Chapter 14

On Friday evening Castle regards himself in the mirror with disfavour. He's sporting designer stubble – which itches – beautifully styled hair – which makes him look vain – and expensive shirt, jacket and pants. He is, in fact, the epitome of the celebrity star writer and playboy darling of page six.

He loathes it.

He pastes on a high-wattage commercial smile, and drags out to find Alexis and his mother dressed to the nines and ready to go. The picture is, however, slightly dented by Alexis's small carrier of schoolwork.

"Homework?"

"I have a test Monday. I need to revise."

"At a launch party?"

"No-one's going to be looking at me, Dad. I'm not going to waste the time."

Castle sighs. "Okay, pumpkin. Let's go."

"Yep, kiddo. Time for some silver mining."

"I really, really don't want to know what you mean by that, Mother. I'm sure I won't like it."

"Pish. A little flirtation is good for me. It would be good for you, too. You've been moping round for a week or more. Whoever she is, she doesn't want you. Move on."

Too right she doesn't want him. She'd turned down the invitation – he'd expected that – and said she had another invitation. Which he had definitely not expected. She's already moved past him, in less than two weeks. And sure, he doesn't think that she's tearing up the sheets with some other guy, but clearly she's gone back out there so it's only a matter of time and inclination.

He shoos his mother and daughter out to the limousine, ushers them into it, joins them, and tells the driver to go. By the time they've got to the launch party, he's pulled on his game face and fallen into the playboy personality: smiling (smirking) and flashing white teeth, exuding charm, wit and personality. All of it is totally fake. Almost as fake as Gina's pasted on smile and rousing introduction.

However, he's inherited a whole bunch of his mother's talent, and right now he's using every last iota of it to hold himself out as Richard Castle.

He finishes his speech, jumps down from the stage, collects a glass of champagne (got to keep up the act) and manages to resist the temptation to down it in one and carry right on till he can't see straight any more. Only the knowledge that Alexis is here stops him. He sits in a celebrity-obvious spot at the bar and lets the party swirl around him; smirks wolfishly and signs autographs and chests as required till his hand hurts and he's ready to ram the Sharpies down the next fan's throat; and under it all is utterly miserable.

He'd liked being real. Now he's back to being a fake.

"What's this event, sir?"

"A major PR opportunity for the NYPD, Beckett. The mayor, a couple of judges, and a lot of movers and shakers will be there. I wish Evelyn could have come."

Beckett relapses into quiet. Roy is only too glad of that, since he has no desire to lie, less to be interrogated and even less to deal with the upshot of truthful answers. Being shot is painful, and he has no desire to experience it again. That's why he decided to rise up the ranks.

He notes with some relief that there are no external posters or PR materials around the hotel where the launch party for Storm Fall is being held, politely waits for Beckett to extract herself, smiles approvingly at her elegant posture and even more elegant dress – plain black, he notices, not too short or too low-cut. Excellent. Now, if only he can get them into the function before Beckett boots her brain up, he has a chance of surviving. He could – and will – pull rank, but he has no actual or moral authority to have done this or to pull rank about it.

He saunters down the corridor with a still-silent Beckett as if he didn't have a care in the world.

Beckett does not want to be here. Beckett wants to be at home in her cosy apartment without anyone to disturb her. Beckett wants half a ton of coffee ice-cream and her vodka bottle, possibly combined with a hot bubble bath to wash her troubles away.

Beckett does not want to be at some political (she assumes, from Montgomery's description) function where she is on display.

She doesn't even know who this is for, though it's very glitzy for a political do. There's a whole lot of showbiz going on, which seems odd, and there are a very, very large number of very, very pretty, over-inflated women in very, very revealing dresses. Though it's odd that they're all looking a little put out – and even more odd that the ones who are pouting most unhappily have ink across their cleavages. Weird. Maybe it's some new form of showing support for a candidate, though Beckett would have thought that it would outrage the Moral Majority and lose votes, net-net. There are no posters or banners, either.

