Disclaimer: The only part of Castle that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.
A/N I changed a few of the case details for the sake of this story and the KB-RC relationship.
"Kто это?" Her voice is sharp as she jerks her head in Slaughter's direction, glad that she had chosen to wear the bright blue contact lenses and the pink lipstick.
Castle has no clue what she's saying, but he wants her to do it again, without Slaughter in the background. Though if he hadn't shown up, Beckett wouldn't suddenly have become Russian. And if Slaughter hadn't come roaring out of that building, she wouldn't be in his lap, either, doing what she's been doing. Even in his befogged state, he recognizes the Sterling silver lining in the storm cloud that is Slaughter.
"Who is that?" she asks with a heavy Russian accent, translating her own question.
"Huh?" Her breath is still hot against his ear and she's pinching his bicep. "Oh, him? He's my partner."
"Your partner? You are gay, big boy?" Her eyes are wide and unbelieving as she pokes him in the middle of his sternum. "I do not think so. But him, maybe yes." Her faux platinum ringlets bounce when she tosses her head towards Slaughter, making sure that only a portion of her face is visible. "He is gay?"
"Me?" Slaughter shouts from a few feet away. "No fucking way, sweetheart."
"I am not your sweetheart," she shouts back. "But I think this one maybe is mine." She slaps Castle lightly on the cheek and winks at him. "He is rich man, no? Look at shirt." The top two buttons are undone, so she slips her hand through the open neck and begins to caress his chest. "Is nice, expensive shirt for nice, rich man." Wiggling on Castle's lap again, she waves her other hand dismissively at Slaughter. "Yходи. Go away."
"Beckett," Castle whispers desperately against her neck. "Sit still."
Slaughter's face is almost purple. "Get out of the car."
"Tell your partner we are busy," she instructs Castle. "We about to get very, very busy."
"Listen, Slaughter," he says. "It's a bit, uh, tricky for me to get up. I mean to get out, get out of the car, just now."
"I'll rip this damn door off if you don't, Sherlock. Who's the cowgirl riding your Levi's?"
"Svet—. She's Svetlana." Beckett rewards him with a squeeze of his thigh. "She surprised me while I was waiting for you and your—." He squints and peers through the windshield at the tattooed trio that's slouching in the background. "Who are those guys, anyway?"
"You just fall off the taco truck, hombre? They're Mexicans. I rounded 'em up because they're gonna help us nail Vales. They don't like him much. Now get that fine little Russian piece outta my car or I'll throw you both in the river. You can get a room later. Time's a wastin'."
"Gotcha." He reluctantly starts to lift Beckett-Svetlana from his lap, and she obligingly slides off. "Sorry. Sorry, baby," he says. Holy shit, he called her "baby." In other circumstances this would have horrible consequences, but not now. Definitely not now.
"Okay, okay. I go." Pouting, she puts her hand out, palm up, and snaps her fingers. "Where is my money?"
When had she had time to put on sparkly, electric-blue nail polish? And why hadn't he noticed it before? Oh, probably because he hadn't been looking at her hands. "Right. Um." Despite his general shakiness, he's able to extract his wallet from his back pocket, but before he can open it she grabs it and and removes five hundred-dollar bills. With both speed and expertise, she folds them in half and tucks them in her cleavage. Wow. If she'd taken $5,000 it wouldn't have been too much. He can still feel her tongue in his mouth.
She unlocks the door, pushes it open, and gives Slaughter her most blistering glare. Castle wonders if she's damaged the guy's corneas. Apparently not, because when she stalks by him on her four-inch platform heels he smiles lasciviously and swats her on the butt.
Castle freezes. Oh, not good. This is not good. So not good. Even in those shoes she can pivot like LeBron James, and she looks like she's about to take a three-point shot.
"You touch merchandise," she spits out as she wheels on Slaughter, "you pay."
Then, in a move that Castle has never seen anywhere and couldn't possibly either describe or duplicate, she trip-flips the butt slapper, who lands on his back in the dirt, the wind knocked out of him. Then she's gone. She disappears into a night that's darker than any that Castle's experienced in the city. It's not just the overcast sky: every street light and overhead bulb within 200 yards of them has been shot out. "Freaking Ninja," he says admiringly but inaudibly, savoring the aftertaste of her tongue. Before Slaughter has recovered sufficiently to stand and get in the car, Castle scoops up his wallet, which Beckett had dropped between his feet. As he shoves it in his pocket he discovers a Post-It note where the five bills had been. "BOYS at 154." Ryan and Espo are on 154th Street then, very nearby. So they're back-up, too. They're taking care of two of their own: Beckett and him. Wow again.
