Chapter 21

"I'm going to see an autopsy," Castle sang to himself in his study.

"What's an autopsy, Daddy?"

"Why, darling?" asked his mother. "Is this to impress that nice detective?"

"Research," he said briskly, hoping his mother would leave. "An autopsy is where a doctor finds out why someone died," he directed at Alexis.

"Research?"

"Yes." Questions, especially in front of Alexis, were unwelcome.

"Could I see one?"

"I don't think you'd like it," Castle said to his daughter. "It's not for children." When he used a certain tone, as now, Alexis didn't argue. He didn't often put his foot down, but when he did, that was final.

"Okay," she conceded. "But will you be home before my bedtime and tell me about it?"

"And do bring your detective, darling. She seemed nice. I'd love to get to know her."

Just what Castle didn't want. "I'll ask her," he said. "But she might be busy."

"I'm sure you can persuade her," his mother said. "Use some of that famous charm of yours. It wouldn't hurt to practice."

Castle scowled. "Thank you, Mother. On that note, I have to go." He hugged Alexis. "I'll be back before bedtime," he said. "Look after Grams."

The sound of his mother spluttering as he left was exceedingly satisfying.

The morgue exuded chill quiet, and a business-like calm which didn't approach reverence but didn't encourage frivolity. Castle was duly suppressed, and proceeded to Lanie's office without fuss or bustle.

"Didn't you bring Kate?" she asked.

"No. Was I supposed to? I expected her to meet me here."

"Not if you don't want to, but I'm going to tell her you're here already. I don't want to be on the wrong end of her."

"I got the impression you didn't much care about that."

"I got the impression that she respected people who stood their ground. I also got the impression that she's more into you than she told me, so I'm not doing anything that she thinks is behind her back." She tapped out a text, and looked quizzically at him. "If I were you, I'd tell her I was here myself."

Castle pulled out his phone and tapped Beckett's number. "Hey, it's me. I'm at the morgue."

"On the way. Don't wait for me. I've seen autopsies before."

"Bye."

Lanie smiled approvingly. "Now, let's go chop this corpse," she said, and led the way to a slab. "Here we are. We'll take it from the top. He's fresh, so you'll get to see everything."

"Great."

"And while you're watching, you can tell me just why Richard Castle, best-seller and wannabe A-list celebrity" –

"Ouch" –

"You're getting there, but you're not there yet, are you?" He scowled. "Nope. So how did you fall over Kate?"

"I needed a cop to answer some questions for Storm, and Roy Montgomery sent me her way." It had the crucial advantage of being true, if considerably incomplete.

"Storm's a renegade. A spy, if anything. Why aren't you down at Langley, rather than pestering the cops?"

"I don't pester!" Castle replied.

"Not answering the question, there. There's more to it than Storm, isn't there? Did you lean on Montgomery just to get to Kate?"

"No." Which was not at all true, except that he hadn't known it was Beckett (he just could not think of her as Kate) when he leant on Roy.

Lanie regarded him inquisitively: her nose almost twitching. "I smell a story," she probed.

"Are you going to start the autopsy?"

"Diversion, but yes." She opened the body bag. "Here's our corpse." Castle tried very hard not to breathe. The smell was disgusting. He felt a first faint squirm in his stomach, but ignored it. He could get through this, no problem.

"First I do a visual exam," she began, and carried it out. "Now, you and Kate. She blushes like a boiled lobster every time I ask her, so I'm guessing that tearing up the sheets isn't a problem for you, not that she actually says anything. That girl oughta share more," she muttered.

"If she won't, I won't."

"That smug smile says you're having a lot of fun."

"How is this your business?"

"She's my friend. Friends look out for each other."

"She was my friend first," Castle said childishly. "And we already had this discussion, so butt out."

Clapping arose from the doorway. "He's right. Butt out, Lanie."

Somewhat to Castle's surprise, Lanie conceded. "Aw, okay. But if he's not good to you, I got plenty of solutions."

"And I've got a Glock, so I think I can take care of myself."

"Standing right here," Castle said, and received twin-track glares.

"I thought you were showing him an autopsy?" Beckett asked.