Still, not her problem. She does have a problem, however. She is thirsty.

"I'm going to get a drink, sir – soda. Would you like something?"

"I'll come with you. Don't you want some whisky with your soda?"

"No, thank you."

No, she doesn't. Well. Yes, she absolutely does. And then lose the soda, but keep all the whisky, several times over. However, that is a career limiting move in front of one's Captain and when she's been told that she's to be a good advert for the NYPD. Montgomery shrugs, and they meander towards the bar: Montgomery smiling and shaking hands with far too many people for Beckett's comfort, with a slightly sneaky smile.

"What the hell?"

Beckett starts backing away from the bar at a rate of knots that wouldn't disgrace a Coastguard cutter in hot pursuit.

"What's he doing here?" she hisses at Montgomery, who despite his rank and age squirms like a small boy caught throwing spitballs at recess.

"Er…. It's his launch party. I was invited, Evelyn couldn't come, and I knew you liked the books. You could get one signed. You were irritated you didn't manage anything at that fundraiser, so I heard."

"I don't want a signed book, and if I'd known it was this launch party I wouldn't have agreed to come. Sir." The last word is bitten out. Montgomery winces. Beckett has clearly seen straight through his subterfuge. Shit.

He winces a lot more a half-minute later. Castle is bearing down on them, already starting to talk.

"I thought you weren't coming," he babbles, straight past Montgomery with his whole heart beating on his sleeve. "I'm so glad you came" –

"I didn't know you would be here," Beckett says icily. "I wasn't told what this was." She favours Montgomery with a glacial glare. "Now that I do, I'm leaving." She meets Montgomery's eyes. "Unless my superior officer forces me to stay."

Montgomery winces again.

"Don't go," Castle pleads.

"Detective, you are here as a representative of the NYPD."

Montgomery should drop dead on the spot. Beckett's mouth snaps shut on something that would get her fired forthwith, pushes past Castle without excuse or apology, and reaches the bar, where she obtains a glass of something – anything – alcoholic and throws it back in one mouthful. She then stalks off to the restroom, until she can calm herself to the point where she isn't going to do something that will still get her fired forthwith. It's really just as well she doesn't have her gun.

Several moments and a lot of cold water on her hands and face later, she has cooled down to merely an inferno. She still wants to consign Montgomery to the infernal depths, but she might not say so. Or at least she might use fewer curse words. That rat sneaky double-crossing bastard. She swears sulphurously and continuously for a full five minutes, which makes her feel better too.

Of course, it also covers up the rip through her heart that she thought was mending. Just one sight of Ri- that lying, fake, uncaring bastard about whom she doesn't give one flying fuck. Not one.

Oh, hell. She sits down hard on a handy chair (a very smart hotel, this. It doesn't cheer her) with her head in her hands and tries very hard not to sniffle. A few more moments later, she repairs her make-up and leaves the restroom. Montgomery is hovering, looking a touch sheepish.

"Beckett?"

"Sir," she says with perfect formality and icy chill. "I'm going home."

"And if I order you not to?" Roy knows he has no right to give that order. Half a second later he realises that, far more importantly, Beckett knows he has no right to give that order.

"I don't believe you can. Sir."

"Look, he hurt you. But his heart's so far down his sleeve it's practically in his palm. He's really sorry, Beckett. And you aren't exactly happy either."

"No, I'm not happy."

Roy starts to smile at her. "Then fix…"

"I'm not happy that some rich asshole celebrity lied to me for six weeks and pretended he was an ordinary guy who thought he'd try to write a book."

The smile runs away, like dirty water down the drain.

"I'm not happy that he couldn't tell me the truth when he found out I'd bought some dumb book that he'd got age ten."

Wincing occurs.

"But most of all, I'm not happy that he ruined the last good memories I had of my mother. You remember, sir? My mother who was murdered?"

Roy cringes. That last point had not been made known to him.

