Chapter 3

Castle's imagination and writer's brain were equally delighted by the smithy. It was exactly as he'd thought a smithy should be: a roaring (though, sadly, gas powered) fire; an anvil that Thor could have used to mend his hammer; tools the like of which he'd never seen, and a rack of knives and swords straight from mediaeval times. A leather-clad giant was hammering out an iron bar. He stared, utterly entranced and storing every last tiny detail in his memory; already seeing scenes where his new detective character would be in a forge, chasing down the bad guy, in peril of being spitted with a sword or shoved towards the fire.

"Detective Beckett, NYPD," Beckett said to the huge man.

He crashed the hammer down on hot iron, and sparks flew. "Yeah?" he said, unimpressed.

"I want to ask you a few questions."

"It'll have to wait. Can't leave the iron."

"How long" – clang, as the hammerstroke fell.

"Fifteen, twenty minutes?"

"I'll be back," Beckett said ominously.

Outside, where Castle could hear himself think, he looked up and down the street. "Coffee?"

"Yeah."

Castle unaccountably failed to allow Beckett to reach for her wallet, and further unaccountably didn't ask for the coffees to go. He perched on a bar stool and sipped, waiting for the disgruntled mutterings beside him to subside.

"I didn't see any nails," Beckett grumbled. "Not even a barrel or a container of some sort to put nails in."

"I didn't see any metal other than the iron he was forging," Castle added, and slugged back his coffee. Not entirely randomly, when he put the cup down his arm was noticeably closer to Beckett. Fortunately, she was staring into her coffee.

"We need to get him questioned and get on to the next one," she said. "I didn't see anything there that makes me think he'll be any help."

Castle thought. "There aren't many blacksmiths or forgers around now. They probably all know each other. If he doesn't make nails, he might know who does, or who works with bronze."

"Like we can work bronze into a conversation."

"Actually," Castle smirked, "I can. Rich best-selling author here. I could easily want some bronze work just because" –

"You're a spoilt rich man who wants something no-one else has got?"

"Exactly," he said, ignoring the lack of humour in her voice. "But enough about you."

"What?"

"Something – someone – no-one else has got. That's you, isn't it? I'm not talking about you, I'm talking about bronze metalwork."

Beckett choked on her coffee and spluttered, red-faced. That seemed to define their relationship this week: he did something and she stopped breathing properly. Not really what he'd intended. Well, not that way. He was pretty sure he could do some things that would mean she breathed very differently, but he'd rather imagined panting. Or gasping. Or, even, screaming his name. Choking, spluttering and wheezing hadn't been in his Beckett-thesaurus.

Still, silver linings and all that… He patted her firmly on the back, until she stopped coughing and straightened up, and –

Oh. Oh. Ooohhh! That had been the tiniest, titchiest, teeniest curve into his hand ever in the history of curving into hands, but it had been a curve. Okay, one millisecond's worth of curve but a curve. There was hope.

"Are you trying to break my spine as well as choke me?" Beckett snarked.

"Nope," he smiled. "Patting the back is a remedy for choking, which you managed all on your own. Unless you like choking? Personally I don't, but I aim to give satisfaction in every possible way so if you like choking – ow!"

She muttered something which might have been I'll choke you if it shuts you up. The elbow in his ribs, Castle felt, was quite definitely unnecessary overkill.

"You could just have said no choking, you know. Bruising my ribs was quite unnecessary – though if you like it rough, again, I'm happy to oblige. Be gentle with me, though. I bruise easily."

Beckett emitted a noise which would have caused a raging grizzly to back off and hide, drained her coffee and exited, pursued by a Castle. A smirking Castle. Innuendo, double entendres and outright dirty talk would suit him fine. If Beckett wouldn't allow him to be flirtatious and romantic (especially romantic), he'd fight with more…um…irritating methods. At some point, she'd be so irritated that she'd do something physical. And getting physical in one way might easily lead to getting physical in another way – and then after that he'd employ guile, cunning, skill – and romance. As long as she was happy to get physical, anything was possible.

And he really thought that she was, because she'd curved into his hand.

