Chapter 7
A week later, in which he'd second-guessed himself every other minute and hasn't seen Kate at all owing to a sudden surge of murders, Castle thinks himself into his full PR schmooze persona, and picks up the house phone to Kate. He'd only just stopped himself using his cellphone, which would have blown the gaff in one go.
"Beckett," clips down the line.
"Ms Beckett, this is Rick Castle," he oozes, notably and consciously deeper and smoother than his usual voice. There is a very strange noise. "I understand you bought a book of mine at the AA fundraiser about a month ago. That book was not for sale. I wondered if we could meet to talk about whether you'd be prepared to give it back in exchange for something else?"
Another very strange noise. Finally, feebly, "You are Richard Castle? And you want to meet? Me?"
"Yes. You can check my bona fides with Jenna Cournat at the AA fundraising office, if you like," he says with a slight edge of arrogant don't-you-know-me?
"That won't be necessary." Kate sounds a tad irritated. "When and where?"
Castle had thought about this carefully. Somewhere that celebrity Castle would be seen. "The Pegu Club. Time – up to you."
"Eight?"
"Perfect. I look forward to meeting you," he closes suavely.
Phew. Now to look as little like office drone Rick Rodgers as possible. He searches his closet and finds designer dress pants which he's never liked because they make him look fatter, a pure cotton shirt that looks like it – and it did – cost a fortune, and a light cashmere mix jacket, all of which scream slightly show-off wealth. Likewise, he uses aftershave, with which he's never previously bothered when he sees Kate – she might recognise Ambre Topkapi, though it's unlikely, but he won't take the chance – and fusses with gelling his hair in a very ruggedly trendy fashion.
In preparation, he'd not shaved this morning, which he knows will produce a bad-boy, well-publicised slick of designer stubble. A tiny amount of stealing his mother's make-up alters his visage by a similarly tiny fraction: just enough for him to look heavier around the jaw and face, a thick t-shirt under the shirt does the same for his torso. It's all about subtlety, but she won't be expecting Rick Rodgers so as long as he stays celebrity Rick Castle she'll never know.
His mother may be the famous actor – but he's pretty good at it when he has to be.
Beckett marches into the Pegu Club with a sharp click of heels, wishing she had her shield and gun instead of a stylish dress and purse, containing the book (which she'd had to search out, and hadn't even bothered opening). Ridiculously, she'd felt the need to dress up, which has done nothing to calm the flock of vampire butterflies gnawing at her guts. She'd rather be meeting Rick, but he'd said he'd had to work late – some deadline or other – and anyway, this is Richard Castle, whose books had got her through the worst days and whose books still get her through when she needs a little help, a little reminder of the good times, a little memory of her mother to comfort her in the dark days which come with her job.
The hostess shows her to a small table with a comfortable couch, of which she takes possession. She's on time. She peruses the cocktail menu in the dim light, and doesn't order. She can't believe this is really happening, and the small, cynical part of her mind which isn't squealing like a fan girl is not at all convinced that it isn't a Candid Camera prank, so she's not going to lay out good money on poisonously coloured drinks.
She pulls up something to read on her phone, sits back, and manages to appear perfectly at ease, as if she visited places like this every day of the week. Several moments later, there is fuss and noise and bustle moving across the floor. It really is Richard Castle. She almost forgives the lateness. She's meeting Richard Castle.
His personality arrives about four strides before he does. The toothy, commercial smile would light Times Square, though she has to admit it's very attractive. As is he, in an expensively dressed, knows-his-own-worth sort of way, with designer stubble.
"Ms Beckett? Hey." If it wasn't for the voice, she'd almost think… but no. Rick wouldn't do that. And now he's closer, he's definitely a few pounds heavier.
"Hi," she says, and tries not to be overwhelmed by the projected star quality. "I brought your book."
"Thanks. Can I buy you a drink, and we can talk for a bit?" He looks her over overly appreciatively. Of course it's nice to be appreciated by a superstar, but… that's being a little obvious. A little too close to a leer.
"Of course." She fumbles in her purse and produces the book. "Here you are."
"Thanks." The blinding smile reappears. "What would you like in return? I already offered you a drink, but dinner? Or an autograph? A signed book?" He regards her through knowing blue eyes, clearly happy with what he sees. "What sort of a drink would you like?"