"He can say sorry till Kingdom Come but he can't make that better. No-one can make that better."

"You won't even let me try," comes from behind her. "You're still blaming me for something I didn't even know and you won't even listen to me when I try to apologise."

"You lied."

"Yeah, I did. And you know what, if it wasn't for your mom in the mix you'd have listened. Sure you're entitled to be angry, but you've got fixated on the one thing that I wasn't to blame for and mixed it up with everything else."

Beckett spins on her heel and stalks out.

"That…backfired," Roy says.

"You think?"

Castle spins on his heel and walks out in the same direction as Beckett.

Roy decides to walk in the other direction. Much safer.

Right up until a blonde virago descends upon him.

"Where the hell is Rick? What have you done with him? You were the last person who spoke to him so get him the fuck back here right fucking now!"

Her language doesn't match her cool, classy demeanour. He knew he should have brought Evelyn.

"Kate," Castle calls. "Kate!"

He takes several long strides and catches her up on the sidewalk – and then simply catches her, because he can tell that she's almost crying and he still can't stand to hear her pain.

"Go away."

"Nope." She's stiff and resistant under his hand on her shoulder. "I didn't know Roy was going to bring you." No response. "But since he did, can we just talk?" He pauses. Seems to him he's done a lot of talking, but Kate hasn't really done any. "Can you talk? Explain?" Another pause. "Look, you're not just really mad, you're really unhappy too. C'mon. Let's go somewhere you can yell at me for hours and then" – he swallows, because this is a truly high-risk strategy – "I'll never come near you again if you don't want me to. But first, talk to me."

When she still doesn't respond, he whistles down a cab, shoves her into it, and joins her.

"595 Broome Street," he tells the driver. Kate huddles into the corner and says precisely nothing, very coldly, as it pulls out too quickly for her to leave it. "We're going to mine," he explains. "You can yell as much as you like because no-one's in – oh shit!"

He frantically pulls out his phone and taps a key.

"Alexis?"

"Dad?"

"Yeah, look, can you stop Grams from doing anything dreadful? I've had to take a little time out."

"I'd guessed."

"How?"

"Because Gina's completely lost it. I didn't know she knew all those words. She's really creative when she starts down the torture line." There's a slight hitch. "She's berating" –

"Good word, daughter mine."

"– some guy who – she's yelling" – Castle can hear it in the background: once heard never forgotten – "was the last person to see you."

"Ah. Is he an older African-American? Not too tall, quite neat?"

"Yeah. How did you know?"

"Ah. Well. Yeah."

"Dad," Alexis says with infinite suspicion, "what have you done?"

"It wasn't me. But…um… that's one of my poker buddies. Roy Montgomery" –

"What the hell?" Beckett returns to life with a nuclear megaton bang. "My Captain is your poker buddy?"

"Dad, who's that?"

"Um…"

"And what's Mr Montgomery got to do with being a Captain?"

"Um…"

"Dad, what have you gotten into this time?" Alexis screeches.

Castle cuts the call. The phone rings again, instantly. The timing prevents Kate from actually killing him, which from the blaze in her eyes is around one nanosecond away.

"Alexis, this is not the time."

"It so is."

"Damn straight it is," Kate bites.

"Who is that?"

"Detective Beckett."

There is a very tiny silence. "So that's your new inspiration."

"Er…" Castle says, which is, at least, a variation on "um".

"She doesn't sound happy."

"She's not."

"And what has Mr Montgomery got to do with all this anyway? Should I rescue him from Gina?"

"Rescue him?"

"Hell, no!" Kate yells.

"O-kayyyyyy," Alexis drawls, in backing-away-slowly mode. "I think I'll stay out of this one. You're on your own, Dad. When's the car home booked for?"

"Eleven," he answers automatically. "Make sure Grams comes with you."

"Bye."

"Ya know, this is as good as ABC," the taxi driver twangs. "I gotta say, I'd love to hear the rest, but we got to your place five minutes ago and while I can keep the meter running as long as you guys wanna fight, you might wanna take this inside."