She's curled up on the floor in the back of her car, covered with a blanket on the slim chance that Slaughter might come looking for her. Her, Svetlana, not her, Beckett. Nice work, Castle, she thinks, smiling in the pitch black. Slaughter probably won't come, because he's hot to go after Vales, but she's prepared. If he doesn't, she'll hear him when he drives by, then climb into the front seat and follow. The boys will know when Slaughter moves, too, thanks to the tracking device that she'd slipped onto the underside of the fender before she'd slid across the front seat next to Castle.
Castle. Her fingertips brush her lips. She has a powerful afterimage of him, not on her retina but on her body. She can still feel the press of him, and she's sure that there must be an outline of him on her clothes, as if it had been burned in. It had felt like that. Scorching. He was so—. She pauses mid thought to relive the kiss. He was so responsive. That kiss. God, that man can kiss, even though she'd ambushed him. He'd ambushed her once, too, with a kiss. Last year, when they'd been trying to distract a guard so they could rescue Ryan and Espo. That kiss, that untalked-about kiss, had been amazing, but this kiss was something else. She won't lock this kiss away in a box and put it on a shelf as she had the other one. She wishes this one had gone on forever, or at least until they could leave for her apartment and tear each other's clothes off. She's getting warm thinking about it when she hears a car kick up some gravel and drive south. It's Slaughter, Castle, and presumably the three others, unless they have a ride of their own. She hadn't seen another car and doesn't hear one now, so probably not. Before turning the key in the ignition, she puts a blouse and jacket on over the tube top. At the first red light, she removes the wig and shakes out her hair; three lights after that she takes out the contact lenses, wipes off her lipstick, and nods to her reflection in the rear-view mirror. "Bye, Svetlana."
"Nice neighborhood," Ryan says. The two detectives been driving parallel to Slaughter for some time, and they pull to the curb when the tracking device indicates that the other car has turned left, towards them, and stopped. They get out and peer down the quiet, tree-lined street of four- and five-story houses that were built more than a century ago. Unlike most brownstones in Manhattan, these haven't been divided into apartments. This is a big-bucks block, very big.
"Everyone here's a crook," Espo says sourly, leaning against a projecting wall that offers them cover as well as a good view of Slaughter's car.
"How d'you figure that? I bet most of them are lawyers and stockbrokers."
"That's my point, bro. Crooks."
"Harsh," Ryan says. "Hey, there's Beckett." She'd found a space on the same street but one block west, and they catch sight of her ducking behind a dumpster. The three of them have effectively boxed in Slaughter now, but they have no intention of stopping him unless things get out of control. "You know, it still pisses me off that we have to help Castle, the way he's been behaving."
Espo shrugs. "Just think of it as helping Beckett."
"Yeah. Wait, they're moving. What is that, a clown car? Three guys just got out of the back seat. And there's Slaughter."
"Castle's riding shotgun. Looks like he's staying put."
Castle is indeed staying put. Partly because Slaughter had told him that he might have to drive, and partly because he's scared shitless. When he'd asked the three gangbangers their names, Slaughter had sneered and answered for them. "José uno, dos, and tres." He'd decided not to pursue it. The three of them are flanking the front entrance to the house, but standing in the shadows. After Slaughter rings the bell and says something in Spanish, a man opens the door; he hits the floor hard when Slaughter coldcocks him with a meaty fist. Castle wonders if he'd considered restoring his pride by using Beckett's—Svetlana's—move on the guy. Nah. Besides, he must want him unconscious, whoever he is.
"Twenty bucks says it'll take two minutes, fifteen seconds," Espo says to his partner when the four men enter the house.
" 'til they come out with Vales?"
"Yeah. Or 'til Castle gets out of the car."
"Three minutes," Ryan counters, starting the stopwatch on his phone.
They'd underestimated Slaughter. One minute, forty-nine seconds later five men emerge. When they reach the sidewalk, three take off on foot, and Slaughter hauls the handcuffed and complaining Vales to the car.
"Gimme a hand here, Sherlock," the detective says, popping open the trunk.
Castle joins him, wiping his palms on his jeans. "What am I supposed to do?"
"Pick up his feet, genius, and help me dump him in here."
"In there?"
"Yeah, in there. It's a hell of a lot better than having him carrying on in the back, kicking our asses through the seats."
"But—"
"You want me to put you in there with him?"
"No."
"Then pick up his feet. And hey, Vales? Shut up or you'll be riding somewhere worse than the trunk."
Worse than the trunk? Castle doesn't want to contemplate what that could be. "You're on your own for this one," he says, and turns around.
"Remind me to buy you that skirt," Slaughter says to the retreating Castle, as he heaves Vales into the trunk and slams the lid. "Maybe even a dress."
"That dude is seriously nuts," Ryan mumbles at the corner, handing Espo 20 dollars. "Think they're going to the Twelfth?"
"Dunno. Could be. Let's roll."
In the next minute, three car engines start, and the unlikely caravan—two unmarkeds secretly following another—head downtown. "Where are are we going?" Castle asks over the loud and irregular drumbeat of a pair of handmade boots in the trunk.