His voice is exactly what she would have expected. Deep (deeper than Rick's), smooth and sexy. What it is not, however, is warmly affectionate or friendly: there's an almost-undertone of lubricity which isn't quite there when she listens. It's all style, and she hasn't yet seen any substance.
"Vodka tonic, please," she says. Richard Castle summons a hostess with a brief flick of eyes – Beckett supposes she should be relieved he didn't click his fingers – and orders for both of them. She's less grateful than she should be. A traitorous little thought says she'd rather be with Rick Rodgers. She squashes it.
"So, Ms Beckett – what's your first name?"
"Kate. And it's Detective. Not Ms."
His eyes widen. It's the first half-sincere gesture he's made, she thinks, and squashes that as well. "Really? A cop? You guys do an amazing job. What sort of a cop?"
"Homicide."
"Wow."
She's almost liking this aspect of him, as the drinks are delivered.
"Do you have to shoot people?" It almost sounds eager.
"We prefer not to," she snips, back to uncomfortable. "The paperwork is horrendous and it looks bad on TV."
He blinks. Beckett gets the very clear impression that nobody ever calls him out on anything. "Oh," he says, disappointedly, and switches the smile back on. "What do you do when you're not working?"
"Run, read." It sounds boring.
"What do you read?" He's clearly expecting the answer your books.
"Everything. Classics, romance, thrillers. Whatever suits me at the time." His smile loses a few watts.
"Well, thank you for bringing back my book. What can I do in return? Obviously I'll refund you, but would you like a signed book of mine?"
Suddenly, she doesn't. She doesn't actually like this man. The books are brilliant. The man…not so much.
He slides a fraction closer, and turns the wattage back up. "Has anyone ever told you, you have beautiful eyes?"
The whole occasion is leaving Beckett uncomfortably confused: he's just enough like her Rick that she wants to like him, and the books have been her salvation more than once. But his last words prick both her pride and her temper. She loathes being hit on.
"No. Most people are a little more subtle," she flicks back. "I'm not some groupie. You told me that book should never have been in the sale, and it's got sentimental value to you." She looks him up and down, without any approval. "I have to say I'm surprised. You don't look the type." She drains her glass. "Thanks for the drink. You can make a donation to AA in return."
"Feisty," he oozes. She only just stops her fingers sliding to her hip, where her holster should be.
"Goodnight, Mr Castle."
Last she sees, he's flirting with the hostess and pulling out his phone, no doubt consulting his little black book. She drags home, and wishes she'd never met Richard Castle, who's just another celebrity.
Castle stays in the Pegu Club long enough to be paparazzi snapped, flirt outrageously with several women who accost him and generally ensure that Page Six will be happy and populated, tomorrow. He just hopes he hasn't overplayed his hand. Kate had sounded pretty pissed with him. Still, she'd never suspected he was her friend Rick, and now he is dead certain that she has no interest in celebrity conquests. He bounces home, thoroughly satisfied with the success of his plan, and ignoring the minor niggle which tells him that an irritated Kate is a bad thing. He considers an appropriate amount for a while, and then writes out another substantial check to AA.
Casino Royale watches him benevolently from pride of place on the bookshelves, right where he can look up and see it restored.
Beckett throws herself into work the following day to avoid having to admit just how much of a disappointment meeting Richard Castle had been. It's ridiculous, and she should have expected it. After all, he's a celebrity, and no doubt that's sufficient for him to get any pretty woman he wanted. Most of them probably hit on him. He'd just… oh, just admit it, she wanted him to be more like her Rick.
She taps out a text to her Rick, unwilling to speak to him, for the first time inviting him to meet her. Remy's, as usual. Not some high-end club with expensive cocktails and glossy hostesses. Somewhere that suits her. Cop Kate Beckett. She doesn't do glossy, or expensive, or celebrity. She does normal. Burgers, not Bellinis. And Rick Rodgers, not Richard Castle.
Oh. My. God.
What has she just thought?
Hell, yeah. Rick is real. Richard Castle wasn't.
She turns back to chasing her clues and evidence with renewed ferocity, and takes out all her disappointed irritation on suspects and witnesses, as if each of them were the author.
"Hey, Kate," Rick says happily, clearly and (more importantly) sincerely delighted to see her.
