Notes: If you enjoyed Singing Castle in the last chapter, you can indeed hear Nathan Fillion singing that very song! It's really fabulous. Check it out here (replace dots and slashes and remove spaces): www dot youtube dot com slash watch?v=NN3eBvZvUXk

This chapter begins with an interlude for 2x07 "Famous Last Words" (just over halfway in) and then continues on after the episode.

Part Five: Turned You Away

Both detective and shadow found it warming to look into Skye Blue's face, weary with tears and despair, and tell her that her older sister had been clean of drugs before she died. But Beckett in particular felt as though she had given the young woman something precious and invaluable; not all that different, in fact, from how it felt to give a victim's loved ones the closure of a solved case. Strange, she thought, to experience a small wave of that feeling even before they had a solid lead.

On their way back to the Crown Vic, Beckett took out her cell and made a call. "Hey, Ryan," she said, less of a greeting and more of a preamble to her request: "we need warrants on Bree Busch. Phone, financials—the usual."

She glanced over to Castle, strapping himself into the passenger seat, silently nodding along to her orders as though he were receiving them personally—or giving them. He was oblivious that she noticed, but she rolled her eyes anyway.

As she ended the call, she revved the engine and pulled away from the band's rehearsal space.

"Precinct?" Castle asked, seizing an opportunity to guess their next move. As usual, whether it was a way to prove that he knew investigative procedure or to prove that he knew Beckett, neither of them could be sure.

But Beckett didn't mind in the least telling him when he was wrong. "East Village," she replied, eyes forward as she drove. "Zack said Hayley was writing songs at Syncopation Coffeehouse on Sunday, right? The address is in the East Village, which is where McGinnis said Hayley and Skye used to play before the fame. Either Hayley's going back for the sentiment of the place or—"

"—she's still close to someone there," Castle finished for her, redeeming his previous inaccuracy, if only in his own eyes. He smiled to himself and added a tally to his column on the imaginary scoreboard in his head.

Beckett let the interruption roll off of her. Okay, so Castle had his moments of perceptiveness. For the sake of clarity (not collaboration), she added: "Someone who may have more insight about whoever Hayley would think of as 'Death'—Bree or otherwise."

When they arrived at Syncopation, they hit a distinct wall of various competing and not entirely incompatible scents of coffee. If the sign outside hadn't read "coffeehouse," the fact would have been impossible to miss just the same.

There was a light crowd: small groups and individuals scattered about in the stools by the windows, the circular tables around the room, and the leather furniture in the corners. Upstairs was more seating, similarly occupied, and a modest stage, which was empty on this Tuesday afternoon; instead, pre-recorded acoustic music sounded over the speakers to provide the room with its relaxed yet creative atmosphere.

Castle soaked it in—the vibe of the people, the age of the architecture, the arrangement of the furnishings—making writer's notes in his mind, only to decide that there was nothing of such great interest that it deserved to be written down. Assisting in investigative work as a whole was inspiring, but it was no accident that he usually preferred to work in his home office than in a place like this. A coffeehouse was a coffeehouse.

The man behind the counter was serving a customer, so Beckett opted to put her mission to talk to him momentarily on hold. It was just long enough for her to notice the contents of the glass encasement along the counter and the wide stretch of the menu hanging high on the wall.

"They don't sell Danishes here," she realized, not intending to say it out loud. Either this was Vince Minaret's place, which she still didn't know by name or location, or multiple coffeehouses would do well to expand their bakery selections.

"Mm, I could go for a bear claw," said Castle, immediately stalking the glass case like a graceless hunter.

Her potential witness was working the cash register, almost ready for her, so she put an end to her distracted gaze around the room; but Castle tuned in to it, sidled up to her so as not to be overheard. Sometimes his inconspicuousness was so conspicuous that she wondered how they hadn't both been killed by now.

Castle asked in a low voice: "You looking for someone else or is that our guy?"

"No, he'll do, and whoever else is here," she said nonchalantly, using the time that the customer took to walk away to reassume her all-business posture. "Excuse me, sir. . . ."

They came up empty on their mysterious caller with the dubious distinction of "Death," or any other clue as to who or what would have made Hayley so nervous.

The few staff members on shift confirmed that Hayley used to perform here with her sister and that she still sometimes returned to write—"Get in touch with her roots, you know?"—and that she did see Zack on Sunday. But otherwise, they hadn't seen anything unusual or contentious happen while Hayley was around. Their statements simply corroborated Zack's: Hayley did seem on edge on Sunday, and she left the coffeehouse very much alive.

Looked like Bree Busch was still their best bet. Beckett hoped that the warrants Ryan called in would set them on course to close this one.