"Your place," Slaughter says.
"My place? Are you kidding me? My mother's there. More to the point, so's my daughter, doing her homework."
"You still live with your mother?" He cackles. "That explains a lot."
"Technically, she lives with me."
"Uh huh."
"Under no circumstances are we going to my place."
"Look who grew a pair all of a sudden! Good for you, Sherlock. For the record, I didn't mean your apartment, I meant your workplace. As in where you work."
"Nooo. After we interrogated Shea there yesterday Beckett was totally pissed off. She told me it wasn't my place to let you use the room."
"Oooh, bossy. You must like that in a woman. I still don't know why you're not tapping her, best natural resource in the department. She's like the hot springs of the NYPD."
If Castle could have throttled Slaughter without causing a crash that would almost certainly kill them both, he'd have done it. Instead he seethes. In fact, the Twelfth is the best place for them. Since Gates had put Beckett on the case, even if it was sub rosa, she could hardly object to having Slaughter there, could she? Well, yes, she could, and she probably would, just for show. Might as well give it a try, see what happens. Put up a front for the lunatic next to him. Besides, it's late and Gates probably went home hours ago. "What the hell. You're right. I don't answer to Beckett."
"Good to see I'm rubbing off on you, Sherlock. Helping you man up."
It's clear to the occupants of the other cars that Slaughter is going to the Twelfth. Beckett puts her cell in the cradle and calls Ryan. "Hey, guys?"
"Hi, Beckett."
"Looks like they're going to the precinct, right?"
"Right."
"I'm going to cut over to the West Side Highway to pick up some time. I want to be there ahead of them, okay?"
"Okay."
"And let me know asap if they head somewhere else?"
"You got it."
She not only takes the fast route, she uses the portable flashing light to insure that the rest of the ride will be almost stop-free. She's still wearing the micro miniskirt when she arrives at the station, but at least the rest of her is covered up. The sergeant at the desk gives her a look when she walks through the first floor to the elevator.
"Evening, Detective."
"Evening, Sarge."
"You thinking of working Vice again?"
"You never know." As the elevator doors close she gives him a grin. She loves Flanagan. He's an institution. And he'd helped her with her father more than once, back in the day. Every year on the anniversary of her mother's death he leaves a red rose on her desk. She goes immediately to the locker room, which is empty at the moment, thank God. She wiggles out of the skirt, toes off her shoes, and trades them for black pants and boots. In the ladies' room she quickly removes Svetlana's makeup and applies mascara and a little blush. Good, she's ready.
When Slaughter, Castle, and the vocal Vales come out of elevator, she's seated at her desk with a fat file open in front of her.
"Beckett?" Castle yelps. "What are you doing here?"
"I work here," she says icily. Oh my God, look at his eyes. They're so blue, and so wide open. And oh, his mouth. Is it her imagination, or are his lips a little swollen? If they are, what about hers?
"Isn't your shift over?"
"Apparently it slipped your mind, since you're so busy with your new sidekick, that I'm prepping for a trial. I've got a lot to do. And what the hell are you doing here, Slaughter? Don't you have your own place to take your suspect, or whoever he is?"
"I like this one. Scenery's good."
"Are you planning to interrogate him here? Because I thought I made it clear to Castle yesterday that that wasn't going to happen again."
"Well, unless you got promoted to captain in the last couple of hours, I don't think I have to take orders from you," he says cheerfully.
The elevator doors scrape open and again, revealing Esposito and Ryan.
"Hi, guys," Castle says. "You're working late."
"Chasing a lead," Ryan says.
"Dead end," Espo adds, glowering.
"Castle?" Beckett says, standing up. "Before you help yourself to our interrogation room again, I'd like a word." She hopes she sounds furious. She nods to the small conference room and walks commandingly there, Castle in her wake. "Sit down," she says, pointing to a hard-back chair. Once he does, she shuts the door, closes the blinds of the small window, and lowers her voice. "Svetlana, huh? Good thinking, Castle."
She's smiling at him, really smiling. "Thanks."
"Some detective Slaughter is. He didn't even know who I was."
"Yeah, well." Castle smiles back. "He might have been a little distracted by your, um, outfit."
"As distracted as you?"
"I hope not."
"I'm going back to my desk now."
"You are?"
"I am. But before I do, Svetlana asked me to do this." She leans over, kisses him hard and long on the mouth, then nips his ear and strides to the door. She yanks the door open. "And I mean it, Castle," she says, looking ferocious as she turns to Slaughter and waits for her partner to walk past her.
"Slaughter? He's all yours. And don't make a mess of our room."
TBC
A/N Thank you, everyone. I apologize for having taken a little longer than usual to update, but life has been very busy lately. It should calm down after Monday. Have a great weekend, and to all of you who observe Easter or Passover, enjoy the holiday.