Chapter 24

Beckett's muted alarm nevertheless woke Castle along with Beckett herself, who didn't so much bounce out of bed as groan, try to hide under the comforter, and finally poke a toe out, followed by both long legs and a lean torso. All of those items were stark naked. Consequently, Castle bounced out of bed in an extremely, and evidently, happy mood which lasted right up till he realised that she'd locked the bathroom door against him. This did not seem fair at all. He slipped back into bed, and, well, sulked, eyes firmly on the bathroom door in hope of more naked Beckett.

Beckett emerged, fully dressed and made up, in a remarkably short time. She swung over to the bed, disinterred Castle from his comforter and pillows, and kissed him long, deep and slow.

"I have to go to work," she purred. "But that'll keep you warm."

He stared at her. "That should be my line. You're twenty-four and you're stealing my lines."

"Are you complaining?"

"No, but you're" –

"Female?" she snarked.

"Mean, stealing my lines. Who's the writer here?" Castle snarked back. "Anyway, now what am I supposed to do? You're leaving me all hot and bothered and you don't care." He pouted.

"I care about getting to work on time."

"You owe me," he said. "You owe me a date."

"You can come by at shift end like usual."

"No, no. A proper date. Not just dinner because you've answered all my questions. Movie, or the theatre, or something, and a nice meal without any procedural questions."

Beckett regarded him with deep and (though she didn't know it) wholly justifiable suspicion, scenting a catch but not able to locate it. The catch wasn't the date. It was the spending the night with her afterward.

"C'mon. You can choose the movie."

"Okay. I have to go. See you." She was gone on the word, and Castle heard the outer door shut.

He took a leisurely but sadly lonely shower, and then dressed and started making breakfast. Once he'd taken Alexis to school, he sat down to write, and found that his new rookie detective was far more interesting and productive than Storm. Alive to the possibilities for mayhem and disaster if he didn't finish Storm, though, he promised himself that he could write his detective once he'd finished two chapters of Storm, and put his head down to work in a way that would have amazed everyone who thought they knew him.

Crashing and a certain amount of low-volume misery dragged him from his writing, and when he checked his watch he found that it was certainly time for more coffee, though a little early for lunch. He found his mother in the kitchen, clearly hungover.

"Let me make you a hangover cure," Castle said with a delicate tinge of malice. "Do you remember much about yesterday?"

"I remember perfectly. You had your lovely detective here. Where is she?"

"She's at work. You know, that thing that pays people's bills."

"She went home?" his mother said disappointedly.

"Yes." Castle lied without compunction. He did not need to have his mother 'helping'. He could manage his own affairs very nicely, thank you. "Here's your drink."

Martha regarded it balefully. "Really?"

"Drink it."

She closed her eyes and gulped it down in half a second, made an evil face and turned green. "What was that? I've had kale and nettle health drinks that tasted better."

"Prairie oyster," Castle said blandly.

"Ugh," his mother managed. "Vile, darling. Vile."

"Has it helped?"

"I'll let you know when my stomach stops folding."

"Go back to bed," Castle suggested. "I have to write anyway."

"I can't."

Castle lifted his eyebrows.

"I have an audition at two, and it will take me all my time till then to fully inhabit the character."

He gaped. "An audition? That's great! Break a leg, Mother." He knew better than to say Good Luck. His mother was as superstitious as most actors. "What's the part?"

"Queen Gertude, in a modern adaptation of Hamlet."

"Great," Castle said again. "When you get it, when will rehearsals start?"

"Oh, immediately."

Castle managed to preserve a blandly cheerful expression, while simultaneously cheering his mother's absence and worrying that he would need to put Rina on permanent retainer. Or, of course, Beckett could spend more time at the loft. The idea of simply not spending nearly every evening together didn't pierce his thoughts, mostly because he didn't allow it to.

"Do you want another?" he asked, gesturing at her empty glass.

She shuddered dramatically. "No, thank you. I am suitably cured." She exited regally, clearly already attempting to inhabit her part. Castle made his coffee and returned to his writing, finishing his Storm chapters and then, with more enthusiasm, adding another two chapters to his untitled new story.

Beckett arrived at the precinct and was greeted with more enthusiasm than at any point since she'd made detective. Phrases such as 'Good job' were thrown around, and it became apparent that having taken the shot and made it count had, in some strange way, made her part of the team. Many of them had never fired at another human being, and those cops were keen to know how it had felt. Beckett gritted her teeth, controlled her visceral revulsion at the memory, and answered their questions with grace, though without hiding how awful it had been and how sick she'd felt afterwards. She wasn't stupid enough to miss the opportunity to become an accepted part of the bullpen, rather than the jumped-up, promoted far too fast, teacher's pet, rookie detective.

By lunchtime, the atmosphere around her had changed. She was, now, an accepted cop, included in the banter and the black humour. Unconsciously, she relaxed, and although she was limited to admin duties, she found that even those passed more quickly in the camaraderie of the bullpen.

