#7: OF SEX AND NUTMEG

1x06 "Always Buy Retail," 2x15 "Suicide Squeeze," 5x10 "Significant Others," and 5x12 "Death Gone Crazy"


"He's of the color of the nutmeg. And of the heat of the ginger. . . . He is pure air and fire; and the dull elements of earth and water never appear in him, but only in patient stillness while his rider mounts him; he is indeed a horse, and all other jades you may call beasts." –William Shakespeare, Henry V


She slips her panties into his pocket, and he's putty in her paws.

They're sitting down at the table sipping cocktails, allegedly relaxing after their time on the dance floor. But Kate is feeling particularly playful tonight, and she gets the sense that Castle doesn't need much convincing. The panty trick proves her right.

They don't go to night clubs often at all, tending instead to share private evenings at home with some wine or scotch. Now that they're here, it would be a shame not to make the visit as happily memorable as it could be.

Grinding against each other in the stifling heat and scattered light has gotten their blood pumping. Slipping her hand into Rick's pocket and leaving him a lacy present has only taken them both to the edge. By the time they secure a spot in the restroom, they're hot and heavy and don't waste any time.

It's all the excitement and desperation of two strangers with an instant attraction or two horny kids with nowhere else to go, but they're just an exclusive couple simply opting not to use their great apartments, all the while trying not to end up in the tabloids—at least not with any incriminating photos.

The whole thing feels forbidden and risky and like they've regressed a few years.

Castle is really, really into it.

When they finally go back to his place, she pulls him in for a kiss and sneaks her hand back into his pocket—one and then the other.

"Castle—" she murmurs into his mouth.

"Mm?"

"Where are they?"

He begins to understand; digs through his pockets even though she just did. "They, uh—they must have fallen out."

"What do you mean they must have fallen out?"

"I mean they . . . fell . . . out."

"At the club?"

"Or somewhere between there and . . . here." He has the voice and posture of a man aware of his mortality, but that doesn't stop him from a moment of innovation. "Police panties should come with a little tracking device, don't you think?"

She is not amused. She silently ensures that he can tell.

"I'm just sayin'. It's an idea." He takes the hint and beckons her, begrudgingly, into his arms. "I'll buy you new underwear," he promises, kissing her head and loosening his embrace. "And then," he adds emphatically, "install a tracking device for all your future public sex-ventures."

She groans and tries to swat at him, but he's already running away. She chases him to the living room, where he surrenders under the condition that they make love right there on the floor.

Night clubs are exciting, but not much beats an empty loft.


Admittedly, Meredith is fun, dynamic, and knows how to order food at a nice restaurant. She's talked Kate into splitting appetizers that she honestly doesn't regret. Meredith points out that, altogether, their meal ensures well-rounded nutrition without skimping on the best stuff. Flighty as she may be, the woman knows how to have a good time while still taking decent care of herself.

They talk mostly about growing up in the city, compare notes. Kate mentions baseball games with her dad; asks if Meredith has ever been.

"I was never a baseball fan," Meredith says, spearing a bite. "The only time I've been to Yankee Stadium is with Rick."

Kate's confused. "Rick doesn't like baseball."

"Neither do I." She grins. Somehow it's both classy and lascivious. "We've done it all kinds of places," she volunteers. "Hot air balloon, Westminster Dog Show, Coney Island . . ."

Please, Kate prays, let her stop talking before she ruins all of New York.

"And those were just some of the best." Yes, they keep track.

Kept track, Kate thinks. As in used to. As in not anymore.

But the fact is, even if they're not having sex now, she can't imagine he's forgotten this list.

She certainly won't.

She's tempted to talk about their soiree at the night club—not to mention all the other kinky shit they've done—but she'd rather maintain their privacy. She bites her tongue, but it does make Meredith's over-sharing that much more difficult to withstand.

The truth is, she can live with this unsolicited information. She already knows they had sex, so ultimately it isn't much worse to know where. Even if it's going to be a long time before she can go to Yankee Stadium. Or Madison Square Garden. Or Coney Island. Or any hot air balloon anywhere in the world.

No, the hardest part is that she can't stop thinking about having sex in that night club and how incredibly turned on Castle was. Kate still has a wild streak of her own, but certain things lose their novelty after a time or two, and public sex was one thing she didn't plan to make a habit.

It's not the first time she's wondered it. Is she enough for him? Does he expect her to do the same sorts of things his exes have done with him?

She thought the worst of her problems was Meredith putting nutmeg in Castle's coffee and walking around the loft half-naked. How could she forget about crazy-person sex?

And in Meredith's narrative, she isn't even the crazy one. "Rick is so eccentric and creative. It makes things more interesting, doesn't it?"

Is she baiting her on purpose? Kate stuffs food in her mouth and makes an ambivalent noise instead of perpetuating the conversation.

Meredith's doing just fine on her own. "And isn't he a stallion? Mm-mm-mm. I mean, he is literally a horse."

Kate wants to point out that he is most definitely not literally a horse, and she wonders if Meredith's savage abuse of this word could be one of the reasons their marriage fell apart. Meredith "literally" does not understand the difference between a metaphor and a fact. The only things Castle hates more are mixed-up homophones, misplaced apostrophes, and incorrect use of irony.

She says nothing, but she gets a little buzz from knowing all of this. Her grammar may not be perfect, but at least she doesn't make him flinch. Much.

Thinking of all these little things she knows about him is what keeps her strong.

Somehow, Kate's stone wall of silence and determined eating finally lulls Meredith back into friendly and appropriate conversation.

When she looks at her now, there's something different in her eye. Is that—respect?

She thinks she may have just passed a test.


It's the first time that Kate visits Castle at the loft after both of their homes have been ridden of uninvited guests. She's in the kitchen, making coffee for them while Rick sets up the living room for a matinee movie date. The nutmeg rests on the counter.

She should add it this time. Shouldn't she?

But is it weird that Meredith did that for him? That she only knows about it because Meredith used it in front of her? That it's something they've shared, something that will remind him of his ex-wife?

Or is it just what he likes, and should she do it for that reason alone?

Then again, she can't remember a single time that she's seen him add nutmeg. And if he still likes it so much, why hasn't he told her before? Why did she have to learn it from his ex?

Meredith said she used it after he pulled all-nighters. Maybe it's not something he does all the time, or even likes to do more than once in a while. Maybe he's grown out of it but enjoys it now and then for the nostalgia of it.

But then again, the nutmeg does have its place on the counter. Even when Meredith is gone, there's the nutmeg. It's still there. It's probably always been there. But there are plenty of other spices there, too, and no one's using any of them in their coffee.

He calls to her from the other room. "Hey, Kate? Should we watch The Conversation or The French Connection?"

"You choose," she calls back, and bites her lip. Is it all that simple?

Nutmeg, public sex, everything she'll ever learn about him from someone else—all she has to do is ask. It doesn't matter who knows him or what they know about him. She doesn't need to decide what to do for him or with him based only on what someone else has said about him.

It all comes down to asking him what he likes and wants. Talking to the man himself.

"The Conversation it is," he announces.

"Castle?"

"Or The French Connection, if you prefer."

"No—not that." The big goof. She told him to choose. Can't he stick to his guns? She clears her throat and takes a breath and then the words are out: "Do you want nutmeg in your coffee?"