Chapter 2

She positively yowled with annoyance, but nowhere in her yowl was no. Or Hell no! Castle concluded that he wasn't destined to die today, and ambled off in the direction of Remy's, waiting to see if Beckett would catch up.

Or overtake him within three strides, which was what actually happened. Castle changed his amble to a more determined pace, and managed to place himself beside her, falling into step. A tiny part of his mind marvelled at their matched rhythm, and wondered lustfully what other rhythms might match just as perfectly.

The booths at Remy's were not large, of which Castle was perfectly well aware, and even though he sat opposite Beckett, it was perfectly possible to ensure that their knees touched. Accidentally, of course. Or something like that.

"Our first date," he said soulfully.

"Don't be ridiculous. I'm hungry and I'd have come here anyway."

"For takeout."

"I would still have come here to get my dinner."

"But this is a sit down meal with pleasant conversation" – Beckett blew a raspberry – "there will be pleasant conversation – and then I'll walk you home, just like a gentleman should do."

"I'm not going home. I'm going back to the precinct to search out those nails."

"I'll walk you there, then."

"I don't need an escort."

"I'm not an escort."

"Oh?" Beckett snarked. "Maybe you're a gigolo?"

Castle laughed. "Now there's a word straight out of the Roaring Twenties." He grinned. "It would be a nice life. Beautiful women everywhere" –

"Gigolos were hired escorts for ugly rich women," Beckett snapped.

"Well, I can't be one of those, then, 'cause I'm a handsome rich man" –

"With an ego that reaches Mars" –

"Who's escorting a beautiful woman who certainly doesn't need to hire anyone," he concluded, and altered his grin to a seraphic smile.

Beckett was providing an excellent impression of a suffocating codfish. Her mouth opened and shut without finding a single word to emit. A blush tinged her cheekbones, and then spread down her face. Castle continued to smile sweetly, and failed to mention that her knees were neatly between his. Eventually she chomped down on her burger, in a we will never talk about this again fashion. Castle ate his burger, drank his soda, and didn't say a word about their under-the-table contact, which (astonishingly) was persisting.

"I'm done," Beckett eventually said, which was obvious. "I'll get the check."

"Too late," Castle said, swiping it from under her nose and going up to the till to pay, pursued by a growl, which had no effect whatsoever. He wouldn't even notice the cost. Besides, he believed strongly that he should pay for their dates. Plural. There would be more of them.

He settled the check, turned around, and found that Beckett had sneaked up on him.

"Night," she said.

"No, no. I'm walking you back to the precinct. You might get abducted by aliens, or kidnapped by the Satanic cult" –

"Don't be ridiculous. I have a gun."

"Guns won't stop aliens or the demonic forces of evil" –

"Enough! I can't stop you walking the streets of Manhattan but I don't have to listen to this insanity."

Above her sightline, Castle grinned. He'd got precisely what he wanted: walking with Beckett. Now, how to ensure that he could slide an arm around her…? Oh. The space-time continuum was not co-operating. They were already at the precinct. Where was the universe's sense of fitness and romance? He followed her in, and into the break room. She was already at the coffee machine.

"I'll do that," he said. It was his machine, and he could make better coffee – well, um, he wanted to make her coffee. He wanted to do things that would make her happy. (He silenced his over-sexed back-brain, which suggested five ways to make her ecstatically happy without a pause.)

"I'm perfectly capable."

"Yes, but it makes me happy. And you want me to be happy, don't you?"

"No." She glared. "I don't care. And I can make my own coffee in peace and quiet."

"Here I thought we were getting on better," Castle pouted. "We had such a nice date and now you're being mean to me again. You shouldn't blow hot and cold like that." He smirked. "You should just" –

"You should just shut up. I have work to do and you're getting in the way."

"I'm helping," Castle said. Helpfully.

"What?"

He tapped his phone smugly. "I ran a search for metal forgers, and I found five."

"You did? Are they the same ones I found?" She grabbed his phone and scanned the list. "No. Three are, but two aren't. Okay. You run blacksmiths and I'll run blacksmiths and we'll see what else overlaps."

Castle blinked. Beckett was on a mission, and, not to be outdone, he tapped as fast as he could to harmonise with Beckett's machine-gun rat-tat-tatting on her abused keyboard.

