Disclaimer: The only part of Castle that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.
One advantage of flying first class is that if you have a dog under your seat, in his carrier, the flight attendants often look the other way if you take him out and hold him on your lap. Marla, who's currently dancing attendance on Castle, is technically looking the other way, but in fact she's looking right at Pretzel and talking to him as if he were a baby, a human baby.
On the first pass, she tickles him under the chin. "Aren't you a little sweetheart!"
Delivering a glass of juice and a bowl of mixed nuts to Castle, she asks, "How hold is the little guy?"
"Fourteen weeks," he answers, wondering why he feels proud.
"Aw, he'll be a heartbreaker when he grows up."
"Already is," Castle says, as bashful as he's ever been in his life.
Ten minutes later, Marla cruises by again and pats Pretzel on the head: "Who's a good boy?"
Somewhere over eastern Pennsylvania: "Oh, look at those beautiful brown eyes. Are you Daddy's little boy?"
Well, no, Castle thinks, since 1) Daddy has blue eyes and 2) he's not actually Daddy, though he appreciates the sentiment.
When the plane begins its descent, he tucks the dog back in his carrier and puts him back on the floor next to his feet. Pretzel looks forlornly at him through the soft mesh. "Now I know what Beckett means about puppy-dog eyes," Castle thinks, with a modicum of guilt.
Since he doesn't want to stand in the taxi line and expose Pretzel to the bitter cold, he called ahead for a car. The driver is waiting inside the terminal and as soon as Castle has buckled his seatbelt he unzips the carrier and settles the dog on his lap. Pretzel stands on his short hind legs, bracing his front paws against the padded door, and watches intently through the window. "Take a good look, kiddo. This is your city now. Cool, huh?"
Pretzel turns around, makes an unidentifiable but endearing snuffling sound, and nuzzles Castle's palm.
"You're adorable." He contemplates his companion's velvety ears and wet nose. "Oh, God, I'm a total goner."
When they reach Broome Street, he decides to take a short walk around the neighborhood. The dog—dressed in one of four sweaters that Castle had bought earlier in the week—needs to go out after being cooped up in a plane, and Castle wants to introduce him to the olfactory smorgasbord that is a Manhattan sidewalk. This proves to be far more challenging than he had expected, as he hauls Pretzel away from one grostequerie after another: a dirt-encrusted doughnut; a variety of cigarette butts and one particularly repellant cigar end; the remains of a chicken drumstick; a crushed mini Snickers bar, possibly stuck to the cement since Hallowe'en; a condom; what looks like a granola bar but could be something else entirely; a puddle of Red Bull, and many used Kleenexes. Oh, and a child's mitten, which apparently appeals to Pretzel because of the frozen peanut butter on the thumb. This first foray into the urban jungle comes to a halt as Castle scoops up the puppy and carries him home.
"Wait 'til you get to Beckett's apartment," he says as they ride the elevator to the loft. "She has stuff in her refrigerator that's even more disgusting than some of the things you found. You're going to love it there."
Once they're inside, he shows Pretzel where the water bowl is, along with his three beds (living room, office, Castle's bedroom), and starts tossing a squeaky-toy pretzel for him to chase. As he throws the toy, picks it up, throws, picks it up, throws, Castle reflects on how lucky he is that the puppy spent the last few weeks in a veterinarian's office. The staff not only housebroke him but made sure that he was socialized, so two possible objections that Beckett might raise when he introduces Pretzel will be quashed before they can leave her lips. Oh, her lips. If he had his way, he'd never leave her lips.
Corniness has returned and he doesn't care.
The next step is to give Beckett the present that he has found for her, something that he hopes will incline her mind to pet ownership without her realizing it. It had taken him some time to track it down. He didn't want a paperback, which is the only available format at the moment. He wanted a sturdy hardbound copy like the one that she must have read while lying on her bed or in a hammock or on her back in the grass or curled up with her mother on the sofa. A copy that could have stood up to grubby, scrabbling hands turning the pages a thousand times.
Two days ago, he got it: a pristine copy for which he paid 75 dollars and would happily have forked over ten times that much. He opens the bottom drawer of his desk and takes it out. "See this, Pretzel?" he asks the dog, who looks exceptionally intelligent and attentive, qualities that match those of his future owner. "This is the book that started it all."
It's five o'clock, and if he has timed this as well as he hopes, she'll be there, and available. He makes the call.
"Castle?"
"It is I, Beckett."
"I can tell you've been running with the literati today."
"Oh, right," he confirms, glancing at Pretzel, who is looking anything but literary as he scratches his ear, yawns noisily, and sticks his head inside Castle's recently removed shoe. "And it's made me incredibly thirsty. Any chance you want to get a beer?"
"Uh, sure. Just wrapping up a few things. You have any place in mind?"
"How about Hair of the Dog, on Orchard?"
"Seriously? A sports bar? You?"
"I like the name."
"You ever actually been there, Castle?"
"No, not exactly."
"Not exactly? What does that mean, exactly?"
"Never been there. Just like the name and it's not far from here."
"Well, it's noisy and full of drunken grad students playing beer pong. Any other ideas?"