"Nice sheets, Castle," Beckett laughed, gently fingering the fabric, and then suddenly pulling her hand away as though caught in a lascivious act.

What the hell was she doing here, anyway?

Since the last case settled down, they had decided to attend Skye's debut performance—one of the most concrete ways that the detective had ever had the opportunity to pay tribute to a victim. As though Castle's family hadn't already seen enough of Beckett for one evening, they invited her back to the loft, an invitation that she foolishly found compelling. And now that she was here, yet again after nine o'clock at night and without the psychological protection of her badge—her aptly named shield—things were beginning to feel terribly, inescapably complicated.

Yet here she stayed, admiring Castle's bed-sheets.

"All the better for watching movies," he replied in singsong. He stood back to appreciate the oversized screen hanging in the living room, proud of his innovative tradition and—why, yes, he did secretly take some credit for the muted flush of pink that fleetingly colored her cheeks. Another tally in his column on the imaginary scoreboard. One of these days he was going to draw up that scoreboard on a hanging bed-sheet. Or a warm, tangled one.

And oh, Castle realized not for the first time, nothing kills the inkling of a dirty thought as quickly as your teenage daughter and your mother walking into the room.

Alexis approached them just then and, not the least bit shyly, delivered one of the two ceramic mugs in her hands to the detective. "You should see our blanket forts," she said, smiling brightly with all the joy of an adventurous childhood.

Martha handed a third mug to her son, keeping the last for herself. "Nothing like a film and a hot cup of cocoa after a chilly candlelight service-slash-tribute concert," she sighed happily, sinking into a soft seat. "So, what's the verdict? Have we made a selection?"

Beckett turned to Alexis for an answer, but the household turned to Beckett—the reigning guest, as it would seem.

She fumbled: "Oh, I don't—"

"If you don't pick one," Castle warned, "you'll have to endure one of our infamous shadow puppet shows." He set his mug down by the projector and immediately took up the task of casting carefully-contrived, silhouetted characters on the screen, complaining when Alexis didn't provide the usual voice-work for the lizard-dragon-dinosaur-thing which, he insisted, she always gave such believable depth.

"Dad," she groaned, embarrassed for only the first time since they got home.

"Hey," he countered. "With all the glory of the Digital Age comes the unfortunate reality that rising generations are forgetting the sanctity of the shadow puppet on a movie screen. I want my kids and my grandkids to know—"

"Kids-s-s?" laughed Martha, while, simultaneously, Alexis reacted with her own due alarm: "Grandkids?"

Beckett busied herself with her cocoa.

Castle held up the nearest movie. "We're watching this one," he announced.

The decision was uncontested.

The four of them fell into the comfortable rhythm of laughter and commentary and passing popcorn and shushing one another at vital lines.

Alexis contained herself until the very end of the movie, when the cinematic renderings of a world beyond her urban backyard ignited her imagination: "I can't wait to travel. Someplace faraway and exciting and—"

"—for more than six hours," Castle filled in.

Alexis blushed in that unbearably obvious way that only a fair redhead can, looking past her father to Beckett but not quite meeting her eye. "Mom took me to France for, uh, lunch once."

Funny. . . . It was the first time that Beckett heard about Meredith from Alexis' perspective without Meredith also being in the room, and, naturally, in the spotlight. Even though she'd essentially understood the circumstances of the short-lived marriage and the—ongoing, if sporadic, relationship, tonight was the first time that she really processed Castle's function as father-and-mother and not just the bachelor-dad; the first time that she realized how much of Alexis' life had been lived in her mother's absence. About as many years as Beckett had lived without hers.

No, this was different, she reminded herself. She couldn't pretend to understand that kind of absence, that kind of occasional presence, or what they meant to Alexis. It was wrong to forge an automatic connection to her that way; selfish to try to fill the hole in her own heart with an imagined commonality to any semi-motherless daughter who came along.

But she did know what it was to want to see the world; what it was to believe she could be anything and go anywhere that she could imagine; what it was to outgrow her own identity and go looking to try on new hats.

Beckett smiled gently, breezing past the tale of the extravagant lunch-date to spare Alexis further discomfiture. "Where would you most want to go?"

And they were off—traveling to all different lands through the simple but undeniable power of words.

Castle's heart crept into his throat a little bit.

He missed an entire chunk of their exchange—passing right over him across the couch—because he was momentarily lost in his own headspace; a possessiveness of his only daughter, a realization that she was growing up faster than he could bear, and a sense of pride that she loved the prospect of adventure about as much as he did.

And he guessed it was all right that she could have a jovial conversation with Beckett.

