Chapter 13

Castle refuses to move. She's so small and hurting against him, so ridiculously vulnerable and fragile. He can't leave her uncomforted. He just can't.

The massive error in his thinking becomes apparent to him about the point he hits the floor.

"I said don't touch me," she spits. He stares up at her. "Try that again and you'll be in a cell."

"But" –

"I said No. Or is that something else you don't care about?"

"No! I've never" –

"So what was that, then?"

"You were crying. I just wanted to comfort you."

Her expression says it all. She doesn't believe a word of it. Castle realises that whatever he may have thought about her fragility, he was wrong. Or – if not wrong, because she was crying and she is upset – she's quite deliberately projecting her workaday interrogation self.

"Look," he says desperately, still sitting where she'd dropped him on his ass with one well-judged hit, "I'm sorry. I never, ever wanted you to be hurt. I" –

"Wanted to write a book. Wanna tell me how that's going?" She pauses. "Truthfully, if you can manage that."

"I didn't" – he stops, under her disbelieving gaze – "Okay. Yes. I did. You were the first inspiration I'd had in months. I had no words. None. And then I met you totally accidentally and it all came back and I didn't need my book to write this one but just in case I kept trying to get it back and then you had it all the time…" He runs down. She's staring at him.

"Book," she emits flatly.

"It's with my editor," he admits.

Her jaw crashes to the floor. "What?"

He cringes. "Um…it's finished. I mean, Gina will want to edit it and make changes and ask dumb questions but it's basically done."

Kate makes a series of gleeping noises which add nothing to the situation. She still looks like she might shoot him, but it's now cut with utter confusion.

"You wrote a whole book?"

"Yes," Castle babbles. "It was just like it used to be when I first wrote and I could barely keep up with my brain and it was all right there and it was all because of you and then you actually liked me not some PR jackass and I wanted to see more of you and I couldn't stop writing and then it was all about you and then I found out it was you who bought my book at the fundraiser and the universe was just totally not on my side and I didn't want to spoil it when it was all going so well" – he finally sucks in a breath, but she's incapable of speaking – "so… so I fucked up."

She sits down hard on the couch. Castle realises he's still on the floor, but, in the first thing he might have done right since he came here, stays there.

"Damn straight you did." That doesn't sound good. Nor do the next words. "I didn't mean the book you" – her face twists – "said you thought you might write. The story." Acid burns less than her tone, but her eyes are brimming. "I meant Casino Royale. Your book."

He's as intimidated as he was when she fake-interrogated him.

"Was that just a line too? See if I'd fall for your celebrity-showoff? You were testing me. You didn't trust me."

"No! I wanted my book. I needed my book back. I knew if you knew I was me I'd lose you" –

"Whose fault would that be?"

"Because I'd" –

"Lied."

"Well, yes, but that's not the point" –

"Yes, it is."

"It's not. The point is that I needed my book back and I needed to write this book and I couldn't lose you and then you wouldn't let Castle-me apologise even when I kept trying and" –

"What's so important about a beat-up copy of an old book?"

"I need it. It's…" He stops, colours unhappily and shrinks into himself.

"What?" she snaps.

"It's my inspiration," he confesses. She regards him with a piercing stare, drilling into him. "I was given it when I was ten. Some stranger in the New York Public Library. And" – he squirms with embarrassment– "it made me want to write. And then it was my" – he searches for the precise word under Kate's searing glare – "talisman." He focuses on the floor. "I knew it was there and when it was there I could always write and then I couldn't and the book wasn't there and I had no words. None." He finally raises his eyes. "And then I met you in that bar, and they all came back."

She's gone back to jaw-dropped dumbfoundment.

"I had to keep seeing you."

"To write your book."

Castle doesn't answer, instead looking at the floor again. The next sentence is not going to go down well, he just knows it.

"At first," he says heavily. Truth, far too late, is all he has now. He doesn't have Kate. "But then it was you." He stops. "And now I don't need you for the book because it's all written and anyway I can get into the precinct for answers if I have to because the Mayor is my poker buddy." He doesn't mention Roy. That really won't help him now. She gapes, ashen. "It was you. Since about two weeks in it was all about you."

He rises inelegantly from the floor.

"I'd better go. Just… whatever else you think, I never wanted you to be hurt."

He walks out, closing the door quietly behind him, and makes his way to the elevator by touch, since he can't see through his blurred eyes. Nothing comes from behind him. He hadn't expected it to.

Behind the closed door, Beckett slumps on her couch and tries, fruitlessly, not to cry. And then she goes for a shower where she can pretend to herself that the water pouring down her cheeks is only the spray, and rubs in her moisturiser when she can pretend she doesn't remember Rick doing it for her, and goes to bed where she can pretend she's perfectly content to be wrapped around a plump pillow.

In the morning she wakes up far too early, goes to the precinct, and spends well over an hour in the gym beating hell out of the bag and anyone stupid enough to take her up on the offer of a sparring match. When she gets downstairs to the bullpen, she's still well ahead of Ryan and Esposito; burying herself in her caseload: head down, back bent, and pursued by her misery.