He trotted after her to catch up, and then settled into the same pace, returning briskly to the forge exactly twenty minutes after they'd left. They'd really thrown back that coffee, and how his throat wasn't scalded he didn't know.

"I'm back," Beckett announced to the smith. "Detective Beckett, NYPD. What's your name?"

The man grinned. "Smith."

Castle laughed. "Really?"

"Yes. Drew – Andrew – Smith."

"Okay, Mr Smith," Beckett said, "I've got a few questions for you. A man was murdered in Manhattan, using bronze."

"Bronze?" Smith repeated. "Wow. Don't see that around much."

"Can you work it?"

"Sure I could, but I haven't seen any in years. I do ironwork, like you can see over there." He gestured at the swords and knives.

"Those look dangerous," Castle said ingenuously.

"They would be – if you wanted to club someone to death. None of them are sharpened. Come see," he said proudly.

"Why don't you sharpen them?" Beckett asked, running her finger along an edge that wouldn't have cut butter.

"They're for reconstructions – you know, those guys who dress up in costume and do re-enactments?" She nodded. Castle nodded far more enthusiastically. "I'm not selling them sharp stuff – half of them would chop their own legs off. So I make them the right shape, but I don't put an edge on any of them. I could do, but…" He trailed off, and restarted. "Mostly, though, I do wrought iron. Gates, pretty looking banisters – that's real fine work – some hinges, decorative, you know?" He picked up an example, which was shaped like a seahorse.

"You're a real craftsman," Beckett said. "Do you mind if I take a look through your order book?"

"Naw. I got nothing to hide here."

"Thanks. If you don't work with bronze, do you know who might?"

"Yeah. We all know each other. Small trade, smithing. Not like when everyone had horses."

"So who does bronze?" Beckett asked again.

"Well, there are two in New Jersey – one in Plainfield and one in Hackensack." He turned to a sturdy metal desk, and scrawled for a moment. "Here are the addresses and names. They're the only ones I can think of. Mostly we all do iron and some a little bit of steel. Beyond that you need industrial size, but I can't see them doing bronze. That's small scale specialist, not something the big fabricators would do."

"Okay," Beckett said. "Thanks, that's really helpful."

Castle looked around again. "I don't suppose you give lessons?" he asked. "I'd love to learn."

"I don't, but these guys" – Smith scrawled again – "do. Give them a call, tell them I recommended them."

"Thanks."

"Thank you," Beckett said again. "Here's my card, and if you think of anything else, or hear about anyone working bronze, give me a call."

"Sure," Smith said.

"That was great!" Castle bounced, as happy as a small child seeing dinosaurs. "A real forge, and he was even called Smith. I loved it. Do you think I'd look good hammering metal?"

"Yes," Beckett said.

"Why, Beckett! That was a compliment."

"I think you'd look good doing anything that wasn't following me around and annoying me."

"Aaaannnnndddddddddd – it's ruined," he said. "But you're being mean to me again just so I won't think you like me, though I know you do."

"I do not," Beckett argued.

"The lady doth protest too much," Castle threw out, and hoped that he wouldn't be thrown out of the car. Beckett clamped her lips together and started the engine with a decided humph. "Where are we going?"

"New Jersey."

Castle decided that he didn't want to make his own way home and miss the other forges, so he shut up, retreating into his own head and plot points for Nikki Heat. He didn't emerge until the car door slammed shut, and even then he was scrambling to get back into reality. Beckett was already at the door of the forge.

"I'm looking for Jarryd Varenson," Beckett announced.

A medium-height but perfectly square person turned round, displaying a barrel chest and massive arms, with no neck. "I'm Jarryd," he said in an incongruously light tenor.

"I'm Detective Beckett, NYPD. I'm trying to find a smith who works in bronze, and we found your name."

"Yeah," Jarryd said. "Me and Tarrant Wearside up in Hackensack, we both do bronze work."

"What do you do?"

"Decorative stuff, mostly – pretty small. Filigree, maybe; sometimes jewellery. Wanna see?"

"Sure." Beckett followed Jarryd.