But, boy, did that innate, fatherly possessiveness ever poke its way into that thought. It was the first time that he was more jealous of Beckett than he was of the person who was talking with her.

Alexis' utter awe broke through his parental lament. "You went to the Ukraine?"

"Mm-hmm," said the detective. "Semester in Kiev between junior and senior year."

"Wow. . . ." Alexis opened her mouth again to ask about Kiev and studying abroad and was it amazing? And was it worthwhile?

But instead, all they heard was Castle snicker: "You should hear her Russian accent."

"Really!" Martha responded, genuinely delighted at the mention of a hidden theatrical skill, never mind the fact that she had allowed herself to become entirely too ensemble in this room when she'd refrained from so much of the after-movie discussion.

"Very convincing," he hummed appreciatively, "especially—"

Beckett narrowed her eyes at Castle in a way that she hoped conveyed the utter seriousness of her demands. "Do not recount that story."

Castle's eyes shone with every bit of humor that Beckett's lacked. "Why? Alexis is mature enough."

"It's not Alexis' maturity level that concerns me," she said, smacking him with a throw pillow, her better judgment oddly silent on the action.

"Oomph," Castle grunted on impact. "Because hitting me with a pillow is really mature." He'd heard it said since the schoolyard not to hit a girl, but he also regularly abided by two other important principles of life: One, she started it, and two, Beckett's strong as hell. Her hit really hurt. So he retaliated.

She hit him again—a good blow to the shoulder that even grazed his jaw when he tried too late to block it.

He leapt up and dodged behind the couch, both for purposes of defense and a (failed) sneak attack.

They were, of course, absolutely unaware that their pillow fight looked like nothing more than a vengeful and violent form of pillow talk. But Martha, always the perceptive one, decided it was time that she and Alexis go to bed. Dutifully, she asked: "Can you call a détente long enough for us to say good night without getting caught in the crossfire?"

The room buzzed with an undercurrent of energy, even as the warriors lowered their weapons. They said their good-nights, and on her way out, Martha added a hearty, "Thank you for the company. It was a lovely concert and movie night," and a sotto-voce whisper of, "There's a set of guest towels in the bathroom and plenty of food in the refrigerator. . . ."

Beckett missed that much, taking a deep breath to recover from the skirmish and blindly arranging her hair (and making it just a little worse before it got better, Castle pleasantly discovered when he glanced back at her).

But Castle caught the drift, and although his mother and daughter knew that he sometimes had company (and, frankly, he did a fine job of timing most of those occasions to involve an empty house), there was something dreadful about their exaggerated exit tonight.

Probably because he had a feeling that tonight wasn't heading toward sex. Possibly because any wink or nudge from a third party always seemed to make it that much less likely that they would actually have sex. Oh, and, regardless of what she heard or didn't hear, Beckett wasn't smiling anymore.

All right, so a pillow fight was like taking their usual banter to the next level, another vaguely platonic but exhilaratingly physical way to expend that Unresolved Sexual Tension (and surely by now she could not deny it was there?). But Castle reminded himself that his own intentions had been pure and, well, she started it.

If he'd ever been told in his youth that a pillow fight could be considered flirting (or—God help him—foreplay) he'd have been the most popular guy in school. He also would have been kicked out of even more of them.

Nevertheless, even more intriguing to him was the knowledge that Beckett could be provoked to participate in such a skirmish, let alone initiate one—and, at one point, he swore, did have a delicious smile on her face. Still standing behind the sofa, he chuckled, "Just wait until the next Nikki Heat book debuts and everyone finds out that Kate Beckett likes pillow fights."

"Ugh, Castle." Smacking him in the gut with the pillow again, she rose from the sofa and erupted with surprising exasperation and no great amount of clarity: "I don't want to be Wienerbrød!"

Castle laughed outright at the uncommon word and her exuberant declaration. Then, realizing that she was apparently serious, he stared back at her, dumbfounded. "Beckett, what are you talking about?"

That damned Nikki Heat! Would he never get it? She had no words—no words—

She pointed to the ground beneath her: "Austria," and then to him: "Denmark," the sofa between them implicitly representing the expanse of Germany. Certainly felt to her as though there was that impressive a distance between them. Then she explained fiercely, as though the more passionately she said it the more it would make sense: "I don't want to be Wienerbrød—I live my life and then you go and tweak it into Heat Wave and before long people are calling it Danish!"

He tried to follow her. He really did. "People are . . . Beckett. How much did you have to drink?" He made a show of leaning off to the side, over the sofa, to inspect the empty mug from her cocoa. "I'm afraid I need to cut you off."

"Shut up."

"No, I think I get it." He offered her his best Serious Face.

