Chapter 10

Beckett attains her apartment, shadowed by Rick, who appears to be close enough to carry her should her gaping yawns overwhelm her (no chance. She's been far more tired than this and achieved more) before she sits down. Unsurprisingly, he sits next to her; equally unsurprisingly, his arm is around her.

"Home," she notes.

"Sleep," Rick suggests.

"I'm fine." She tucks her toes up under her and wiggles to become comfortable. This involves leaning her head on his shoulder and nestling in. Rick is a very comfortable shape, with broad chest and nicely muscled arms properly arranged around her.

"So what happened?"

"Huh?"

"I asked about where his car was, and you all went off like rockets and for about half an hour it was all noise and fuss and then it all stopped again."

"We needed a warrant for street camera footage, and so we all needed to assemble the support for it and then send it off. But till we get it, we couldn't go any further."

"Okay. You told me about warrants."

"So tomorrow ought to be better than today was."

"What went wrong?"

"Nothing wrong, just irritating."

"Mm?"

She curls in, and Rick automatically tightens his arm. She really likes that he isn't pushing for anything: not so much as a kiss dropped on her hair. She's far too tired to start anything, and all she actually wants is some undemanding affection, which he is providing. Warmth unfolds in her chest.

Castle is perfectly happy with undemanding affection. While he has absolutely no objection at all to more (and indeed lots more), it's rather nice not to feel a bit like a show pony: expected to perform in style. He cuddles Kate in and waits to find out what's annoyed her.

"That arrogant idiot Richard Castle."

He jumps. "Urgh?" he emits.

"He had the temerity to call me."

"Why?"

"Don't know. Don't care. I don't ever want to speak to him."

Oh, shit. This is going to be harder than Castle had thought. "Maybe he wanted to apologise?" he tries hopefully.

"What? Apologise? No chance. He tried to hit on me and when I walked out on him he was flirting with the hostess." An unformed growl emanates from her throat.

Castle, wisely, says nothing, though he resolves to try again soon. Starting the call with the word sorry might work better.

"Anyway." She peeps up through her lashes. "I really need to sleep."

Castle stands up, suddenly grins mischievously, and plucks her off the couch to sweep her into his arms. She squeaks. "There," he says happily. "I'll make sure you get to your bedroom safely." She glares. It doesn't really work when she's been scooped up, bridal style. Castle manoeuvres them through her bedroom door, carefully lays her down on her bed, plops a platonic kiss on her forehead and then a decidedly less platonic kiss on her lips, and then steps back.

"Night, Kate," he grins.

"Night," she yawns, and smiles vaguely. "Thanks."

Castle ambles towards home, trying to work out the best way of getting Richard Castle back into Kate's good books. It's not terribly successful, but natural confidence and her behaviour this evening make him think that it will all work out in the end. Likely it'll take a while, but he'll make it work. Anyway, he's energised and inspired, and Gina loves Nikki Heat. So does he.

Oh. Oh oh oh. Oh God.

Oh God. It's far too soon. It's insane. He's barely known her four weeks. This is insane. He's crazy.

And he's never felt like this before.

He has to try to fix the Richard Castle problem. Surely she'll come round, if he apologises?

But it still takes him a few days to get up the courage to try again.

Beckett picks up her ringing cellphone with considerable annoyance at the interruption, unacknowledged irritation that it's not Rick, and answers with an edge of ire.

"Beckett."

"I'm sorry," says the smooth tone of that rich asshole celebrity. "I want" -

"Goodbye."

She swipes off with a gesture that would have cut rock.

And so it goes on. Every single day she gets at least one call from Asshole Castle. Every single one starts, "I'm sorry," and every single one gets cut off. Sometimes he manages to get as far as, "I'm sorry and can I make it up?" but usually she cuts the call before he even starts the third word. Asshole Castle cannot take a hint. Or a two-by-four to the head.