He lied. He lied all the way along, and she was as credulous as all the dumb women who ignore all the evidence and sit there crying he would never. Well, he did. Whatever he says, he lied and he knew he was lying. She takes out her fury on her cases: slashing notes on her pad and hammering out e-mails and forms on her keyboard.

From his office, which he had reached without informing Beckett of his presence, Montgomery considers his options. He's more than a little horrified at the mess his pal and his best detective have got themselves into, though friendship certainly doesn't prevent him thinking that Castle has made a complete circus of something that might have worked out rather well if the dumb cluck hadn't tried to be clever. Beckett, he notes, is doing just what she always does, which is ignoring the problem until it goes away. He wonders if she's worked out that the problem won't go away, because like it or not Rick Castle is a megastar author and anything he writes will be a very public bestseller.

She doesn't look happy, he notes. He also notes Ryan and Esposito taking a long, assessing look – when she can't see them: he does not employ idiots – and then exchanging glances. Montgomery rapidly infers from their expressions that they know more than Beckett thinks they do. Okay then. He doesn't need to do anything at all – yet.

His happy inactivity is punctured when his email pings with a note from – aw, shit – Rick Castle. That's the last time I take your advice, Roy. Seems it hadn't gone well. He knew that already. He doesn't bother replying. Rick won't hesitate to tell him all about how bad his advice had been, at length and with considerable thesaurical repetition, next time they play poker. He turns to his in-tray, which is almost as tedious as Rick's commentary will be.

Round about lunchtime, the boys sidle up to Beckett's desk.

"Want some lunch?" they ask.

"No, thanks. I'll go out later." Espo raises eyebrows at her. "Shorter queues at my favourite sandwich bar."

"Okay."

Ryan and Esposito amble into the elevator. As soon as the doors have shut, their demeanours change.

"Let's go," Ryan bites.

"Yeah."

A fast trip in Espo's cruiser later, the two of them are pulling up at 595 Broome Street. They flash their badges at the doorman, who waves them through quite happily, stride up to Richard Castle's apartment, and press sharply on the door buzzer.

"Hello – what are you doing here?"

Espo pushes in, Ryan right behind him, and shuts the door hard.

"So it is you. What did you do to Beckett?" Espo fires. Normally, miscreants quail under that look and tone.

"What the fuck business is that of yours?" comes firing straight back. "You got a reason to be here? If not, leave. Now."

"What did you do?"

Castle's face turns cold and hard. "Did I invite you in? No. Have you got a warrant?" Pause. "No. Get out, or be on the wrong end of a complaint. And don't think your Captain will get you out of it. No warrant, no entry. Out." He opens the door.

"You fucked with our friend."

"Not your business." The door remains wide open. Castle pulls his phone out, and flicks it on. "Five seconds, or I dial 1PP."

They leave, crestfallen. Behind them, the door slams shut, echoing through the block.

Behind the door, Castle returns to his study and the closed lid of his laptop, the used glass from the night before: the detritus of long, unsleeping hours. He wonders, miserably, if Beckett knew that her co-workers were going to try to start a fight. He can't imagine so, but then, he'd thought if he really tried to mend matters then it might have worked. Instead he's sitting here exhausted and wrung out: with no Kate, no inspiration, and no hope for either.

The day doesn't improve. Gina e-mails him, no doubt in a co-ordinated attack with Paula, who also e-mails him, with the publication schedule for Storm. Paula adds the PR schedule. The launch party is this Friday. As in, two days from now. His mood is not improved when he finds she's attached the first round of edits, either.

Fuck.

Normally, he likes launch parties. He's the star of the show, there are lots of pretty women who want to talk to him, the champagne flows, and the royalty till starts chinking so fast he can't keep track. All the attention is on him, and everybody loves him. He's always loved that.

Till now. Till he's realised that he's become a spoilt, arrogant jackass. Till he's realised that there are people out there who don't like that. Till he found someone who liked him as he used to be, before he was a star.

Till he found Kate.

Now, he's not looking forward to it at all. He'll still have to play the star, the cocky, confident Rick Castle who's only looking for his name on page six and his books to sell by the million. He'll have to go along with Gina and Paula's plans to start trailing Nikki Heat. He'll have to be there on show, on form, all evening.

And he doesn't want to go.

He doesn't want to do any of it: he doesn't want to play the star and flirt. He just wants Kate, and to be able to go to Remy's and not put on the PR shell; to ask her all his thousands of questions and see her roll her eyes and then grin and threaten to shoot him if he doesn't let her eat her dinner; to be joshed and snarked at; then to hug her and to be kissed and be in bed with her; and finally to be cuddled together and just to be him.

He stays slumped in his office. Eventually, a small idea percolates the fog of misery. He could ensure that Kate was invited to the launch. Not that she'll come, but it's something. Anything. She'll know he won't simply forget her. He doesn't want to forget her.

He won't forget her. There has to be a way to fix this.

He has to fix this.