After lunch, however, Montgomery summoned her, with Pawlowitz.

"Detectives," he said bleakly.

"Sir," they said in unison.

"Whether justified or not, a police shooting is not a matter for pleasure."

"No, sir."

"I expect that you will reflect on your actions, and consider whether there was any other way of dealing with the situation."

"Yes, sir."

"Detective Beckett!"

"Sir?"

"What do you think could have been done differently?"

She didn't answer immediately, considering the case. "Once we went to execute the warrant, nothing, sir. The suspect started shooting as soon as we were outside the door and announced ourselves. He didn't wait for us to break the door down if he didn't open it. So we were in a life-threatening situation as soon as we got there." She paused. "We couldn't leave him to destroy evidence and run."

"A fair point," Montgomery said judicially, and became less stern. "And beforehand?"

She flicked a quick, nervous glance at Pawlowitz, who gave her an encouraging half-smile. "I guess…we could have put surveillance on the apartment and executed the warrant if he went out? But…he could still have spent time destroying the evidence, so" – she straightened up – "I think we didn't have a choice. Once we knew enough to get a warrant we couldn't wait."

Pawlowitz's smile broadened. "Good girl," he murmured.

"Nice analysis, Beckett," Montgomery said. "Maybe there were things that could have been done differently, but second-guessing yourself is a mug's game. Sure, review, but don't brood over it. You need to walk the line between shooting too late – or not at all – and shooting far too soon. You made the right call."

"I only did what Pawlowitz taught me," Beckett said, truthfully.

Montgomery smiled. "Learning from your lead detective is always a good plan. Pay attention to them." He became serious again. "The shooting team will report in a couple more days. Desk duty for the pair of you till that happens – but I don't wanna see you in here one minute past shift end before then. Take the time. And if you need to – go see the department shrink. About two-thirds of cops who take a kill shot do that. You'll be in the majority if you do."

"Sir," they said again.

"Dismissed, detectives."

"Thank you, sir," Pawlowitz said. Beckett merely nodded. They left.

"You did good in there," Pawlowitz said.

"I just told the truth."

"That's doing good. You could have weaselled or come up with some bullshit set of reasons why you should've done something different when, truth is, there were no good choices once we were in the situation."

She stared at him.

"What is it, Beckett? You look like I swung at you with a two-by-four."

"Oh… just what you said. You're right." She grinned at him. "You just confirmed something I've been thinking – not about the job. About other stuff. Thanks."

"I don't know what I said, but happy to help."

Beckett returned to her desk and the paperwork, light of heart. Somehow, Pawlowitz's comment that there were no good choices once we were in the situation had hit the last remaining worry about her father. Coupled with Castle's commentary in her diary, she finally realised that she'd made the least bad choice in a situation where she had no good choices. Later, she promised herself, she'd make some quiet enquiries and find out where her father was. Not contact him, though. No. That would ruin everything she'd done in the last days. Just…know that he'd really done it, and then wait. But she'd done the right thing, and now she had confirmation.

Filled with cheer, she sent Castle a brief text. Got to leave on the dot. Want to get dinner? KB

Shortly, he replied. No babysitter. Come over, and I'll cook. RC. PS: bring your overnight bag?

:) she sent back. The rest of the day passed in a contented haze, and she left on the stroke of shift end, went home, packed her small bag (again) and swung off to Castle's loft.

Soon, going to Castle's for dinner had become habit, though Beckett, conscious of Alexis's regard, refused to come more than twice a week, and made sure she was gone before Alexis woke. She really didn't want to answer a bright ten-year old's questions, especially when she didn't want to think about the answers herself.

So the month passed. Martha had won her part, and rehearsal and then performances kept her largely out of the way, which suited Beckett just fine. Martha was entertaining, but obtrusive questioning should remain in Interrogation and be done by Beckett, not be inflicted on Beckett over dinner.

Beckett was comfortably curled up on Castle's couch, cuddled in the crook of his arm, just over a month since she'd cut her father loose and he'd gone to rehab, when he coughed uncomfortably. Alexis was long in bed; his mother was out. There was no reason whatsoever for uncomfortable coughs, and any reason that there could have been was thoroughly ominous.

"What is it?" she asked.

"Uh…I want you to read something."

Read something? What did that have to do with uncomfortable coughs? She fixed him with a hard stare, which failed – unaccountably – to produce answers. "Okay," she said. "Where's this something?"

"I'll go get it."

Castle ambled off to his study, and returned with a pile of paper. "This," he said.

"That's – that looks like a manuscript."

"Uh, yes. But it hasn't gone to my editor. I want you to read it first, before anything else happens to it." He looked at her, eyes shining with sincerity, face completely serious. "If you don't like it, or don't want it to exist, I'll delete it and shred that copy. You can watch me do it."

"Castle… what is this?"

"Just read it. Please? If you wanna take it home and read it, that's fine. But read it?"