"Eight," Beckett said, half a syllable ahead of Castle's eight. "Show me," she demanded. Castle did. "All the same."

"I guess blacksmith is pretty specific – what are you doing?"

"Calling them."

"Beckett, it's after nine at night. They won't be there."

He swore he could actually see her coming back to the real world from her pursuit of the killer. The light drained from her eyes, and she leaned back.

"Oh," was all she said, but her expression radiated dismay. "Okay. I better go home." She flicked him a glance. "Want a ride?"

"Sure," Castle said, and immediately began plotting to invite her in for coffee.

Beckett pulled up at the loft, and waited.

"Park, and come up for a coffee. Least I can do since you gave me a ride home and went out of your way to do it."

"I have to get" –

"You work all the hours there are. You can't tell me you're tired or it's late because I know you'll be fibbing, and then I'll think you don't like me and my poor heart will be broken forever and I'll waste away and my daughter will be orphaned and" – he kept babbling over Beckett's feeble efforts to interject.

"Stop!" she yelled. He did. "Stop talking. Don't you ever stop babbling?"

"Oh, I stop talking if my mouth's otherwise occupied," Castle oozed.

"You what now?" she snapped.

"Say, drinking coffee, or eating. Whatever were you thinking, Beckett? You're blushing." He grinned naughtily. "Were you thinking of something else? Care to share?"

She growled, but the blush didn't diminish. "No," she said forcefully.

"You're fibbing," Castle smirked. "But that's okay. Come and have coffee, and then you can go home and dream about my ruggedly handsome face and body."

"I don't get nightmares."

Castle's raised eyebrows showed exactly what he thought of that statement. A thin line of betraying colour slid along Beckett's cheekbones, and suddenly he wondered what the nightmares of a woman whose mother had been murdered in a back alley might be like. He shivered, and turned his gaze to her. "Come up and have coffee. Promise I'll be well-behaved."

She bit her lip. "Okay." Her face had pinched.

He couldn't help reaching over and patting her hand where it lay horribly still and lax on her knee. She didn't protest, argue, or remove it at the wrist. Of course, she didn't turn her hand up to entwine with his either, but, on balance, he was winning. He took his hand away before he could lose everything he'd gained, and hopped out of the cruiser. Beckett followed, more slowly, somehow crumpled and smaller. He wanted to hug her in; wrap her close and keep all the nightmares away.

To do that, naturally, she'd have to be asleep next to him, or in his arms. He firmly put that thought away: he'd just promised to behave, but it sneaked back to tempt him. Even patting her hand had blazed through his body.

The loft was quiet, which meant, thankfully, that his mother was absent.

"Sit down, while I say hello to Alexis," he said, "and then I'll make coffee."

Beckett tucked herself into the corner of the couch, and though her spine was straight he had the strange sense that she had slumped. Her face was still slightly pinched and pale, and he wondered again what nightmares she might have. He could think of plenty.

He lolloped up the stairs and knocked at Alexis's door. "Hey, I'm home."

"Hey. Okay. I've got a physics test tomorrow."

"'Kay."

He lolloped back down again, and went straight to the coffee machine. "Usual?" he asked.

"Please."

She sounded tired, and when he flicked a glance her way, she'd curled down and into herself. He made the coffees and brought them over.

"What's up?" he asked carefully.

She didn't answer for a moment, hands curved around the coffee cup, eyes far away, looking at a scene she didn't like. "It's a nasty murder." She paused. "Spiteful, vicious. There's got to be a reason, but it won't just be anger. It's – there's hatred there. Lots of planning." She shuddered. "It's nasty," she said again, but it wasn't the way a child eating sprouts would say it. It carried weight, and adult implications of loathsomeness.

Castle considered, recalling the ghastly scene to his excellent memory. "Yeah," he agreed slowly. "It was planned. You don't find harpoons and bronze nails easily."

"No. Someone really hated this guy." She sipped her drink. "We need to find out who."

"When you know who, you know why?"

"I think this time it's more about knowing who knew how," she corrected. "Like you just said. Tomorrow, we'll see what Ryan and Espo have on harpoons, and cross-match with our metalworkers." She shuddered again. "I don't like the feel of this one."