On the other hand, she's appreciating Rick more by the day. He doesn't push. She doesn't push. If either of them can't manage to meet, there's no hassle, no pressure to change things around. He accepts that her job is, shall she say, random, and that sometimes she simply has to cancel, at appallingly short notice. He uncomplainingly changes dinner dates to takeout at her desk, and seems to be perfectly happy with an occasional seat in the bullpen after hours and a chance to watch the team work.

And ask questions, of course, and then theorise with crazy suggestions which would never be real in a million years. Sometimes, it seems that he thinks that his sole purpose in life is to drive them insane in less than two hours. Sometimes, it seems like it's working.

She finds herself expecting him to be in touch – and he is – but if he isn't, she misses it. She wants to be in touch with him, and though she tells herself it's ridiculously teenage and suffocating, she texts him even if they haven't made arrangements to meet. They – um, connect – in some way pretty much every day, though it's not necessarily in person.

She enjoys his tactile behaviour: never slow to hug, or take her hand, or drop a kiss on her hair, or stroke her back when he's (unnecessarily) guiding her through a door, or the subway. She even (not that she admits it) enjoys his constant talking. The only time he doesn't talk is when he's kissing her or asleep. His soft baritone rumble carries her along without effort, where she'd always thought that she liked peace and quiet. Of course, he never expects that she'll talk. He's quite happy if she doesn't, as long as she answers his technical questions for a while.

The funny thing is, she's talked more to him than to anyone. Certainly she's talked more than she ever had to Will. Told him about her mother, about the books, hinted at her father's troubles. He's very easy to talk to: to confide in. With him, she feels safe. Not physically: she's the one with the gun; but emotionally. When she's curled into his undemanding affection, it's like coming home.

It doesn't hurt that he's seriously good in bed, either – but that's not the main thing. The main thing is that he's solidly reassuring, stable, and loving…

Oh my God. Oh God. It's too soon. It's far too soon and this is not sensible, barriered Kate Beckett. This is a silly teen crush. This is the hot blaze of sexual attraction and not a firm basis at all…

Who the hell is she kidding? She's six feet under and sinking fast. She's never been like this. Never lost her head and her heart at once. It's just not her.

And yet, already, she can't imagine her day without a little leavening of Rick's ridiculousness. He brings a touch of light to a dark job, and a smidge of humour to balance the sadness of death.

Two weeks later, Ryan and Espo are ostensibly discussing the case, but in reality they're discussing Beckett's boyfriend. Since she hasn't had one since that Fed, thankfully now Fed-Ex (they really hadn't liked him), they're…um…interested. Keen to ensure he's doing right by her. And absolutely dumbfounded by how wrapped up in each other the pair of them are. It's almost sweet.

"Espo," Ryan mutters, "That guy of Beckett's. Rick someone. Did you get a last name?"

"No. An' after how she ripped us a new one I ain't trying. Leave it."

"Yeah, but… he looks really like that author she's so fond of. The books, I mean."

"Leave it." Esposito is firm. "We'll only get in more shit if you do. She can defend herself. Leave it till she asks us."

Over on her own desk, Beckett doesn't let the boys know that she can, courtesy of a quirk in the acoustics, hear them. But if they try running Rick, she will definitely rip them each several new ones.

The only problem is that her natural curiosity about his family and history is beginning to bite hard. She knows she shouldn't, and so far she's keeping it under tight control. Sense says: just ask him. Curiosity says run him. She thinks about how angry and hurt she would be if her boyfriend ran her behind her back, and doesn't: after all, he hasn't pried into her background. It takes her nearly every ounce of self-control that she has. Knowing it would be wrong doesn't really help – she is, after all, an investigator. Consequently, she is irritable at herself, which spills over on to the boys, which makes for a tense day.

At the end of it, Beckett hasn't had a chance to contact Rick, and does have a rather nasty headache. She is therefore less than delighted when their case catches a break and they're off out on the trail at six, down into the grimy areas by the docks.