"I am. Gee, you sure can do intimidation when you wanna, girl. That glare would melt rock."

"Will it make you butt out?"

"Maybe. I'm guessing he's not an uh any more, though?"

"Lanie, what part of butt out didn't you understand? Now get on with the autopsy 'cause there's chocolate on the line."

"Chocolate?"

"If Castle faints or vomits he buys me the best chocolate you can get."

"What if he doesn't?"

"I cook him a meal."

"I don't know whose side to take here," Lanie mused.

"Mine!" Beckett insisted. "You're my friend."

"Mine," Castle oozed. "I can give you chocolate too."

Lanie looked between them. "Friendship or chocolate? Nope, not getting involved here."

"That's got to be a first," Beckett muttered blackly.

"So let's autopsy." She poised her scalpel, and began the Y-cut.

Castle did just fine with the heart and lungs. He coped with the stomach contents, and the extraction of fluids from the liver. He was profoundly interested when the skull was opened and the brain removed. But when Lanie put a needle into the eye to draw out fluid from there, his calm broke, and the next thing the two women heard was him crashing out of the door down the corridor to the lavatory.

Beckett high-fived Lanie. "I told him so," she gloated in a most unseemly manner. "I told him so."

It took a few minutes before Castle returned, looking rather green about the gills. "You win," he said, remarkably gracefully. "Any sort of chocolate you don't like?"

Beckett stared at him. Chocolate that she didn't like? The concept had never crossed her mind. "No," she said.

"That's okay, then. You shall have your chocolate tomorrow." Castle took several deep breaths, and carefully didn't look at the corpse or the vials of fluids. "Can we go now?"

Lanie looked sympathetically at him. "It's never as bad the second time," she said. "You can come back and ask me questions any time."

"Yeah. Thanks."

Beckett patted him on the shoulder: a nice blend of comforting and patronising. "Let's go." When they were out of the autopsy room, she twined fingers into his. "It's a bit of a shock, isn't it? You think you're prepared, but you aren't really. It's so clinical and cold."

Castle took a few steps in silence. Then, "I promised to be home and tell Alexis about the autopsy before bedtime. Uh…would you come back and have dinner with me at home?"

She stopped dead. "Dinner?"

"A meal taken in the evening – here, at least. Some places it's lunch."

"This is relevant to what?"

"Nothing. So why not come to dinner? Though I have to tell you that Mother is home and she wants to" – his fingers made air quotes – "get to know you."

"She what?"

"She wants to get to know you."

"Your mother wants to vet me like you were twelve?"

"I don't know. She's only been back two minutes and she's trying to meddle in my life already."

"Mother knows best?"

"She thinks so."

Beckett had a thought. "How did you get on with the information about theft?"

"Oh – good. I passed it on to my PI, and he's looking into it." He stopped walking, and turned to her. "Please will you come back for dinner? To protect me from Mother, if nothing else."

She really didn't want to. Meeting Castle's mother the first time hadn't exactly encouraged her to do it again, and Lanie's behaviour was quite enough boundary-trampling for one day. On the other hand, Lanie was her friend – and just how that had happened so damn quickly Beckett's ingrained cynicism and downright paranoia had no idea – but Castle's mother wasn't even much of an acquaintance, and she could deflect any intrusive questioning. And she'd won the bet, so she was feeling unusually conciliatory.

"Okay. Do I need body armour?"

"No, but you might try noise-cancelling headphones. Mother can get a bit loud, especially after a glass or four of wine."

Wine? His mother drank that much? She didn't want to meet another alcoholic parent.

Castle flicked a glance at Beckett's sudden rigidity. "No, she doesn't overdo it. She never drinks when she's got a part or trying for one," he said reassuringly, "and although I don't think much of some of her parts she's pretty constantly in work or auditioning. Anyway, we're home."

They stepped in.

"Daddy, you're home!" Alexis squeaked. "You promised to tell me about the autopsy." Beckett blinked.

"I did. First, though, are you all ready for bedtime?"

"Yes. See, pyjamas," she said, in an are-you-blind tone.

"Really? I thought it was a party dress."