Castle didn't joke about Satanic rituals this time. Even on shortish acquaintance, he respected Beckett's instincts for motivations, and if she said she didn't like it, there was something there that was tripping those instincts. "Why?"

"How did nobody hear it? Okay, it's inside, but how do you not hear hammering?"

"Soundproofing," Castle tossed out.

She sat bolt upright, suddenly energised. "You only know that if you know the building. It's got to be someone who works there. Nobody would take that risk if they weren't damn sure there was enough soundproofing to keep it quiet."

"Lots of planning."

"Yeah. So who could get hold of the blueprints or who knew that the area was soundproofed – the constructors!"

"And a construction worker would have the muscle to hammer those nails in," Castle followed up.

"Yes!" Beckett said. "It all ties in." Her surge upward had taken her towards Castle, who, equally enthusiastic and energised by the prospect of progress, had likewise bounced up towards Beckett – and collided.

When worlds collide, he thought as he crashed into her and automatically put arms out to protect himself – which automatically closed around her. The breath rushed out of both of them, but – unsurprisingly, since Castle had five inches and around sixty pounds on Beckett – it was she who wound up winded and struggling to catch her breath.

"Oh my God I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry!" Castle blurted in one unpunctuated gasp. He frantically patted her heaving body as she tried to drag in enough air to breathe normally. "Are you okay?" He realised that his patting was not helping, and changed it to propping her up and stroking his fingers gently as they stayed in place around her waist. She was half-coughing, leaning against him and wheezing.

He couldn't help stepping in to prop her up straight, using his height to balance her chin against his shoulder and take her weight; and then it was only natural to ensure that she was steady by slipping his hand down to the small of her back, the other around her slim shoulders, and then it was only natural to keep her there, tucked in, fitting perfectly against him.

It took far longer than Castle expected for Beckett to recover her breath and hold herself up and, regrettably, slightly away from him. He dropped his hands – it was no part of any of his makeup or plans to make her feel that he was trapping her, and besides which he didn't feel that being maimed, shot or killed would increase his chances of enjoying life, or indeed enjoying Beckett.

On the other hand…she wasn't stepping any further back.

She turned, and plumped down on the couch, regulating her breathing and, he thought, recovering. He didn't join her, but picked up both mugs and made more coffee.

When he brought the brimming mugs back, she looked up at the click of crockery on table and smiled beautifully: no reserve or sardonic undertone. "Thanks," she said quietly. Castle, still reeling from the effect of an unconditional Beckett-smile, plumped down on the couch considerably closer than before, entirely and genuinely accidentally.

Putting his arm along the back of the couch was not accidental. Merely…comfortable. He did it often. Really. Not that it made any difference, since she was leaning forward, elbows on knees, mug between her palms. She wouldn't even notice.

And for a few moments, she didn't; right up until she drained her coffee, straightened up, stretched and leaned back, all the way into his innocently placed arm.

"What the" – she began, and then stopped, and didn't pull away and/or slap him silly. Instead, she murmured something almost inaudible, which Castle's well-tuned hearing interpreted as what the hell, sometimes I just want a hug.

Well, if Beckett wanted a hug, hugs he could certainly provide. The best hugs ever. And the fact that he'd been waiting for the chance to hug her (er, well, or something like that. Hug-adjacent) for forever (or the six weeks or so he'd actually known her) had absolutely nothing to do with the speed with which his hand settled around her shoulder and drew her in to his clasp. Nothing at all, no.

Just…everything.

He nuzzled into her hair, conveniently available as her head lay against his shoulder: a faint scent of shampoo or conditioner that he couldn't quite identify, the spiky cut tickling at his neck. She fitted his height and breadth perfectly, she tucked into him perfectly, and all in all she was plain perfect.

Far too soon she pulled away: not far, not, indeed, quite out of his reach. More a lift of the head, a small separation. He didn't try to hold her. Of course, that would be because trying to hold on to an unwilling-to-be-held Beckett would be fatal. Literally fatal.

"Thanks," she said, then nothing more for a few seconds, then, "It's time I went home."

She stood, and Castle stood with her. "I can't persuade you to a nightcap?" he said lightly, pretending that the hug was just a hug and that he didn't want to do it again, and again, and again.

"Driving. Cruiser. No drinking."

