive to do it, either. But all it's got him, instead of a receptive Beckett, is the re-establishment of as large an ice-shelf as it's possible to have without actually being in Antarctica.

Just before they knock on their suspect's door, precisely timed so that Castle can't start an argument, Beckett counts off a sheaf of bills and presents them to Castle with exaggerated formality and considerable care that she doesn't touch him at all.

"What's this?" but he knows perfectly well what it is. A barrier the size of the Hoover Dam.

"Your winnings from the other night. I'm not an idiot. I know you threw the last hand." He hates it when she sounds like this: when she treats him like that spoilt, arrogant playboy that his publicity makes him out to be; when it's right back to the original cold contempt with a side order of disgust and a sprinkling of hatred.

"How did you figure it out?" He knows how. He just wants to keep her talking, in the hope that he can use his words and intelligence to talk her out of this, show her that he didn't mean to disparage or disrespect her. Quite how he's going to achieve that without admitting what he had wanted, which will not help at all, he doesn't know. What had he been thinking?

"That's not the point." More disgust. She really isn't going to care about his reasons, and something tells him that trying to cure this by using physical proximity and attraction is likely to fail. Epically, as Alexis might say.

"Oh, my mother called you, didn't she?" He knows she did, and very shortly he is going to have a long and detailed discussion with his mother. He'd thought she likedBeckett.

"You owe me a rematch." That's a – better outcome than he was expecting. Though she doesn't look as if the thought gives her any pleasure at all. He accepts before she has any chance at all to think better of it, and even more happily than that he's got the perfect set up.

"Fine. You want to play? Let's play. How about tomorrow night?" Oh yes, they'll play. No holds barred. He'll hold her. Then he'll take her. Once she's on his territory he'll be back in control of this game. She does not get to shut him out like this.

"With your mystery buddies?" She doesn't sound impressed, considering she's got a huge collection of crime fiction, including samples of all of their works too.

"What, are you kidding? No, no, no. Those guys would eat you alive. No. I was thinking something a little more local. My, uh, Gotham City crew. Guys I beat on a regular basis." He knows exactly what he's doing now. Right back to the beginning again. Rile her up, and let anger spark heat, and then let that heat boil over and melt her ice.

"Your Gotham City crew?" Not enough anger. In fact, not any. Still cold contempt. He needs her to get angry.

"Yeah. The Captain, the Mayor, and Judge Markway. You know. Your boss. Your boss's boss, and the guy that signs your warrants. Or would that make you nervous? I mean, I wouldn't want to throw your game, but I also don't want you to feel patronised."

"Just set it up. And prepare to get your ass kicked." She's still glacial, but his tone of I-bet-you're-scared has had the desired effect. There's a very heavy current of anger under it now. He'd push harder, rile her further, but her timing is perfect: she's already knocking on an – open door? Her professional shell is straight back on, and she walks straight on in.

It's a shrine to the victim. Photos, news clippings, more pictures: the victim is everywhere. It's looking suddenly simpler: crazed stalker equals psycho killer. Until the sharp-faced, hard eyed woman turns out to be a true crime writer, and their victim turns out to be a killer herself. An eco-terrorist, who'd bombed an oil tanker, killed one of her accomplices and almost killed the captain, who's been in hiding for nearly twenty years, and who'd suddenly decided to tell her story.

Copies of the writer's – Lee Wax? Gotta be a pseudonym – information will be transported to somewhere it can actually do some good: Beckett's murder board. Interviewing her doesn't make Beckett like her any better, and even if she's still livid with Castle it doesn't mean she wants to watch this piranha eyeing him up. Though it's Beckett she wants a favour from. No way. One pestilent, infuriating, patronising writer is enough. Beckett leaves them to it, not failing to insult Castle as she leaves. She sees it hit home.

Castle doesn't want to exchange compliments with this second-rate hack. He's seen the look in her eye and although it's flattering that she's sizing him up he's not interested. He knows this type: more interested in his wallet and fame than his personality, and out to use him. He's seen enough of them, and run them off. Still, this is a witness. He'll let her think there's a chance he'll tip her the wink, to keep her sweet. Like hell there is, though. He has far more self-respect than that. He doesn't cheat, and that would be cheating the case. And why anyone would think he'd pass on a real, fiercely honest woman for a sleaze like Lee Wax he does not know.

Not that the real woman wants to speak to him. It's a chilly journey to the next potential suspect, and it's a chilly journey back again. The radio stays turned up loud, preventing any attempt at conversation, and in-car cameras or not Castle is perfectly certain from the tone of Beckett's silence that any move to touch it will result in his removal from the car and probably from life. She's shut down her anger, shut him out. Every time she does that she's trying to push him away. He's not going to have it. She's his and she admitted it and she is not going to run away from him. Them. He just needs to fix his screw-up. If he'd remembered about Beckett's granite integrity two days ago before he threw the game it might have helped. If he'd remembered that she is nothing like any of the other women he's been with that would have helped too. If he hadn't lost his temper yesterday that would also have been a good start.