Castle had the clear impression that the smith didn't often get to show off his work to a beautiful woman, cop or not. Whatever Beckett was like to him (far too prickly and spiky), when it came to wheedling information out of reluctant witnesses, she was their best friend and listening ear. He ambled in behind them, to a completely different set-up from the earlier forge. This one had tiny, almost delicate arc welders; a small furnace (gas again, he noticed); and many miniature tools.

"Nice," Beckett admired. Castle tried not to knock anything. There wasn't a lot of spare space around. "Do you ever do decorative fixings? Upholstery tacks, nails, that sort of thing? Maybe with designs on the heads to make them stand out?"

Jarryd thought. "No-o," he pondered. "I never have, but it's a nice idea." His gaze turned far away. "Yeah. That could really work. Decorative heads…"

It was perfectly obvious that he hadn't registered the real question. "So you don't make nails out of bronze now?"

"No. There's never been any point. Steel would be better and stronger. Bronze is beautiful, but it's not much use for modern cabinetry or in houses. Jewellery and pretty hinges or catches, sure."

"Apart from Mr Wearside, is there anyone else you know of who might work in bronze?"

Jarryd gave the question due consideration. "No," he eventually said. "I can't think of anyone."

"Th" – Beckett began.

"But it wouldn't have to be here," he added casually.

"Why not?"

"There aren't many smiths around here, but they could be anywhere. We all ship. I get orders from all over the country."

Beckett momentarily slumped, then recovered. "So if you wanted bronze nails, how would you find them if you didn't want to forge them yourself?"

"I'd put a message up on the forgers' community on Facebook or Twitter," he said.

"MySpace?" Castle suggested.

"No. We're not looking for geriatric dating."

"Can you give me the exact addresses?" Beckett said hurriedly.

"Sure," Jarryd said, and scribbled them down. She tucked them safely away.

"Thanks," she said. "Can I get back to you if I've more questions?"

"Sure," he said again.

Safely outside the forge and in Beckett's car, Castle had an inspiration. "Rather than you posting on Facebook, I could," he suggested.

"Why?"

"I'll call it research for a Storm book. A spin-off, or a prequel, or something. Maybe a Clara Strike spin-off – anyway, I'll think of something. But lots of people will answer me and it won't be obvious that it's the police who want to know so you won't spook any suspects."

About that point, Beckett managed to close her mouth.

"I think that'll work really well," he carried on. "So, shall I do that while we're on the way to the next one?"

Beckett made an exceedingly strange noise, which might have been gleep.

"Sounds like agreement," Castle said happily and quite unreasonably, since it didn't actually sound like anything human at all. He tapped. "There we are. I'll let you know what we get."

Beckett made the gleeping noise again. "You…you can't do that!" she expostulated.

"Why not?"

Silence.

"So I can do it, you just didn't expect me to."

"You're not a cop. You shouldn't be interfering with real casework."

Castle stared at her. "You're saying that now? After all the cases I've helped with?"

"Five. Five cases. So after five cases you think you're an expert and better than the real detectives who've actually done the training and know what they're doing?"

"What's your problem?" he snapped back, instantly irritated. "I'm helping."

"Yeah, right. You didn't even wait for me to agree, just went right ahead and did it. That's not helping, it's taking over. You're not the detective here. I make the decisions."

"But you'd have agreed."

"But you didn't wait for that. You didn't know I'd agree, you just went off on your own way. You can't do that."

"But" –

"No. This time it's probably okay. But next time, what if you phrase it wrongly and it's judged entrapment? What if the defence suggests that your posting was hacked and it's all called into question? What if it's not admissible because you missed something because you aren't a cop? It won't be you explaining to the family why we couldn't get a conviction even though we all know it was that guy, will it?"

Castle opened his mouth, then engaged his brain, actually listened to what Beckett had said, and shut it again. Not one of those points had occurred to him in his rush to help.

"Oh," he said, into the unpleasant silence in the car. "I…look, okay, I'm sorry. I didn't think about any of that."

"Next time, just wait, okay?"

"Okay," Castle said, and since it seemed like he was forgiven, stretched out and shook her hand.