Castle grinned. "If you had a nightcap you could stay here," he flirted.

"I like my own bed," Beckett snipped back.

"I'm sure I'd like your bed too."

"Dream on."

"Oh, I will. Wanna join me?"

"No!"

"Shame. Oh, well. Dream a little dream of me," he sang.

"I don't get nightmares," she said again.

Castle merely grinned knowingly. Beckett scowled. "Good night," she said, and stalked out.

"Till tomorrow," Castle called after her, through the closing door, and smiled to himself. One small step for Castle…one giant leap for Beckett-kind. Hugs could so easily lead to more, and she hadn't said anything to indicate that hugs were undesirable.

He bounced off to bed perfectly happy with life.

The next morning, Castle bounced into the precinct still perfectly happy with life, only to find that Beckett was not happy with life.

"How can none of them be answering the phone?" she demanded of the air. "It's normal business hours."

"They won't hear it over the forge," Castle said, which, while possibly correct, wasn't helpful to Beckett's irascible temper.

She ignored that. "And why can't we find any harpoon sellers, huh? They don't have a forge. They should be answering the phone too."

"We could go see the blacksmiths," Castle suggested, recognising signs of about-to-burst-Beckett. "Maybe they'll talk to you."

"I guess. It has to be better than sitting here." She looked over at Ryan and Espo. "Can you two see if you can find any links in our vic's financials" –

"Can we find his name first?" Espo said. "No ID on him, and prints haven't come back yet. Can't do his money till we know who he was."

Beckett growled. "Put the hurry-up on CSU for an ID, then. I'm going to talk to blacksmiths with a photo."

"Of the victim?" Ryan asked. "They'll throw up."

"You find the harpoon seller, then. Maybe they'll throw up."

"They're fishermen. They're used to gutting."

Ryan went green. Castle did too, but he overcame it. "Fishermen are used to gutting," he repeated Espo's cynical words. "Yeah. They are."

"They could gut a person as easily as a fish," Beckett said slowly. "Okay, let's go talk to these blacksmiths." She smiled evilly at Ryan. "While we're doing that, you can find out about harpoons and who built the building he was found in. Who'd know about the construction or blueprints. Whoever nailed him up knew they wouldn't be heard, so they knew how well-insulated it was. Soundproofing."

"Yo," Espo said.

"On it," Ryan confirmed.

Beckett strode out, with Castle scrambling after her.

"Where are we starting?" he asked.

"MetalForgers Smithy."

"Where's that?"

"Brooklyn," she said, as the car pulled out.

"Road trip," Castle said happily, and reached for the radio. Beckett smacked his fingers away from the dial. "Ow! That's not nice."

"Don't touch the radio."

"Awwww." He paused. "If I can't touch the radio, I'll have to touch something else."

Beckett's growl shivered the subsonic layer.

"Like the window control." He whooshed it up and down a few times. Beckett's growl acquired sharp blades within it. "Or maybe the lights and sirens" –

"Touch that button and you die." It didn't sound at all like a joke.

"Or the air con."

"Do not touch any of the controls of this unit or I will shoot off your fingers."

"Okay. You're no fun."

Castle sat quietly for the ride to Brooklyn, not touching a single control of the unit, as ordered. Beckett parked, and as she shut off the engine, he stroked her hair.

"What the hell?"

"Well, you won't let me touch anything else, and the magnetism of my touch might have made you swerve the car, which would be a bit of a problem when you're driving it, so…I waited till we'd stopped."

"I didn't say you could touch me either!"

Castle stroked her hair again, just to be annoying. "You didn't say I couldn't, though. You told me lots of things I couldn't do but stroking your hair wasn't one of them. Or stroking anywhere else. If you don't want your hair stroked, what would you like stroked?"

Her face flamed.

"Oooooohhhhhhhhhh," Castle began – and Beckett stormed out of the car and slammed its door so hard that it bounced on its wheels. He guessed that one allowed hug wasn't going to be allowed to mean anything, and harrumphed.

And then he smiled, slowly, dangerously, and wolfishly. Because, he noticed, she had neither answered his question nor told him to stop. Whyever not, Beckett? Whyever not?

Thank you to all readers and reviewers.

Thank you also to CFPromoter/Lord of Kavaka for the excellent cover art.