She looked unconvinced, but amenable to listening. "Yeah?"

"Yeah, and when readers ask, I'll say I cleverly made up all the stuff about pillow-fighting. Your secret will be safe with me."

"Right," she said, her own sarcasm somehow easing some of her aggravation.

"No," said Castle, growing more serious again—sincere, in fact. "No pillow fights in the book."

She nodded once, but the silence proved insufficient. "Thanks," she said, feeling uncomfortable—or too comfortable, which, in effect, was the same thing.

"You're welcome," he replied, sounding a little less like he was accepting her gratitude and a little more like he was bringing her into his home. "Well, I should let you go," he said, heading for the front door. Giving her an out.

She took it.

There weren't nearly enough scenes in movies and books set in theatre projection rooms. That was her excuse for sending Nikki Heat and Jameson Rook there, allowing them to find it unoccupied and arousing; the very idea of letting a steamy scene begin to unfold on the opposite side of the projector was making it difficult for Nikki and Rook to resist embodying it. One exhibitionist notch above making a home movie, really.

Kate sat up in bed, notebook on her lap, pen scratching away at the paper. She hadn't gotten home until well after midnight, and even though it had been such a long day, she was beyond wired. After half an hour of yoga and a shower, she caved to the notebook's allure; took it off of her bedside table and didn't even think as she first set down the words.

By this point, Nikki had been through a lot more than the recent soirée in the wine cellar: the basics of an investigation, a strictly-business scene or two with an old flame who'd always liked sprinkles, a training session with Don where Nikki managed not to mention Rook's name at all.

But sooner or later, everything came back to Rook: Rook and his lips and his tongue and his hands and his—arms. And yes, fine, everything below the waist.

Fine.

Fine.

Everyone knew that appreciating the assets of fictional characters didn't count for anything.

And then the characters went and screwed it all up—got into an argument that had them pulling up pants and straightening shirts and wiggling into shoes.

(Rook, you dumbass, what did you do now?)

Nikki poked her head out the door and made her escape while Rook was still struggling with his second shoe. He left them both unlaced as he poked his own head out and pursued her.

"I can explain," he called after her.

Her pen stopped of its own accord. The melody of Hayley Blue's song was still so fresh in her mind: I can explain if you're listening.

She had an involuntary urge to toss the book in the wastebasket nearby, but stopped herself mid-motion.

Wordlessly, without much thought about what it all meant, Kate put down the pen, kicked off her blanket and made her way through the living room to the bookshelf beside the front door of her apartment. Then she jammed the notebook between a few hardbound mystery novels where it could not be readily seen; out of sight, and, more importantly, away from the privacy and intimacy of her bedroom.

There, on the wooden bureau just beneath the shelves, was a copy of a hefty book that she had brought home on a whim the other day. She picked it up and took it to bed, placing it on her bedside table as she turned off the lamp and tried to catch a few hours of sleep.

The binding was stylized, classic; red and metallic gold; the title in large letters opposite the author's name.

GRIN

Vince Minaret.

"Hey," said Alexis, coming into the kitchen in the morning and settling in on one of the stools at the counter. "I forgot to tell you something."

"Yeah?" Castle set a plate of hot eggs and buttered toast in front of her, leaning down on folded arms to approximate her height.

"Yeah," she said, "and last night would have been a good time to do it, so I could tell you and Detective Beckett." She took a bite of food but paused to say more. "You know, how nice it was that you two went to look for Skye that night. How you didn't just let her go or leave her hanging because you'd made an arrest and you thought the case was done."

"Well." Castle smiled. "I have my moments."

"Detective Beckett's pretty great, too."

He gave a little nod; found himself at an atypical loss for a quip. He was aquipical. All right, he thought, at least that satisfied his inner need for humor. But coming up empty in the conversation, other than a too-casual "Yeah," he turned to the stove and went about serving up another plate of breakfast.

Alexis' voice followed him there. "You'll tell her, right?" She must have sensed his hesitation, because she didn't wait long before adding: "That I appreciate you guys looking out for Skye, not turning away from her."

"Sure. Yeah," he replied, finding a bit more pep in his voice in the midst of the sincere promise. "I'll tell her."

And it was surely in that moment that Castle came to a realization about Kate Beckett: It was never going to be any easier to turn her away than it had been to leave Skye out there alone.

He heard the memory of their parting the night before; how he'd seen yet another side of her, an innocently secret and unprintable side of her; how he'd given her an out. How he should let her go. Let her get back, he'd silently supplied, to her life without him.

I'll let you go, Kate, he imagined telling her instead, but I will not let you go.

He wasn't sure that he could if he tried.