Chapter 1

The perfect words were simple. I love you.

If only blurting them out less than a month after meeting for the very first time wasn't needy, ridiculous, and a red flag for any relationship, ever.

And of course, if Detective Kate Beckett didn't regard him as an annoying encumbrance who should be disposed of and/or shot. Her pals would help her dispose of his body, untraceably.

Castle gloomed into his Scotch. He'd heard, under her flippant words – so I guess your Nikki Heat has a backstory now – the echo of a grieving, bereaved, destroyed nineteen year old; heard Dad abandoned me because he loved her more; heard – though he was sure that she had neither said nor consciously meant it – no-one loved me. Or possibly no-one loves me, though her father had saved himself and probably adored her. Unconsciously – well, everything pointed to her believing it.

He sipped at his Scotch again. As little as a week ago, it had been attraction – founded on blazing hot lust and little more. She was sexy, the more so because she wasn't trying to be. She just was, especially when she was irritated or angry – that would be all the time he was around. The sway of her hips when she walked…that little nibble of that full lower lip…. He wanted to nibble it. And then he'd nibble around, and then down, and…

Those thoughts were not helping. Just like scooping her up in his arms and telling her I love you wouldn't help. He'd prefer to remain intact, and anyway she wouldn't believe a word of it. Well, maybe I. She'd made it perfectly clear that she regarded him as one huge ego.

She probably wasn't wrong. He was happily aware that he was handsome, rich, hot and consequently very sought after – and he had previously had no objection at all to being found by those seeking. Usually, it ended very enjoyably for all concerned. He'd come by his sexy-playboy reputation honestly.

Which was the first problem. Beckett wasn't impressed by any of his reputation, which was refreshingly interesting but not helpful. If she were impressed, this would be a whole lot easier. He could, well, sneak up on her. Dates, dinners, movies…bringing her in and finally overwhelming her. Instead, all he'd managed was a coffee machine, and that had been 80% preservation of his throat and stomach lining.

A week ago…she hadn't mentioned her parents, and he hadn't read her mother's case file. Which was the second problem. He'd read the case file, surreptitiously, illicitly, deep in the bowels of Archives in a puddle of sulky light, alone and startling at every noise in case it was Beckett. Because if she knew he'd read it, she'd kill him. Quite possibly literally, and most certainly he would be thrown out of the precinct within a second, at her Glock-point. Montgomery wouldn't save him from that. Montgomery was far more interested in his solve stats than Castle's romantic hopes. Which, again, was fair enough, but not helpful.

There wasn't much that was helpful, Castle thought bitterly. If only Beckett had reacted to his overtures like every other woman…

He wouldn't have given her more than a second thought and a really good night. At least he could be honest with himself. He was used to one good night and then they parted. It was easy (so was he), it was comfy (so was he), and it absolutely didn't mean a thing (nor did he).

The third problem was that she really wasn't playing hard to get. Or if she was, it was so well disguised that he hadn't spotted a single flaw in the act: she'd taken method acting to a whole new level. His mother could learn from that. She really didn't care if he showed up or not; she was completely uninterested.

And his fourth problem was that he did care. He'd fallen in love. Which was entirely not what he needed right now, but he couldn't cure it.

The level of the Scotch dropped a little further, as Castle considered. What he needed, he decided, was a precipitating event, like in his novels. Some deadly risk from which he could save her, like a rampaging elephant or hungry shark. Neither of which, regrettably, tended to frequent the streets of Manhattan. In addition, it was far more likely that Beckett would be saving him, like she thought she'd been doing on their very first case. (Yes, their first case. Whatever she thought.) It wasn't like he was useless. He could shoot, he could spar, he could fence, not that he was likely to be fighting a duel for Beckett's honour. She'd probably insist on fighting her own duel. (She could fight a duel with his, er, sword, his ill-disciplined brain suggested. He squished it.)

A few days passed. Castle showed up at the precinct, and Beckett maintained cool civility without giving away a single word that she didn't have to. No interesting cases presented themselves, but Castle was content to absorb the bullpen atmosphere – and absorb the Beckett behaviours, speech cadences (from the ten words per day that seemed to be all she allowed herself), facial expressions and all the tiny little matters that made up a whole Beckett and, in his head and on his laptop, a whole Nikki Heat.