Ryan and Esposito hurry back, not forgetting to buy their lunches. Neither of them wants to discuss the fiasco of the last half hour. They hadn't expected to be treated like that, and they don't at all appreciate the verbal roughing up. They're the cops. They should be treated with respect, not thrown out like the trash. The fact that they had no cause and no right to do what they did is an unpleasant – and therefore ignored – curling in their guts.

They don't give Beckett – who doesn't appear to have any lunch yet – much more than a casual wave, and sidle back to their desks to dispose of their wraps and absolutely not talk about it. Fortunately, Beckett doesn't seem to want to talk about it, or indeed anything at all. Shortly, she disappears: they presume that she's gone to buy her lunch and conclude that she's upset, but not devastated.

Beckett is upstairs in the gym, punching the bag again. She's not hungry. She can't drink any more coffee without bouncing off the walls. And she absolutely does not want to be anywhere near Montgomery, who might involve himself in the whole damn mess. Montgomery has a very nasty habit of involving himself when she really doesn't want him to. She doesn't need him playing Papa Bear.

She thumps the bag until her knuckles hurt, and decides that after shift she'll go out for a long run. Tire herself out, and sleep the sleep of well-deserved exhaustion. She'll be fine. She is fine.

Fine lasts till almost the end of shift. The boys are a tad nervy, but when she's ripping through her in-tray they tend to stay well clear. Montgomery doesn't come near her, which is always a good result, because it usually means trouble – or interference. She doesn't want interference, and no doubt Richard-I-get-anything-I-want-Castle will be hauling in the big guns. Well, if the Mayor thinks he can force her to accept Richard Castle in the precinct he thinks wrong. The union will back her, especially if she frames it as sexual harassment. She doesn't have to allow it, and she won't.

And if all that defiance is covering a hard core of misery because it was all a lie and he never cared, along with covering her shattered heart, she's not admitting it. She's certainly not admitting, even to herself, that she couldn't bear to see him in the precinct and know it was all a fake.

But it's all just fine. Just. Fine. And shift will be over in half an hour and she can go home, go for her nice long run, have a lovely bubbly bath and some wine, eat her favourite takeout, and move on.

Then her e-mail pings up. She doesn't recognise the sender, but since it's not been blocked by the spam filter it can't be a prince offering her a share of zillions if only she'll send a thousand dollars and her bank details now. She opens it with some interest.

No. No no no no! Go to the Storm launch party? This is a sick joke and she is not playing. No. Way. No freaking way.

"Detective Beckett?"

Oh God. Not Montgomery too. Why now? Twenty eight minutes and she'd have been gone. What has she done? What does he want? Why her?

She stands up and follows him, murmuring, "Yes, sir?"

"My office."

She'd rather guessed that, since that's where he's aiming. She trails along behind him. She knows she isn't going to enjoy the next few moments. She just doesn't know what's wrong. Yet. She hasn't – never has – shirked, she hasn't asked for leave, her clear-up rate is excellent (as usual). There is no good reason to be hauled into Montgomery's office.

She stands at parade rest, concealing her nervousness at the click of the closing door. Montgomery sits behind his wide desk, and regards her with interest and some amusement. Not a carpeting, then. Somehow that's not reassuring either.

"I have a dilemma, Beckett."

"Sir?" What's that got to do with her?

"I have to attend a formal function. However, my wife cannot attend with me" – he makes a face, which Beckett entirely understands. The whole precinct knows that Montgomery only likes functions if his wife can go too.

"Sir?"

"It occurs to me that you would be a good substitute. I'd rather Evelyn came, but if not, you're a good advert for the NYPD."

"Sir?" Beckett boggles.

"I need a plus-one for Friday. Formal. Dress up. Evelyn can't come. You're it. Find a smart dress and we'll go straight from here."

"Yes, sir."

"Dismissed."

It's not till she leaves Montgomery's office that Beckett realises that she now has the perfect excuse to decline her unwanted invitation. She's already committed to another occasion. She taps out a decline in nothing flat, and breathes a huge sigh of relief. Twenty minutes later, precisely on shift end, she leaves. She hasn't had – and didn't expect to have – a reply.

Safely in his office and out of view of the bullpen, Roy Montgomery grins evilly. It's a huge shame that Evelyn has some school matter on Friday, because she'd have enjoyed the Storm launch party immensely. Still, every cloud has a silver lining, and this way he can put Beckett in proximity to Castle and give them a chance to fix their collective screw-up. Beckett will be cheerier, which is good: he can't afford the overtime bill if she works 24/7, which she will try to do if miserable; and Castle won't bend his ears with complaints and constant whining for assistance. Roy could clearly see the next request heading straight down the track – that Castle be allowed into the precinct – and he doesn't think that would produce bullpen harmony.

He makes a note to remember to dress sharply on Friday, and turns back to his never-ending in-tray, smirking.

Thank you to all readers and reviewers.

Yes, this is the infamous Storm launch party.

ICCA: Yep, at this point he can't win, but then as far as she sees he couldn't tumble her into bed as celebrity Castle so he did it the very next day by pretending to be Ordinary Joe. Catfishing, in reverse.

The daylight saving change here is not for a couple of weeks. Posting is therefore at 3pm EST till we get round to it.