Castle flushes. Kate doesn't move. He gives the driver fifty, opens the door, and waits.

"Lady, either give me an address or step out so I can get a new fare."

She steps out, with a decidedly infuriated clack, and follows Castle up to his apartment. He begins to hope that just maybe he can get to the bottom of the mess he's – well, not exactly made. Not alone – walked into.

"Do you want a drink?" he says carefully. "Wine? Soda? Coffee?"

"No. Thank you."

That's not a good start. On the other hand, she is here. No more than three inches inside the door, but still, here. She sweeps one comprehensive glance around, snags on the bookshelves, marches across the room, sears it with another laser-guided look, and turns round.

"I work in an office," she snaps with razor sarcasm. "That one?" Castle nods. "I see."

So does Castle. He sees Kate's temper being held down by a cobweb. He sees a flood tide of emotion held back by a strand of silk. And he sees the dark circles under her eyes, and the sharper edges of her cheekbones, and the tight, white, pinched lips. His Kate is on the edge.

"You can go look if you want to," he says blandly. She emits a subsonic growl. "While I make coffee. I want one, even if you don't." He wanders off to the kitchen and fusses with his coffee maker and two cups, which helps to ensure that she can't see his crossed fingers and worried expression. He'd thought she'd take – was taking – the offer to yell out her anger and then talk, but she's still totally locked down –

"What the fuck is this?"

Oh, hell. Oh, hell. He'd printed out the edits so he could pretend he might work on them. Oh, hell. She's walked into his office and looked around and – oh my God she is still a fan because she's seen the edits.

And now he is about to die.

Or maybe he isn't, because there is silence. No hard clack of heels, presaging the machine-gun fire of her words; no vitriolic tone; no movement. No slamming outer door.

No tears. No sound.

Nothing.

He essays a tiny peek around. She's still in his study, sitting in his chair, bent over his desk. Soft vibration, barely noise, feathers his ears: the soft rustle of paper, of turning pages.

She's reading.

Castle slides out of the kitchen with only his own coffee, sets it on the table without a click, finds a book from upstairs – he's not going to go near the study – and settles down on the couch in absolute silence. He doesn't neglect to silence his phone, either. Gina will remember to call at some point, though she may have cut out Roy's liver and fried it into canapes first.

At around half-past ten, when there hasn't been a sound from the study for two hours, Castle pads softly back upstairs to the guest room and closes the door.

"Pumpkin?"

"Dad? You are in so much trouble with Gina."

"Yeah, well, she'll just have to suck it up." Alexis whistles. "She will. This was more important and anyway all I was doing by then was sitting at the bar being hit on."

Very fortunately, Alexis doesn't comment on that. At all previous launch parties, Castle would have been in his element, and flirted extensively until the party ended.

"Why are you calling? It's not eleven yet."

"Um-er… could you and Grams stay in the hotel tonight?"

"What? Are you" –

"No! But I really want to make this right and interruptions aren't going to help – you wouldn't but can you imagine what Grams might do?"

"Or who," Alexis says cynically. Castle makes a disapproving noise. "Last time I saw her she was up close to a very distinguished looking sixty-something. I think the main attraction was the Audemars Piguet, though."

"How did you know that?" Castle asks, distracted.

"Grams told me." Ah. That makes better sense.

"Okay. Look, if I can get a room for you tonight will you and Grams just stay at the hotel? And would you tell Grams?"

"Okay," Alexis answers amiably.

"I'll text you in a minute or two."

"Okay. Bye."

Castle has a brief conversation with the hotel, after which he texts Alexis the details and, with some relief but not a little guilt, returns to the book and another coffee. There has still been not a sound from the study.

And then there is. A very familiar sound.

Thank you to all readers and reviewers.

Guest: no, Montgomery couldn't order, but Beckett used it as an excuse. You have now seen what she thinks of his (in)ability to order her outside cop work.