Army Spy (part two of two)

She was soaked in sweat and sticky with pine sap by the time the thing was up in her apartment. The dog had at first chased circles around their feet as he tried to sniff and nose the tree they'd carried in, and he'd been so unlike himself in his enthusiasm that she'd been forced to lock him in the bathroom. She was perplexed by that; ever since she'd put Cujo through K-9 training, he'd been the best damn dog.

Beckett pressed her gummy fingers together and stepped back to survey their work.

The tree was actually more like five feet, now that she had been up close and personal, and as she didn't have a tree stand, they'd been forced to improvise: stacking the heavy procedure manuals from her Academy days in towers around the trunk, then binding that with bungee cord.

She put her hands on her hips as Castle stepped back as well. The tree, now completely without their support, gave an ominous creak and shifted.

"Oh shit," Castle said. He was already darting forward to catch it when it toppled. It met him like a wrecking ball, and he went down on his knees. "A little help here, Kate?"

"The books must have shifted," she sighed, stepping in to band an arm at the trunk. Together they worked it upright again, and sure enough, she heard the manuals slide back into place. "New idea."

"I'm all ears." He was panting for breath beside her, a streak of sap at his jaw that had clinging bits of... fur? Feather?

"A pot. Plants are potted, they stay up."

"I think dirt is just gonna-"

"Not dirt, but like rocks or something."

"You have rocks in your apartment?"

"I have those two heavy geodes in my bedroom," she smirked. "Put the tree in a pot, a bucket, and fill it up with rocks."

He glanced down but she knew he couldn't see a damn thing past the tree limbs. Which were looking shaggy, like they might drop. "It would also let us water the thing."

She'd forgotten about watering it. "Yeah."

"Go get a bucket, I'll hold it."

She went back through to the kitchen and opened the cabinets under her sink. When she pulled it out, the mop bucket had a full bottle of bleach nestled inside it. And that gave her an idea. "Hey, bottles of water. Like this bleach. The milk cartons." She came back to him as she talked, setting the bucket at his feet. "Water is heavy, and it will provide the necessary density to hold it in place."

"Okay, yeah," he said, grappling with the tree as she squatted down to shove the bucket in place. He lifted, she pushed, and he jammed the hatchet-cut trunk next to the bottle of bleach. He tested it out, giving it a bit of leeway, then he prodded her with his boot. "Go get more. And the rocks as well. We'll load it up. Cram stuff in there as best we can."

She scrambled to her feet and went hunting through the apartment for things to fill the bucket with. (Why didn't they just go buy a damn tree stand? Everyone everywhere was buying seasonal items; in a city this size, one more couple would not stand out). She nevertheless dumped the spoiled milk into the sink and rinsed the jug with soap a few times before filling it with water. It would act as another anchor for the bucket, if they could cram it in. With that thought, she dumped the water, mashed the jug with a sizable dent, and then put water in it... slowly so as to not pop it back out.

When she returned, he was sitting on the floor with the bucket between his knees and one fist around the trunk like a damn lumberjack. She showed him the milk jug and he grinned. "Smart woman." She handed it over and he worked on getting it crammed into the bucket, while she sank to her knees and helped hold the tree in place.

Then the geodes, which wedged it in so tight the tree didn't even shift when they let go. Carefully, hands ready to brace the tree in case it began to topple, they both scooted out from under the limbs and began to stand, backing up.

The tree held.

She took a slow breath, straightened her spine.

Castle gave a war whoop that echoed across the beams of her ceiling and vibrated in the wooden floor.

And that's when the squirrel leapt from the tree and clung to a crossbeam before screaming its way to the little half-circle window.

Where it promptly smashed into the glass and knocked itself out cold.

"Holy shit," she croaked.

"No wonder Cujo went crazy."

They stood shoulder to shoulder before the limp body. Beckett stared at the small thing, hand on her hip, scowling. "Damn squirrel. Is it dead?"

"I don't know. Let's see." He bent down to touch it.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" she gasped, yanking on his shoulder.

But it was too late. He'd picked up the squirrel in his fist. "Heart's beating."

"Holy shit, Richard. That thing could be rabid. It's definitely diseased, look how damn mangy it is."

He lifted an eyebrow. "So?"

"And so what if it bites you?"

"Doesn't really matter, you know." He shook his head and glanced around the room. "So uh. Where do you think we dispose of this? I could put it down the trash chute in the hall."

She winced. "You said it was still alive?"

He grimaced. "Not for long." Began to squeeze—

"No!" She grabbed at his forearm. "Don't kill it."

"Why not?"

She gaped at him.

He backed up. "Okay, yeah, okay. Won't kill it."

"We can't kill it," she repeated. Was she trying to convince herself? "No. Okay. Before it wakes up we need to find something to put it in."