Take it home and read it? That…didn't sound good. Beckett regarded Castle closely as he stood, shifting from foot to foot. "You would rather I went home and read this, if I don't want to read it here, than stay tonight?"

Castle looked as if there might be no right answer to that. There probably wasn't. "Um, well, of course I want you to stay. I always want you to stay and it's totally unfair that you won't stay every night."

"I can't," she said, as she said every time. Castle pouted, as he did every time. "But you didn't answer the question."

"This being a fast-learning detective is really very unkind, you know. You shouldn't use it on me."

"What should I use on you?" she flirted.

"I could think of lots of things, but I really want you to read that manuscript. Please will you, Beckett?"

Beckett, by now, couldn't have been more worried. It was so clearly vitally important to Castle that she read it, but she was more and more nervous about what it might be.

"Okay. But if it's that important, I'm going home to read it. Otherwise I'll know you're watching me and looking for reactions."

"I" –

"So would."

"Yes, okay. I would. But I'd try not to."

"Not good enough. If you want me to read it tonight – or start it," she added, looking at the size of the pile of paper – " then I'll have to go home."

"I want you to stay. But you have to read it. So…" He pulled her up to him, and kissed her deeply. "If you won't do it here, I guess you'll have to go home." He made a face. "It's not fair. You only stay twice a week, and now you're depriving me."

"You're trying to delay me," Beckett said. "You want me to read but you don't want me to read? What is this? Bad erotic fiction?" A horrible suspicion dawned on her. "Am I a character in this manuscript?"

"Can I plead the Fifth?"

Her face blanked. "I said I didn't want to be a character."

"Just go read it, please? Before you make any decisions."

"Yes," she said, not showing her consternation. She couldn't decide what to do. She didn't want to be a character. But looking at his desperate – though he was trying frantically to hide it – face: there was more to this than she knew. "Okay," she agreed again.

Castle kissed her again, pouring out passion and terror into her mouth. "Whatever you think, come back. Please come back."

"Okay." But she didn't say when, which Castle, from his eyes and tight-shut lips against a barrage of words, noticed.

The thud of the door closing behind her felt very final.

Once home, she made herself a coffee, put a small glass of vodka beside it, thanked her stars that she was off shift tomorrow – which Castle, of course, had known. That must be why he'd chosen tonight to give her it. A sharp detective mind told her that he must have been writing this for some time: but that he'd both hidden it and waited until it was finished. She didn't know what to think: angry at his deceit, astonished that he'd given her total veto over the next steps. He'd expect it to be the next best-seller: he sold millions, after all. And yet he said – and she believed – that he'd ditch it wholesale if she asked him to.

She took a strengthening sip of vodka and a large gulp of coffee, and began to read.

The sky lightened; her coffee long cold beside her and the vodka undrunk. Morning had broken, and Beckett had read for hours, straight through from end to end. It had been…compelling. She didn't know whether to be furious or flattered: the main character was her, but it wasn't her; drew from all her thoughts and comments and emotions and experiences, but didn't copy them: changed them and fictionalised them.

It was brilliant: superb writing, drawing her in. She couldn't have stopped reading if there had been an explosion. It was bound to be a huge success – if it were ever published. She held the eggshell of his creativity in her hands, and it was in her gift to shatter it or save it.

Now she had to decide what to do. He'd gone against everything she'd said. And yet…it was based on her, but it wasn't her: it was a fictional character. Her head hurt.

She set her teeth, put the pages in her purse, and went to shower and then to bed, just as the sun rose. It was going to be a beautiful early summer day, but her world was shadowed and grey.

Beckett woke, finding it to be almost lunchtime. She had to give Castle a decision. She didn't want to decide. She shouldn't have to decide. And yet, she understood why he had given her control over this book: because she'd said she didn't want to be a character. He was letting her decide whether she was a character. She drank a strong coffee, and got no further.

Finally, she bit the bullet, and tapped out a text. No point delaying.

Back in the loft, Castle had paced the floor till his feet hurt, and then tried and failed to sleep. Eventually, he'd spent most of the night playing shoot-'em-up computer games and fretting, in approximately a one-to-ten ratio. Somehow, he managed to take Alexis to school, but then sank into depressed solitude. With every hour in which Beckett neither returned nor called him, he became more and more convinced that he'd never see her again.

He couldn't not have written it, though. Once it was in his head, he had to write it: it hammered at his sanity until it was out there: letters on the pages. He had to have written it. It would kill him to ditch it, because it was great. Far better than Storm: it would be a sensational success.

But it wouldn't be worth it if he didn't have Beckett.

Finally, almost at lunchtime, his phone chirped with a text. Can I come over now? KB

Yes, he sent back by return. I'll make lunch. RC

There was no answer.

He threw together a nice chicken salad with arugula and chopped figs, which didn't require higher brain function, put a bottle of white wine in the fridge, and paced the floor until the door sounded.

Thank you to all readers and reviewers.

This is the penultimate chapter.