At least, that had been the idea. Shake hands on it, and then go on to the forge in Hackensack in perfect harmony. No problem.

Except that when he took her hand electricity sparked right through him and he didn't, couldn't, wouldn't just shake and let go. He had to keep her hand in his; bring his other hand around and up to cover hers completely, envelop it, imprison it until…

Until the end of the world, maybe, he thought, falling into her eyes and finding the future there.

And then he leaned forward and kissed her: gently, delicately, barely a brush of lips – but her other hand came up and hauled his head back to her and she opened under his mouth and…

He might have lost consciousness for a moment or two, because surely he wasn't on Earth, in Beckett's car. In some sensual heaven that he'd expected could only be reached through dreams, maybe. Her hands cupped his face, her lips pressed against his, she was kissing him back like she really, really meant it and his arms closed around her slim body to pull her into his lap where he could taste and touch and explore and….

Oh. She'd stopped.

He waited for pain, but pain didn't arrive, and he still had his arms around her. Kissing, he decided, was even better than hugs. (He squished his disobedient back-brain, which suggested, loudly, that bed would be better than both.)

She wriggled a little, and regarded him very oddly. "What just happened?"

"Well, when two people like each other very much" – Castle began – "Ow! Don't do that."

"Or?"

"Or I'll have to kiss you again to stop you mauling my ear," he teased.

She stopped: a tiny change that nevertheless shut the whole conversation off. Silently, she started the engine and pulled out.

"What happened there?" Castle asked, bewildered. "One moment you're kissing me and the next you've gone all quiet."

"We've – I have – work to do."

"That's not it."

"It's all you're getting. We need to get on with the case. Work hours are for working." The engine screeched as she slammed it through the gears.

Castle sat back on the uncomfortable spring and pondered. One half of his pondering was pride that he'd distracted Beckett from her laser focus on work. The other half was how soon could he do it again, though Beckett's shoulder wasn't exactly encouraging him. Still, he could stare at her gorgeous profile and decide where best to kiss, or nibble, or…and then he could…and then he could go south…

"You're staring," Beckett snapped, without even looking. "Stop it."

Castle stared out of the window instead, applying his excellent, close-to-photographic memory to best effect to remember every tiny detail of kissing Beckett. Unfortunately remembering every tiny detail left him struggling to control his inflammatory desire to start again and definitely not stop. If only kissing her wouldn't cause the car to crash.

He finally managed to control himself and his rampaging imagination, just as Beckett turned into a gated yard with a few parking spaces; a large structure at the back labelled Forge. He'd guessed that.

Beckett was out of the car before he'd unsnapped his seatbelt, striding across to the heavy door of the forge. Castle caught up to her stiff back just as she shoved it open, command presence radiating from her. He was perfectly certain that she'd spent the whole journey reinstating her hard shell and locking away whatever she'd felt when kissing him. Well, she could try. It wouldn't work.

The forge was hot. Castle could feel the perspiration beading on his brow, dampening his back. Beckett appeared entirely unaffected. Another big man was concentrating on whatever he was hammering, which looked like iron. Abruptly, Beckett's shoulders went rigid and she turned slightly to look at a row of containers –

Oh. Nails. Large, square-headed nails…but they looked like iron, not bronze. However, he supposed that if you could do one, you could do the other, and from Beckett's expression, she'd thought that too.

The man finished his hammering, and turned around. "Yeah?"

"Detective Beckett, NYPD."

"So?"

"I got your name from Jarryd Varenson. He said you and he forge bronze? You Tarrant Wearside?"

"Yeah." Tarrant was a man of few words and many bulging muscles under, Castle estimated, six-foot-four of dark-coffee skin.

"We're looking for someone who forged bronze nails, like those ones in that box there. Did anyone commission you to do that?"

"Oh, sure," Tarrant said casually. "I get a coupla orders a year for them."

"You do?" Castle exclaimed.

"Yeah. People trying to do stuff like they did thousands of years ago. Dumb, if you ask me, but it pays the bills."

Thank you to all readers and reviewers.

I forgot to say that later in the story the rating will change to M.