"How about my place?"
"You trying to lure me to your apartment?"
"Not this time, Beckett." He looks at Pretzel, who looks back. "I meant my bar, not the loft."
"Okay."
"Want to meet me there at six?"
"Yup. Bye."
Good, she's taken the bait. He had never had any intention of meeting her anywhere but the Old Haunt and he's busy congratulating himself when he hears the front door open. "Alexis?"
"Hi, Dad."
The next sound is of puppy toenails on bare wood, followed by puppy yelps as Pretzel slides to a stop in front of Alexis. She squeals, which ups the ante on yelping. "Dad!" she says, as her father approaches. "He's even cuter in person."
"Dogson."
"Whatever."
He spends the next half hour with his daughter and the dog, issues care and feeding instructions, and leaves for the bar. He wants to get there before Beckett, to set things up. He's wrapped the book and put it in a bag.
When he arrives, he tells the bartender that Detective Beckett should be there any minute, and asks him to send her down to his office, which is where he's heading. He gets two wine glasses and a corkscrew from the cabinet behind his desk, pulls out a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon and opens it, and carries everything to the coffee table in front of his sofa. He has just set everything up when he hears her heels on the staircase.
"Hi, Beckett," he says, raising the bottle but covering the label with his hand when she comes through the door. "Just letting this breathe for a few minutes."
"Hi, Castle," she responds, unwrapping her scarf as she does, then depositing it, her coat and bag on a chair. "Thanks. This is a nice way to end the week."
"Friday always calls for a celebration in my book." He puts the wine down, label turned away from her. "And speaking of books, I have a little something for you." He reaches over the side of the sofa to retrieve the shopping bag he had dropped there.
She looks a little surprised. "Really? Thanks, Castle. What's the occasion?"
"Other than it being Friday? Isn't that enough?"
"Well, we've spent a lot of Fridays together and I don't recall your ever marking it by giving me a present."
"Good point. Perhaps I'll just start a new tradition." Oh, boy, is that going to scare her off? No, she actually looks pleased. A little shy, but pleased. Thank God. "Anyway, here you go. Open up."
She unties the bow that is holding the two paper handles together and takes out the book, which is covered in glossy red paper and bound with a white satin ribbon. She opens the present exactly as he knew she would, first wrapping the ribbon into a neat coil, then running a fingertip carefully under piece of Scotch tape. The instant she begins to peel back the paper, he moves his eyes from her fingers to her face. He's rewarded with an incandescent smile.
"Oh, Castle!"
He wonders if she knows that she is clutching the book to her cashmere-covered chest.
He smiles back. "Yeah?"
"Thank you. I tried to replace it, you know, um, afterwards, but I didn't want a flimsy paperback. Wasn't the same. Where on earth did you get this? "
"A book dealer I know had it."
Her eyes narrow. "A book dealer you know? Just happened to have this very copy. Sure, Castle."
"Well, okay, I did have to ask around a little."
She smiles again. "Did you read it?"
"Oh, no. No. It's your book." God, please don't strike me dead for lying, he thinks. It's all in a good cause. Of course he's read it. He's read it at least ten times since it arrived and it has not escaped his notice that Pretzel is madly in love with a dachshund named Greta whom he tries to win over with presents. Yes, he's read it and he has it all but memorized. Hopes she doesn't dust the pages for prints.
"Do you mind if I do?"
"Why would I mind? Want to read it out loud to me? I'm a kid at heart, you know. And I love dogs."
She chuckles. "Okay, I'll read aloud to you. And you have to look at the pictures while I do because that's half the fun."
Oh, more than half the fun, he thinks. She'll have to sit very close to him for this. And she does. As she starts to read, stopping to exclaim over various lines, written or drawn, he semi casually extends his arm over the back of the sofa, where it might semi casually drop over her shoulder. It does.
When she finishes, she turns her head and looks at him with the expression of a little girl who just got everything she wanted for her birthday.
"What do you know?" he says. "Pretzel won over Greta by rescuing her when she's in trouble."
"Yeah," she says, ducking her head.
"I like the boy-gets-girl books."
"Me, too," she says, her head still down.
Castle waits a minute and clears his throat. "I think this calls for some wine," he says as he fills both glasses. After setting the bottle down so that label is directly in front of her, he passes her a glass. "Cheers!"
"Cheers," she clinks her glass against his and takes a sip. "Mmm, this is nice." Her eyes go to the bottle. "Oh, my God, are you kidding me? You found a wine called Dachshund?"
"I did. Seemed appropriate, you know, to go with Pretzel. And Greta. Oh, that reminds me. I forgot our snack." He jumps up from the sofa, rattles around behind her and returns with a bowl of pretzels. "Here you go."
"Thanks. And I'm sure it was completely accidental, your finding that wine."
"Totally." He grins. "I bought a case."
"A case."
"A case."
"You trying to get me drunk?" she asks, poking him gently in the ribs.
He takes a chance and looks right into her eyes. "Is that a possibility?"
"I dunno, Castle. You tell me."
TBC
A/N Thank you for all your support for this shaggy—uh, smooth-coat—dog story.