"Put it in?"

"To take him back."

Richard gaped at her.

She crossed her arms over her chest and lifted an eyebrow.

"Take him back," he repeated, glancing around the room as if for help.

"To where we stole him," she hissed. She backed up as he tried to approach, wary of the limp thing slung over his knuckles. She turned for the kitchen. "Here, we need a container."

"All of your containers are in the fridge growing mold," he called after her.

"Shut up." She crouched before a cabinet and began digging through dusty casserole dishes and pans she never used. She found a plastic soup container with the lid shoved into it, warping the plastic, but it looked fine. Tall enough that the squirrel, when it came to, wouldn't be able to push up against the lid. She thought. "How's this?"

"I don't care," he muttered and took the container from her. She held the lid, watched him drop the squirrel gracelessly inside. "Lid?" He smashed it on top and gave it a little shake. "I think it's dead."

"Shut up. Stop shaking it like that. We have to take this back."

"All the way back?"

"At least to the edge of the property," she hissed.

"You're a cop—you want to go back to the scene of the crime?"

No, but the guilt was seeping up. "I stole a tree."

"No. I stole a tree. You just helped me carry it out."

She scraped both hands through her hair, gave a little muffled scream. "What the hell is wrong with me?"

"Nothing is wrong with you," he said. "Come on. The truck is parked illegally anyway. Let's put this stowaway back where he belongs."

The hour drive was silent. The soup container with its contraband was nestled in a cupholder, crooked because it didn't fit, and neither of them touched it. When they arrived, the same dirt road to a clearing, he got out without a word, grabbing the container as if she wasn't even there.

Beckett hopped out, racing around the front of the truck. "Wait. It hasn't woken up yet."

Richard's look, when he turned his head to her, was so scathing and cool that it brought her up short.

She fumbled for words. "You—we can't just leave it out here defenseless—it's not dead, is it?"

"Does it matter? It's a squirrel."

"Which we took from its home. We took its home. Literally—"

"All right, Beckett. All right. How do you suggest we revive this thing?"

She had no idea.

He sighed and pried off the lid, reached inside—

"Castle!"

"It can't hurt me," he muttered. She watched him poke at the still body of the squirrel, nudging and cajoling. "Come on, you little fucker, wake up."

She paced the clearing, pressing the heels of her hands to her temples. "I'm an idiot."

"Not too bad an idiot. Just for squirrels maybe."

"I can't believe you got me to do this." She paced back, glanced at the limp thing in the plastic container. "I can't believe I've risked my whole life for a damn tree." She put her hands on her hips, a lick of panic in her chest.

He poked and prodded the squirrel, said, "I never had a tree."

Well, fuck.

"I thought you'd… like doing something real," he said.

Something real? "What is it we're doing the rest of the time?"

Were his ears turning red? He set the container down and turned to her. "I don't know. What are we doing?"

She chewed on her bottom lip, shrugged, looked away.

He approached slowly, like she was the wild thing, and far more dangerous to him than every other creature out here. She hated that. She loved that. What was wrong with her?

Richard slowly tucked his hands into her crossed arms, opened her up. His body was pure heat in the winter chill, and that was the only reason she leaned into him.

He embraced her, arms sliding around her back under the coat (he wasn't wearing one). His breath tickled her ear as he softly kissed her jaw. "This is real to me," he murmured. "The most real."

She shivered, gripped his sweater as if she needed to hang on.

"What'd he do?" Castle husked. His nose was warm against her cheekbone. His lips too, always warm, every part of him, trailing across her. "Tree farm guy. What did this guy do that has you so wild?"

"He got out," she choked out. "He bribed someone or spoke to someone, and he was out of jail seconds after I put him in it."

His arms banded around her ribs, tighter now. "How many times has he gotten out of paying for his crimes?"

"A hundred," she moaned. Shivered as her frustration pulsed inside her. She made herself get a grip, but it was a grip on him. "He's been arrested seven times, only brought up on charges once. They got him for illegal possession of a firearm. When all along, he's been running one of the nastiest sex slave—"

"He say something to you?" Castle asked. Straight to the heart. "While you were out there. Working the corner for Vice. He say something?"

She nodded.

"I'll kill him for you."

Kate shuddered, gripped him tighter. "No."

"No one will ever know," he rasped. "I'm very very good."

She knew he was. She knew he could do it too, no regrets, no remorse; he would slip inside the farmhouse and make it look like a heart attack, an accident, no suspicions. The man would be dead.

And the network of human trafficking would go on without him.

"No," she whispered. Cleared her throat and shook her head. "No." More firmly now, a sense of her mother somewhere in there. "No, you won't kill him. I'll get him the right way."