And then her phone rang, with a new case, which actually required the team's superlative skills and abilities, as opposed to the steady diet of pop-and-drops or muggings gone wrong. The team departed, and Castle tagged along, taking his accustomed but still excruciatingly uncomfortable place in the passenger seat of Beckett's cruiser. Why she wouldn't get that spring fixed –

Oh. He'd said that out loud.

"Because I keep hoping that it'll puncture your pomposity," she snipped. "Failing that, it might puncture you, and then I'd be rid of you."

"Mean," Castle pouted. "But I know you love me really."

"That would be an amazing feat, since I don't."

"You do, you know. You just haven't realised it yet."

Beckett gave a peculiar semi-screech. "I do not!"

"You do. I mean, it's a bit fifth-grade, being mean to me to cover up that you like me, but I can cope." He smiled seraphically.

"I do not like you. I don't even like you. You're an oversize ego with a body attached."

"See?" Castle said. "You do like me."

Beckett grumbled and griped and groused. No I do not was the dominant flavour of her mutterings. Castle simply smiled annoyingly, all the way to the crime scene in a close-to-finished building, where, disgustingly, the corpse had been pinned to the wall with –

"A harpoon, Lanie?" Beckett said incredulously. "Plus nails like a crucifixion? And then his stomach sliced open?" Behind her, Castle made retching noises. The women ignored him. "I mean, who leaves guts hanging out like that?"

"Someone who really didn't like him," Lanie said cynically. "At least they waited till he was dead."

"They did?" Castle said. "Ooooohhhh, ritual desecration!"

"This is not The Omen."

"It could be. It could be a demon-possessed sorcerer trying to raise the Devil" –

"You've been reading too much Hellfire Club and Aleister Crowley. Try reality, not ridiculous nonsense designed to attract credulous idiots."

"You have no sense of adventure, Beckett. Who knows what there may be beyond the confines of your humdrum life? I am open to all kinds of matters" –

"Your mind is so open all the brains have fallen out. Only an idiot would believe in the supernatural. It's nonsense."

Castle merely grinned. "I bet that this murder will turn out to have roots in the supernatural."

"You can go look for supernatural killers, devils, demons and monsters coming through inter-dimensional rips if you like. If I'm lucky, you'll find one."

"See?" Castle said to Lanie, "she likes me. She wouldn't be nearly so mean if she didn't care."

Lanie snorted. "You think? I think you're lucky she hasn't shot you yet." She turned to Beckett, who was fulminating beside the body. "I'll get this back to my slab and let you know." A gloved finger lifted an eyelid. "Hm. Pinpoint pupils. This guy was on something." Lanie signalled, and the body was carefully removed.

"Psychotropic drugs causing hallucinations," Castle bounced. "Best. Case. Ever."

"More likely to be opioids," Beckett said crisply. "Chances are he was a street user."

"So he was snatched by a Satanic coven and ritually sacrificed" –

"No."

"How do you know?"

"Because that's a National Enquirer trope. I investigate based on evidence, not wild supposition."

"I'll tell you when I've got tox back," Lanie said hurriedly, before Beckett could do anything drastic, such as shoot Castle.

"Great." Beckett stalked off to her cruiser.

"Took your bravery pills this morning, didn't you?" Lanie said. "Do you want to be shot?"

"She won't shoot me," Castle said happily. "She likes me."

"Yeah, right. Like I like shit sandwiches," Lanie replied. "If you want her to like you, winding her up isn't going to help."

Castle merely smiled.

"Your funeral," Lanie pointed out, and strutted off with her corpse. Espo and Ryan followed Lanie, which was the safer option. They'd try to find some form of ID on the victim before Beckett tried to find some form of encouragement that involved pain. Espo ensured that some unlucky officers got to do all the basic questioning of everyone on site.

Castle caught up to Beckett at the cruiser and plopped into the uncomfortable passenger seat, still smiling like an overgrown cherub, and completely undaunted by Beckett's chilly shoulder, which she'd turned to him. "Best case yet," he bounced.

Beckett said nothing, pointedly.

"Oh, come on. It is."

"Someone was killed. That's not entertainment," she bit. "Have some respect."