"You're silly."

"And you're ten, and it's bedtime. Up you go – have you brushed your teeth?"

"Yes, and my hair, and now will you tell me about the autopsy?"

"Okay. Just let me get Detective Beckett a drink." Castle turned to Beckett. "Coffee? Wine?"

"Coffee, please."

Castle quickly set the machine to produce coffee, and shooed Alexis upstairs. "Back soon," he said.

Beckett took her coffee from the machine and settled herself comfortably in a corner of the couch, where she was, deliberately, less than obvious. Castle's mother hadn't been in evidence when they entered, and Beckett wasn't inclined to change that.

Sadly, Castle's mother was inclined to change that. "Darling," she was calling as she swished down the stairs, "why didn't you tell me you were home? Did you bring that lovely detective with you? She's really far too good for you, but there's no accounting for taste, I suppose."

Beckett bristled. She had perfectly good taste. What wasn't there to like about Castle? Tall, broad, good-looking, and so hot she scorched standing next to him. And – which she absolutely wasn't going to discuss with his mother – truly excellent in bed. More importantly, he understood. One way or another, his words scribbled in her diary had pulled her out of her despondency.

The swish continued down the stairs, with a certain air of satisfaction. Castle's mother hove into view – not that Beckett could have missed her, since her outfit would have outshone Times Square at Christmas – bearing much the same over-exuberant decoration as would the largest of Christmas trees, squeezed into a much smaller space. She clearly subscribed to the more is more theory of decoration and personal adornment. Beckett, in plain dark pants and shirt, felt like a sparrow beside a peacock.

"Oh!" she exclaimed. "You did come. I'm so glad. I didn't really get the opportunity to talk to you last time but Richard will be occupied with Alexis for a while – he's a good father, if nothing else – and we can have a nice girls' chat."

Beckett preserved a bland face and murmured something that could have been taken for pleasant assent without too much difficulty.

"I'm Martha Rodgers," she announced, again. Hadn't they done that the first time? "Do call me Martha, darling. Mrs Rodgers makes me feel old, and let me tell you, I don't need that in my life. I shall never be old."

"Okay," Beckett agreed. It cost her nothing to be polite, and – no doubt assisted by make-up and hair dye, though Alexis's red hair was the same tone as Martha's which argued that the red had originally been natural – Martha didn't seem nearly as old as the mother of a –

Well, now. How old was Castle? She parked that: she'd look it up later. Older than she, certainly, but how much?

"Tell me all about you, darling. What's your given name?"

"Kate."

"Katherine, I presume?" Beckett nodded. "I shall call you Katherine. Such a regal and dignified name. How on earth did my son find you?"

"My Captain assigned him to me to answer his questions about investigative procedures."

"How delightfully random," Martha said. "Trust Richard to fall on his feet. Didn't you mind?"

"Not at all," Beckett said, entirely disingenuously. "Anything that makes me think carefully about how we investigate is helpful."

Martha looked a touch nonplussed. "So it's just a work thing?"

"We're friends," Beckett said, and with a hint of malice, "Castle's a nice guy and good company." She instantly realised that had been a mistake.

"Oh, that's wonderful. Friends, mmm? How lovely." Martha obviously thought friends was a euphemism. She was right, but Beckett wasn't going there. "Now, have you always lived in Manhattan? Are your parents still here? What do they do? How long have you been a detective? How old are you?"

Beckett seized on the last on as an easy and painless question. "Twenty-four."

Martha's eyes widened. "You're a mere baby. How fabulous to be twenty-four with the world at your feet. My dear, why on earth are you letting Richard hang around you when you should be blazing a trail through Manhattan, with young men swooning in your wake. Of course," she surveyed Beckett's plain clothing, "you would need to wear something a little more enticing, but you could break hearts left, right and centre."

"I'm quite happy as I am," Beckett said coolly, wanting to say if it means dressing like a neon light tube on a night out clubbing with its pals I think I'll pass. Fortunately, Castle's tread started descending the stairs before her self-control expired.

"Ah, Richard. Your lovely detective is only twenty-four."