At seven, they're still searching. At seven thirty, it's getting dark. By eight, it really is dark, and the streetlights aren't doing much to illuminate the shadows round the warehouses and back alleys. Their prey has been cornered, but Beckett has a bad feeling that isn't justified by anything except her gut.

They go in. It's pitch black, except where a sulky gloom leaks through the door they left ajar.

"I want my night scope," Espo mutters.

"I want my mom," comes from Ryan, sardonically. They snicker.

"I want this guy in cuffs and a cell," Beckett snaps, low-toned. "So can we lose the kindergarten?"

There's a soft scuffing noise to her left. They fan out, skulking across the warehouse in the dark, tracking the scuffing and encircling it, closing in – until the lights flash on and they're all momentarily blinded and there's a banging noise and feet running and then a shot and a crash and the perp on the floor.

"Get a bus!" Beckett orders. Ryan's already dialling.

"Got him in the leg," Espo notes with professional pride.

"Yeah, well, now can you get him to stop bleeding before he's as dead as his victim?" She's already applying pressure to the leg. Espo assists by ensuring he's cuffed, which will at least prevent him taking a swing at anyone.

Not soon enough for Beckett's taste the bus turns up. Out of sheer irritation she's about to send Espo with the perp – his cuffs, his shot, his gun – when she remembers that the investigative unit will be along and they'll want to talk to him.

"Ryan. Take the keys for the cuffs from Espo and go with this guy. Make sure they patch him up enough to stand his trial."

"Yo."

"Espo, you get to talk to the investigators."

"Yo," he says miserably. "What are you going to do?"

"The paperwork," she replies.

The investigators arrive, and Beckett departs for the precinct, completely heedless that it's now after nine. Another shooting so soon after the last has shaken her up a little, and she needs some monotonous paperwork and then she'll go home and read for an hour or two.

So that's what she does. She takes an hour to sort out the paperwork, and then she trails home, not noticeably happier or calmer. She thinks about a glass of wine, and then thinks that shift starts at eight and she'll need to be in before that, and changes it to latte.

Storm Rising falls on to the couch, Beckett obtains her coffee, and joins the book among her comfortable cushions. It's fallen on its back, and there is a picture of the infuriating author, who just does not know when to stop annoying her. She must have declined his calls a dozen times in the last four weeks, and forgotten to decline them another dozen in which she's made it crystal clear that she does not want to talk to him.

Ever.

She looks at the picture again: so similar to her Rick, and yet so very, very different. Her Rick isn't an arrogant, pushy celebrity.

Her eyes slip down to the bio.

Richard Castle, best-selling author of twenty-five novels, including the world-famous Derrick Storm series, lives in Manhattan with his daughter and mother, Tony-nominated Broadway actress Martha Rodgers.

Beckett stops hard. Then she reads the last three words again.

Actress Martha Rodgers. Memory floats back. And your mother? Paolo had said. Is she so busy acting she can't come by? Rodgers. Rick Rodgers.

She grabs her laptop. It's not true. It can't be true. She'll prove it isn't true.

But deep inside, she already knows, and the world crashes in on her. Richard Castle. Rick Rodgers. They don't look similar. They look identical. Because they are identical.

Because they're the same man. She just hadn't wanted to see it, and passed the looks off as an amazing coincidence. And as soon as she'd turned down the celebrity, the fake ordinary guy had spilled her into bed anyway.

He's been lying to her for over a month and she'd told him exactly how she felt because of his books and how much she'd hated – him – and he hasn't said a single word to tell her the truth.

I thought I might write a story, he'd said – and she'd swallowed it and all his other lies hook, line and sinker. She'd told him all about her mother, and a little about her father, and spilled out her feelings about life, which she'd never done before, and he'd pretended to sympathise and no doubt it's all going into his story.