Castle, unused to being so scathingly told off until he'd met Beckett, subsided sulkily and said no more until they were back in the precinct and contemplating a pristine murder board. Beckett growled, pinned up a photo of the victim as they had discovered him, and then glared at it.

"You can't magic up information," Castle said, a little spitefully, still stinging from her rebuke.

"Everything's information. Including how he was killed and pinned up." She turned to her desk and made a note.

"What's that?"

"A question."

"What's the question?"

"Unanswered."

Castle stopped asking, took two strides to the desk and plucked up the note. "Nails?" he queried, and then, "Oh, in case the ones that pinned him up were a special make? They'd have to be pretty hefty to hold an adult man's weight." He thought for a second. "Were they through his wrists or palms?" he mused, and inspected the photo. "Wrists. Someone knew what they were doing."

"What?"

"Oh, every picture of the Crucifixion has the nails through Christ's palms, but that's thought to be anatomically and historically wrong. If you do that it just tears through the flesh and small bones because of the weight, so you nail between the bigger bones in the wrist or forearm." He became aware of not just Beckett's astounded look, but half the bullpen staring. "Uh…I researched it. The nails need to be really big, too. The authentic ones were squarish and about six inches long." He paused for breath. "The other thing is, even if it's a corpse first, you need a lot of strength to drive the nails in. I get that the harpoon was doing most of the work, but…there's some real muscle there."

Beckett's mouth slowly closed, and for pretty much the first time Castle could remember she regarded him with some interest and even – maybe, if he squinted – some respect.

"We'll see what Lanie comes up with," she said, but it didn't carry a truckload of because you know nothing. "Let's get details of the harpoon, and see where carries them."

Details of the harpoon arrived, and Castle, struck by the sudden realisation that Beckett appreciated not his sculpted body, firm ass, infinitely kissable lips or impressive endowment, but his ability to help her solve crimes, applied his substantial intelligence not to annoying her but to finding retailers of harpoons, otherwise known as fishing stores.

"If it was river fishing, I'd call my dad," Beckett said irritably. "What he doesn't know about fly-fishing isn't worth knowing. I wish he knew something about sea-fishing or game fishing."

"You sure he doesn't?"

"He's my dad. I think I'd know."

But not three minutes later Beckett was nibbling on her lip thoughtfully, and then departed Castle's presence without apology. Twenty minutes after that, she returned with a go-cup of coffee, and a list of fishing stores, which she presented to Ryan and Esposito with a suggestion that they take half each and see who sold the harpoon.

"What are you going to do?" Espo asked.

"Wait for CSU to tell me if they've found a wallet or any sort of ID. I couldn't get at it when he was pinned to the wall like that. Then we wait for prints. And then we look up nails."

"You're getting your nails done?" Ryan said with unflattering amazement. "You?" He grinned, and Espo smirked.

"Why'd Beckett be paying attention to looking good?" Espo asked the air, with false innocence.

Ryan grinned boyishly. "I can't imagine. Maybe she wants someone to admire her?"

"Who?" Espo teased.

Beckett growled. "I do not need a nail bar and I'm not looking for admiration. Nails as in hammer and nails. He was nailed in that position. We're going to find out if they're special nails or if you can get them by the barrel in Home Depot."

As the day wore on, Beckett's fretting at the lack of information from Lanie or CSU turned to irritation and then outright annoyance, expressed in the consumption of toxic quantities of caffeine and the destruction of several innocent whiteboard markers. "Can't they at least tell me about the nails?" she snapped. "How difficult can that be?"

Castle didn't suggest that he knew a guy who could jump the line, after his first experience of trying that trick. He did, however, peer closely at the photographs of the nails.

"That's weird," he mused.

"What?" Beckett stalked up to peer in her turn, which put her right next to him and just perfectly positioned if he'd dared to tuck an arm around her. He put his hands firmly in his pockets.

"Look at the colour," he said.

"That doesn't look like steel or brass," Beckett replied, nose practically in the ink of the photo. "That looks like – bronze?"

"That's what I thought," Castle said.