"I thought it was rude to mention a woman's age – or is that just yours?"

Martha huffed. "You're cradle-robbing."

"Hardly, but since some of your escorts look as if they've been robbed from the nearest grave, I don't think you can talk."

"How rude!"

"You started it, Mother. Now, are you going out tonight or are you staying in?"

"Out, of course. I have an important appointment with a producer."

"Good luck." Castle hugged his mother, somewhat to Beckett's surprise. The way they'd been sniping at each other, she'd expected chilly farewells. Martha sashayed out, and a palpable air of relief descended.

"You got your coffee?" Beckett waggled the cup. "Great. I think I need one. Or possibly Scotch. I do love Mother, but she has no boundaries at all. She's worse than your Lanie."

"How old are you?" Beckett asked idly.

"Uh…thirty-four." Panic spread across his face. "Don't tell me that's a problem now? You're going to tell me you don't date older men or you think that's too much of an age gap or" –

"Stop. If it had mattered I'd have looked it up earlier."

Castle subsided in a cloud of phew, and sat down beside her, his thoughts of coffee forgotten. "You're okay with it?"

"I just said so." She smiled naughtily. "All that extra experience…"

"I could put it to good use…" he insinuated, and took her coffee cup from her hand, setting it on the table. "You'd finished anyway," he murmured at her offended humph. "C'mere." She didn't seem to have much choice in the matter, since he'd already gathered her in, tipped her chin up with a gently forceful forefinger, and descended on her mouth. In Pavlovian reaction, her lips had already parted for him, and her hands moved to his neck. Shortly, without any input from her, she was in his lap, and shortly after that, kissing was accompanied by some extremely heavy petting.

Both flushed and panting, they pulled apart.

"Uh," Castle managed, which was just about the level of thought Beckett could manage. "Bedroom?"

"'kay."

They stumbled to the bedroom, hampered by falling pants and tangled sleeves of shirts, and fell on to the bed with frantic kisses and busy hands, stripping off each other's remaining clothes, a fast search for protection and then a faster coming together and hard release.

Castle looked down at the Beckett sprawled across him, crossed his arms over her to keep her there and safe with him, and closed his eyes.

He jerked into wakefulness when Beckett sat bolt upright and disarranged his delightful snuggly bundle. "Come back," he said muzzily. "'S not morning."

"I gotta go," she panicked. "I don't have a change of clothes and I'm on shift tomorrow so I have to go now."

"Don' go. Stay. Wan' you here with me."

"I won't be if I get fired. I have to get home."

Castle's bleary brain wobbled into some form of action. "'Kay. Get you a car." He focused enough to tap the number and request a town car to take her home. "Wish you could stay."

She kissed him in between donning her bra and shirt. "Yeah." More kisses. "Night."

"Till tomorrow," he said, and kissed her in a way that would ensure she couldn't forget him.

Beckett half-dozed in the car home, grateful for the consideration that had meant she needn't go out in the small hours to find a taxi. She'd fallen asleep as fast as a tired toddler: safe and warm and somehow comforted by the presence of Castle's big body and enclosing arms. She missed them already. They'd stopped her thinking about her father's decision – truthfully, Castle's arms and body simply stopped her thinking, reducing her to simple desire and outright lust. She fell into bed and dreamed of Castle, waking enough before her alarm to have some time before she needed to leave for work.

Dear Diary. A month ago everything had gone to hell. Now Dad's gone to rehab – at least, he says he has, and why would he bother lying about it? He sure didn't care about being drunk all the time, so maybe I can believe him. And there's Castle. He's made everything better. Starting with writing in here, when I didn't even know it was him. I should be worried how it's all moving so fast, but it's so good I can't even be cynical. Even work is going well. I get to do more, now – even some interrogations. It's all going the right way.

How long will it last before something goes wrong again?

I shouldn't think like that, but my life's been in the pan for so long that it's difficult to believe that anything good can hang around. I guess I just need to take it one day at a time, and hope that it does continue.

Thank you to all readers and reviewers.

Reviews have continued to be broken (since Thursday). If I haven't answered you, I apologise. I'm still trying to answer everyone.