He tries conversation back in the bullpen, but Beckett turns her shoulder and only gives him back contemptuous sarcasm about his need for a story. He picks up the Wax manuscript automatically and takes it with him to the cruiser for the next interview.

Esposito's found out enough for them to track down the other member of the bomb squad – he'd done fifteen years, but now he's out, cleaning the streets and keeping the lowest profile he can. He claims to be wracked with guilt that one of them died: that he'd mistimed the bomb. Well, maybe, thinks Beckett, professionally cynical and suspicious. But she'll be looking into this man very hard indeed. There's no such thing as honour among thieves – or murderers. High ideals normally turn out to be low motives. Thinking of which...

"You can go home now, Castle," she says, coldly. She's had quite enough of him today. Keeping her boiling anger locked down under the permafrost of her control is becoming increasingly difficult. She wants him gone. It'll give her enough time to calm herself down before she takes the dress back. She's not a coward, and she will take it back and have the guts to tell him to his face exactly why she has handed it back. But she's not doing that the same night as she has to sit through a poker game that she intends to win.

"Beckett..."

"Not interested. Go home. Nothing more is going to happen today." She pulls the cruiser into the kerb and waits, very obviously, for him to get out.

"Going back to the precinct, Beckett?" She doesn't bother answering. "Is the break room couch comfortable?" He's pushing. Anything to make her angry. "It didn't look it." There's a sharp draw of breath, an arrow of annoyance.

"None of your business where I choose to be." This is not going to improve any if he keeps talking. She might just say something even more hurtful. Such as with someone else. He takes the papers, opens the car door and starts to step out, then leans back in.

"Till tomorrow, Beckett," he says. "You can't drive me away." She pulls off without another word.

It's still quite early in the evening. Alexis is doing her homework upstairs, and his mother appears to be contemplating a glass of wine. Perfect.

"Mother. Just the person I wanted to talk to." His tone is not inviting. His mother misses it entirely.

"What is it, darling?"

"Why did you tell Beckett I threw my hand?" She doesn't miss the edge this time.

Martha tosses her head. "She deserved to know the truth. You weren't going to tell her, now, were you? It didn't sound as if she cared, anyway. No harm done."

"No harm done? Thanks to your revelations she's treated me like something you scrape off your shoe all day. I'd say you've done quite enough harm." His mother isn't looking nearly contrite enough for his taste. In fact, she's looking as if something's just fallen into place.

"What are you thinking, Mother?"

"Oh, nothing, kiddo. Nothing at all." Since wringing his mother's neck is not an approved method of family therapy, Castle is left with no comeback. Fortunately, Alexis comes downstairs in the hope that there will be dinner shortly and turns the conversation back to the intriguing subject of the case.

Dinner done, case discussion prompting ideas about whose tale this really was – Wax's or a plant by the dead woman to put her side of the story without anyone to contradict her – Castle's reading the manuscript after Alexis and his mother have disappeared – Alexis to study for the rest of the evening, his mother God-knows-where – there's a forceful rap at the door. When Castle opens it, he's presented with a large box, which is concealing the Ross ice-shelf otherwise known as Detective Beckett, still dressed as she had been for work with her gun on her hip.

"I'm returning this to you." What the hell? He hasn't lent her anything. He takes the box and waits for her to enter. She looks as frozen-faced as he's ever seen her.

"Returning what?" he says blankly. He takes the box to his study, and Beckett follows him. She shuts the door behind her. Ice, spreading from the cold of her demeanour, is creeping into his veins. Nothing good about this situation occurs to him. He flicks the lid open as she speaks and looks down into the box.

"Returning the dress you provided for the fundraiser." What the fuck? Neatly folded, and with that certain finished look that argues the use of a top-of-the-line cleaning service, is the dress he'd given her, together with the underwear. She's just thrown his gift back in his face. For a moment he just looks at it, trying to hide the instant agony in his chest. He wonders, briefly, if it's cardiac arrest or just his heart breaking.

"I don't take anything from people who don't respect me. Give it to someone who actually needs your charity. There's a good thrift shop over on the East Side." Every word bites like the tips of a cat-o-nine-tails.

"I can buy my own dresses, dress appropriately for any occasion, and cover my card losses. Though you clearly don't think that's the case. I don't know what sort of pathetic bimbos you're used to meeting, but I'm not one of them. Nor am I a child to be looked after. I don't need your money and I don't need your patronising efforts to improve me. So I've returned both. We're all square." She turns away and grasps the door handle. She hasn't raised her voice beyond its normal speaking volume for any single syllable, yet he could have heard every word from the other end of Central Park, so precisely enunciated had they been.

He looks down at the dress again and remembers her in it. It pulls the pin from the grenade of his fury.

"That was not why I got the dress." He puts a hand on the door to stop it opening. Not putting hands on Beckett to prevent her leaving is almost impossible. But he is still not that man. Provocation is never an acceptable excuse.

"Really, Castle." It's not even a question. She sounds bored of the subject already. She's come in, dropped her latest scarifying bombshell, and now she's intending to leave. No. They will have this argument. She doesn't get to shut him down like this and walk away.

Bonus points, or virtual cookies, to everyone who identifies the reference Beckett uses.

Thank you to all reviewers.