"Hey," she smiles. So she thinks. After they order, she discovers that her normal control is obviously lacking.
"Something wrong?"
"Uh?"
"You don't sound as cheerful as usual. Case not going well?"
"I want a break," she grumps.
"C'mon. Tell me all about it. I've asked you a million questions, it must be your turn to talk." He pats her hand, and then leaves his over hers.
"Just had a bit of a disappointment, that's all. I'm fine."
The server interrupts them to put down their orders, and disappears again.
"You don't sound fine." He shuffles round the booth, and ends up with an arm round her. "Hug," he points out at her look. "Good when you're miserable." She doesn't protest. "Did a hot lead fizzle out?" His fingers press gently on her shoulder, and she droops into him.
"No." She raises her eyes into warm blue. For once, he doesn't say anything. Within his arm, she feels…able to talk. "About a month ago, I bought a second hand book at a fundraiser." She doesn't look at him, and doesn't explain why she was there at all. "Turns out it belonged to Richard Castle, and he wanted it back. Sentimental value, I was told." She bites that off. "So he called, and asked to meet to get it back. Last night."
Rick makes a noise of amazement, and hugs a little tighter. She turns into his shoulder. "He was such a disappointment," she chokes. "Just another celebrity who thought he was God's gift. I didn't expect anything else, but…. So I told him to make a donation and walked out. He…I wanted to like him, and he was just another jackass."
"Why does it matter? If he's just another irritating bigshot, leave him to Page Six and forget about him."
"You don't get it," she sniffs, and hates herself for dissolving on Rick's broad shoulder.
"So tell me the story."
"The books… my mom got me into reading them. We used to discuss them. When her cases weren't going well" –
"Your mom was a cop too?"
"No, she was an attorney. Defender. Fought for the little guy." She sniffs again. Rick presses a serviette into her lax hand. "But right always won in the books, in the end. Sometimes that was all she needed to know, that right would eventually win." She dabs at her face. "And then after she" – she stops, and gulps – "was murdered, it was – the books – a way to remember her. Feel closer. Hope that it would still all come right in the end." She wipes her face again. "The books were really important, and now… well, I didn't expect anything different, but…"
She chokes on the last word, and stops.
It's just as well that she's pressed into his shoulder with her head down, because Castle can't control his initial expression. Oh, hell. Oh God. If only he'd known that before last night. He'd have played it differently. A lot differently. Kate is mumbling something.
"If only he'd been just a little more like you. He looked so much like you – heavier, but…he was horrible. Leering and tried to hit on me and totally insincere. Thought I'd want him just because he was a star." The contempt blisters the table.
Oh God. Oh, God. How the hell is he ever going to fix this? He'd only meant to make sure she couldn't connect them, not that she would hate him.
"Oh, Kate," he murmurs. "C'mere." He cuddles her close, and pretends not to notice that she's crying. "Who the author is doesn't matter, as long as the book speaks to you." He thinks for a minute, and absolutely does not mention Ian Fleming and especially Casino Royale. "Like…um… Hemingway. I mean, he went from wife to wife and was a semi-alcoholic but the books are wonderful."
He turns her firmly into his chest and simply pets, saying nothing more. No-one disturbs them.
Eventually Kate emerges, red-eyed and devoid of her usual eye liner. She drinks her milkshake, and slowly eats a few fries. Castle doesn't take his arm away, and doesn't mention that she's totally tucked in. He eats his own dinner, which is tending to tepid, and stays quietly sympathetic until Kate's made a decent attempt at finishing hers.
"Dessert?"
"Coffee, please."
She looks small: pinched and cold. Castle cuddles her tighter. "C'mere," he murmurs again. "Just enjoy the books and don't worry about him. He doesn't matter."
She whispers something, which might have been I wanted him to be like you.
"You got me." He drops a tiny kiss into her hair, and lays his cheek on the top of her head. Her arm tentatively comes around him. He tries another tiny kiss, and she eases, resting against him. "You got me," he says again, and hopes that he can come up with a way to fix this, because he can't pretend to be Rick Rodgers for ever.
"Yes."
She looks up for the first time since this whole disastrous conversation began, eyes large in her pale face, and kisses his jaw, a soft, affectionate flick. He stares at her, then he leans down and softly, tentatively, places a single kiss on her lips, and draws back.