She still searches his history, furious, shattering misery clouding her as she goes. Every click of her mouse and keyboard reveals another deception. He works in an office. Yeah, sure. In his $13 million loft in a Broome Street cast-iron block. How he must have laughed at her small rental. He doesn't want to take her to any celebrity haunts. Sure he doesn't. He already knew she wouldn't fit in. Must have been a hell of a shock for him, slumming it in Remy's with a cop.

Well, fuck him, she thinks, scrubbing her momentary tears away. Fuck him and the horse he rode in on.

She blocks his number, and then removes his details from her phone. All the books are removed from her bookcase and stacked out of sight in the bottom of a closet. She'll fill the shelves with something else. He's just destroyed the way the books had recalled to her the best memories of her mother, and she can't cope with that.

She trails to her bedroom, without looking around in case her shattered heart is bleeding out on the floor, has a scaldingly hot shower, takes two Advil because she already has a building headache, and then goes back to the precinct. Work has always been her other refuge.

Now, it's her only refuge.

Castle realises that, a while after the detritus of breakfast and morning chaos has been reduced to a clean and organised state, he hadn't heard from Kate at all yesterday. He guesses that she'd got caught up in a break on the case, but it's still surprising. Normally – they have a normally now – she fires him a quick text when it's all done. He taps out a quick note: how's the case?

It doesn't deliver. He looks at it in astonishment, and resends. It bounces again. He tries a call. It goes directly to voicemail. He shrugs. Maybe her phone got trashed if they went in and there was a scuffle. He'll try again later.

Around lunchtime, he tries again. Still no answer. He begins to worry. Has she been injured? He can't stand the thought of Kate being hurt, or in hospital, and he unable to take care of her. It's not like he's got any other way to find out. He'll just have to keep trying.

By late afternoon, he's left five messages and his tension level is somewhere past the top of the Empire State Building. Something is clearly very badly wrong. Suddenly he has to know what's happened, and the only way to find that out is to go to the Twelfth and ask someone. He tears off, and after some well-judged bribery of a taxi driver arrives at the front door of the precinct in only a few moments.

"Hey," he says to the desk sergeant. "I'm looking for Detective Beckett. Is she around?"

"Sure," the sergeant says. "She's upstairs. Been there all day." So why hasn't she answered my calls? What's going on? "Wanna go on up?"

"Yeah. Thanks." He calls the elevator, and steps out at Kate's floor.

A second later, his world starts to collapse around him. She turns to the ting of the elevator, sees him – and her face turns hard and cold, and she turns away. She turned away. He hurries across to her desk.

"Kate? Kate, I was worried about you. I called" –

"I know." Her words fall like meteorites, destroying everything in their path. "I know everything." There is a ghastly pause, in which appalled knowledge starts to coalesce. "Richard Castle," she grates, and the avalanche of his own lies buries him.

"Kate…"

"Get out. I don't play those games." She might as well be granite. He stands there, frozen. "Get out." Just for an instant, the façade cracks. "They were what kept my mother alive for me. You've ruined that. Get out of here. I never want to see you again. It was my mother." She turns back to the papers before her, fingers white-knuckled on her pen, and doesn't look up.

She doesn't look up when his heavy tread takes him back to the elevator, nor when it announces his imminent departure, nor when the doors close. All he sees, through blurry eyes, is her rigid back and shoulders, her bowed head and the sharp jagged line of her short hair on her neck.

He doesn't know how he gets home. He doesn't know how he gets into his study. He doesn't know how the time passes.

All he knows is that she's gone.

Kate's left him. Kate's found out the truth and she's left him.

Beckett goes straight to the restroom as soon as the elevator doors have shut, locks herself in a stall and cries every tear she hadn't shed the night before.

And then she repairs her make-up until nobody could tell, goes back to her desk and keeps right on working. It's not as if she has anything else to do, after all.

Thank you to all readers and reviewers.

To the guest who asked: 15 chapters.