"Who sells bronze in 2009?" Beckett asked the air. "That's something we can get on to," she added with some enthusiasm. "Okay, let's get on to it." She plumped down in her chair, and began to tap search terms into her computer. Castle leaned over her shoulder. "A little space," she snipped. He brought his own chair around to see the screen…and if it meant that their knees might bump, well, that was a shame, wasn't it?

Their knees did bump. Indeed, their knees connected. Beckett, hunting down her trail, appeared not to notice. Not so Castle, who certainly did. Little sparks of desire were running from his knee and coalescing in his groin. Beckett's soft muttering at her computer didn't help: coaxing and encouraging in a throaty purr that belonged in a bedroom. His bedroom. He tried to focus on the search, and failed. His focus was the woman beside him, in serious close-up. Oh, the things he could do with her creamy skin; her lush, luscious lips; the sharp cheekbones and jawline and the nerve pulsing behind her ear…

"Space, Castle!" she snapped.

He shifted a scant inch or two back, which satisfied her, for the moment.

"Beckett?" Ryan said tentatively. "Beckett, we're done for the night. See you tomorrow."

"'Kay," she said absently, not even looking up. Castle, sudden opportunity presenting itself to his grasping hands, stood up and made his way first to the restroom and then to the break room, to concoct two drinkable coffees – and to waste enough time that the boys would think he had left.

Two perfect cups of coffee in his hands, Castle sauntered back out to find Beckett glaring at her screen and muttering irritably. The throaty, sexy purr had completely disappeared. He put the coffee down beside her and kept his own as he sat.

Her muttering resolved itself into a stream of useless search engines spitting out garbage, well interspersed with profanity. An elegant hand reached out without looking, possibly driven only by aroma, unerringly found the cup, and conveyed it to her mouth to drain it without a single pause.

The caffeine seemed to return her to the bullpen, no longer lost in pixelated ether. "There must be something," she snapped.

"What was your search?"

"Bronze nails."

"Um…" Castle thought for a moment or five. "Try forgers. Or Blacksmiths. Something like that."

"Not forgers. Metal-forgers, or all we'll get are stories about counterfeiters or art heists."

"Yes," Castle said, watching the predatory light flare in her hazel eyes...and below it, determination that no other family should suffer as she had.

She tapped rapidly, and the search engines spat back results. Finally, she pressed Print on a lengthy list, sat back, and stretched her arms above her head and her legs to the back of her desk, sighing out a breath. "Okay."

"Dinner?" Castle asked, seeing the bullpen deserted.

"And what?" Beckett said sceptically. "Is this another suggestion that we should debrief?"

"Only if you're making it," Castle said, in default of his first thought, which largely consisted of Damn straight!, but which would get him shot without a pause.

"No."

He pouted. "In that case, Remy's."

Beckett yawned, and stretched again, revealing a tiny strip of toned stomach. Sadly, on Castle's intake of breath she realised and hurriedly tucked her t-shirt in. "Eyes up here," she snipped, pointing at her face.

"Sure," Castle said amiably. "I'll happily stare into your eyes."

"Dinner. You better watch where you're going or you'll fall down the elevator shaft." Her tone said and I wouldn't mind a bit.

"No, no. I'd be saving you."

"What?"

"Ladies first, Beckett. So it would be you who would fall down the shaft, and I who would save you with strength, speed and dexterity."

Beckett made a rude noise. Castle, a little nettled but also feeling mildly mischievous, decided to prove a point, caught her arm and neatly turned her into him in best ballroom style, pulling her against him.

Which was, of course, a major mistake. She fitted just perfectly in his arms: just the right height in heels, just the right shape and size, her legs just the right length to place her – oh shit oh shit oh shit: having her here wasn't so much exciting as inflammatory. Everywhere her body touched his, he burned. He bent his head…

And she stepped back, eyes blazing. "What the fuck?"

"Just proving that I could haul you up," he said lightly. "Now, dinner?"

Thank you to all readers and reviewers.

So, here we are again. This is my Summer Ficathon entry. 16 chapters, Sun/Tue/Thu posting.

For those of you who either don't know or might have missed it, the fifth novel in my Casey&Carval original series is available - Death in Lights. On all Amazon websites, with the rest of the series, under SR Garrae. Links also on my Twitter Garrae_writes. The sixth is progressing nicely.