Tries to draw back. This is an appallingly bad idea and he's got himself into a bad enough situation already but she's opened to his lips and he can't resist.
When they pull apart she looks as befuddled as he must do.
"Uh…" he blurts, which doesn't really explain or help, especially when all he wants is to kiss her again, now, more, and never ever stop.
The decision is taken out of his hands an instant later, when she takes his mouth in one conquering swoop and he's rolled up, horse, foot and guns, and surrenders without a shot being fired. Truth to tell, he doesn't mind surrendering one tiny little bit. With Kate, he's sure that it's he she wants. Not some over-hyped PR construct. Hearing her unvarnished view of his alter-ego (accent firmly on the ego part of that), he doesn't like himself much. It occurs to him that Richard Castle has become cocky, rather than confident; a jackass not a wiseass.
As she keeps kissing him, he stops thinking at all, and simply drowns in the sensations. He has enough sense not to take it further, but only just. She lifts off, and gazes at him in a way he hasn't yet seen, soft and warm, with a hint of banked heat. He realises why when the server arrives – she must have heard it, though he can't imagine how when she should have been as lost as he.
"Would you like desserts?"
"Coffee, please," Kate says as calmly as if she hadn't been fritzing his brain a second ago. "Latte."
"Me too, please."
The server disappears. Castle waits, and doesn't make a move except to cuddle his Kate in and pet her hand, lost in his. She nestles in, and peeps up at him. He smiles.
"Does that mean this was a date?" he teases very gently. "Because if so, can I ask you on a date next time? I don't feel you should get all the fun."
Peep turns to eye-roll at his frivolity. "Is it really that important to your male ego?"
"Nothing to do with my male ego. If it were, I wouldn't let you pay your share of dinner. I just don't think it's fair that you get to do all the fun of date-arranging and I have to wait by the phone." He pouts plaintively. "I hate waiting for the phone to ring."
Kate rolls her eyes again. "You have no patience," she points out.
"Nope. But I haven't asked you a single procedural question all evening, so I must have some empathy. Anyway" – he grins – "will you come on a date with me?"
"Do I have to dress up?"
"No. You can even wear your shield and gun, if it makes you happy. And I can assure you we will not be going to some celebrity haunt. Or the Old Haunt," he adds quickly.
They certainly won't be going to a celebrity haunt. He'd be rumbled in an instant, and even his best bluff wouldn't get past the first five people gate-crashing their date. Also, he'd likely need to pay on card, and all his cards are Castle-cards. Office drones don't have platinum cards.
"Ugh. Not the Old Haunt, please."
"Maybe not here, though? I know this little Italian restaurant, very quiet, if you like Italian?"
"Sounds good," she says. "Text me the name and address, okay?"
"At least drink your coffee before you go home."
"I never forget to drink my coffee," she says dryly. "Even during the zombie apocalypse I'll remember to drink my coffee."
Conveniently, the coffee arrives at that moment and is, indeed, drunk. When Castle puts down his share Kate fixes him with a steely glare.
"Put it away."
"Uh?"
"If this is a date, and I asked you, then I pay."
Castle stares. He can't remember the last time anyone paid for him. In fact, no-one has ever paid for him.
"But I still get to walk you to the subway?"
She grins mischievously. "I'll even let you walk me home."
He throws his arms round her and kisses her soundly.
"Isn't that supposed to be after you walk me to my door?"
"We'll get to that," he murmurs.
Well, she is certainly going to get to that. The velvety baritone is doing some very strange things to her nerves, which were lively enough already after the kiss. If it wasn't that making out in burger bars should be prohibited for the over-fourteens, she'd kiss him all over again.
"Let's go," she says, and takes his hand.
Thank you to all readers and reviewers.
To clear up - now - a point which most of you have made (quite fairly!) as to how Beckett isn't recognising Castle as Castle: it's based firmly on my experience (and that of others) that if you see someone "out of context" you often don't recognise them. This can be rather embarrassing in real life... but it isn't actually unusual, especially if you're not expecting to meet them.
IslandJamie - well done.
And finally, fair warning, the next chapter will be mildly M-ish. Not enough to change the rating of the story, but in case any of you want to skip...