Castle sighed.

Just beyond him, she heard the scrabble of feet and stiffened, pulled back just as Castle drew a knife from somewhere.

But it was the squirrel, contorting its body and launching itself out of the plastic container, racing into the trees and disappearing.

He bought decorations in a Walgreens just inside Manhattan and dumped the bag of stuff in her lap when he got back to the truck. She didn't look through it, just kept it from sliding off her thighs as he took corners too tightly for city driving.

He parked the truck in a numbered slot inside a ubiquitous parking garage; it seemed to be assigned spots for an apartment complex. She knew by now not to ask whose truck it was. He held the bag and she held the empty soup container, but they also held hands out on on the sidewalk, bodies pressed close by the wind.

She had not been put on probation, at least. "I have to be in tomorrow," she said.

"But you're second shift, right?"

She nodded. It was late for the city, even one that never slept, and the people out and about were harder, more specific-minded, held a purpose in their strides. She wondered if she and Castle looked like that now. He always seemed to mellow with her, be loose, puppy-like, too eager.

Not in the woods tonight.

It wasn't more than a few blocks to the subway, and though she knew he hated putting his face on the cameras, he didn't say a word. They rode side by side, the bag of Christmas supplies between their feet, his and hers, his fingers hooked in the plastic straps.

Mostly silent. A comment from him about the broken heater. Her promise that she was warm enough.

Back at her apartment, while Castle washed his hands, she shed the coat and left it draped over her couch. She worked off her boots, looking critically at the tree in her living room. Was it really worth all this?

Castle strode to the tree and began pulling things out of the bag: tinsel and string lights and wired doves, glitter-coated poinsettias with clips, faux garland with red plastic berries, packages of things.

She approached cautiously, and he turned with one of those crinkly packages in his hands: folded white paper, die-cut.

He handed it to her; she slowly unfolded the stiff thing into a snowflake.

He grinned.

She shook her head and let the snowflake dangle from its string. "Okay, it's… not as bad as I'd feared."

He beamed, started to tear into another package.

"Lights go on first," she told him. "Or it'll be impossible." She handed him the snowflake and plucked the two boxes of lights from the floor, broke them open. Two strands would not cover this tree, but she could drape the lights at the front, artfully, and it wouldn't be too bad.

"Thanks," he said.

She plugged in the first strand and they lit up in muted shades of white, green, and red globes. Not bad at all. She didn't have a timer for them, but she couldn't envision needing to light up the tree often enough for that to matter.

She strung the lights while he watched, a half step back, observing her as if studying for his next mission. (Was he?) She draped the lights in a zig-zagging pattern to cover as much of the tree as possible. The first strand only lasted through the bottom layer of branches, but she plugged the second strand into the end of the first and kept going.

She was shocked when the lights manage to just make it to the top of the tree.

She tucked the end deep into a branch and stepped back—right into Castle.

His arms came around her from behind, squeezing hard enough to make her startle. When Beckett turned, intending a retort about him not knowing his own strength, she found his eyes shiny. And not just with the reflection of tree lights.

"Oh my God, you are not crying."

"No," he rasped.

She smothered the instinct to distance herself and instead curved to his frame, gave him a hug. He deserved a hug. He'd done this; he was the one who had never had a tree before. And wanted something real.

She knew how to provide real, knew the only place they could really find it.

She nipped his jaw. "Leave it like this and come to bed with me."

He gripped her harder, a grunt of appreciation. "Give it a moment." He cupped the back of her head in a way he just did not do, as if he thought her precious. "Right here by the tree."

"Which we stole," she insisted.

"Doesn't ruin a damn thing, so hush."

She laughed, but found herself relenting. "I didn't get you anything for Christmas."

He pressed his hips into hers. "You sure did."

She snorted and shook her head against him. "You're such a brute."

"You're the one pawing at me." But his hands had wandered as well, and she couldn't stop the noise that squeaked from her. "Kate." His voice was soft even as his hands found the button of her jeans. "Kate, everything can be redeemed."

"What," she gasped. Tried to pull her head back to question, to deny him. His slid his hand just inside her pants and all her thoughts fled.

"That's Christmas, right? We made something beautiful out of a tree we stole from a guy who keeps women enslaved on that farm."

She whimpered.

"And you and me."

"What?" she moaned.

"We make something beautiful out of the mess we are, the crazy angry reckless assholes—"

"Speak for yourself," she tried to mutter, but her hips belied her attempt at indifference. She loved this, this feeling, his touching her, her body blooming. "Oh God yes."

"Yes," he said, his own breathing as fast as hers. His lips ran roughshod over her mouth. "Yes. That's real, we're real."

"Yes," she gasped, and couldn't deny him when he laid her down in the glow of the tree.

—-