A/N: Merry Christmas everyone. Thank you for a lovely year filled with fun, friendship and fiction. xxx

Chapter 8: Confronting the Past - Part 1

The day drags, time slipping by at a glacial pace despite the backlog of paperwork Kate has to juggle now that she's back at work. She has files from the DA's office to review on two older cases that are just coming to trial, alongside the live investigative details of the open homicide she and her team are currently working. She really shouldn't have even a moment free to think about anything but her work, and yet all she seems capable of thinking about is Castle.

She checks her dad's watch more than is wise, but less than is obvious…she thinks, until Esposito skids to a halt beside her desk late in the afternoon, riding his office chair across the uneven floor like a bumper car, and says, "Here. Yours is obviously broken."

He places a little novelty clock on her desk with a smirk. It's a replica of the Dr. Who TARDIS that Castle gave him as a joke one day after he turned up late several mornings in a row claiming to have slept in because his alarm hadn't gone off. The truth was that he'd spent the night with Lanie, the pair of them seemingly incapable of getting out of bed to be in on time. Everyone knew where he'd been without him even saying a word, and Kate considers telling him that right now. But she's in too good a mood. So she lets his little dig slide. He'll keep for another day.

"Thanks," she replies, smiling sweetly.

The more she protests, the harder these two will push their luck. She knows this from past experience. So she accepts the TARDIS clock without further comment, giving it pride of place next to her elephants, and then she turns to give Espo's chair a gentle shove, sending him gliding back towards his own desk, much to Ryan's amusement.

By six-thirty her eyes are glued to the elevator doors, since Castle promised he'd be back to pick her up before seven. She's been to the restroom, brushed her teeth, applied a little lipstick, finger-combed her hair and reworked her kohl liner with an extra little feline flick at the outer corner of each eye that she'd only ever wear to go out of an evening. She's ready. She is so ready.

Back at her desk, she casts only vague, flickering glances down at the DD5 she's supposed to be filling out, making zero headway on the form, her brain all but switched off to work already. Her phone chirps, and she mutters under her breath at being deflected from her elevator vigil. But then she swallows hard and her eyes widen when she checks the device to find that the text is from Castle. She reads his message with a hand pressed flat over her thudding heart.

"Ran short of time. So sorry. Meet me at the restaurant at 7.30? Raoul's at 180 Prince. Reservation's in your name. Call if there's a problem. Rx"

Kate bites her lip. Suddenly she has a whole kaleidoscope of butterflies spiraling around her stomach, twirling higher and higher in an ever-tightening tornado of nerves. They're really doing this – they're going on a date. Not drinks or a burger with the guys after they close a case, not a late night snack after work from the comfort food truck. They're going to an honest to god, smart, popular restaurant together, just the two of them, and oh man, she has to reply to his text or he'll think there's a problem.

She taps and swipes and re-taps. She adds emojis and then she deletes them. She takes a breath, gives herself a good talking to, and the end result is this:

"No problem. See you there. Looking forward to it. Kate x"

Immediately she opens the front door and enters the restaurant, Kate is struck by the avalanche of sound rushing to meet her: loud, excited voices talking over one another, the metallic clatter of cutlery, accented by the echoey clash of heavy dishes, these competing sounds all bouncing off the old tin ceiling and walls. In concert, each note mingles to produce the universal cacophony of confident people with money having a great time.

The place is jumping, every seat at the bar taken up by glamorous young women, in pairs or with partners, and every linen-clothed table along the opposite wall filled by stylish, expensive yet easily dressed diners; SoHo locals, New Yorkers and European tourists alike. The bistro is French, still run by the same pair of Alsatian brothers and their families who opened the place back in the 1970's, when Prince Street was not the glamorous SoHo style hub, and home to some of the world's biggest brands, that it is today.

Kate scans the dark, crowded interior looking for her partner. Her visual sweep takes in the eclectic riot of renaissance art lines the walls, hanging cheek-by-jowl alongside an odd assortment of framed, black and white jazz photographs from the 1920's. Together they form an irregularly tiled mural on every wall, stretching up towards the ceiling. Large scale oil paintings of unspecified naked women recline alongside ancient beveled mirrors – junk shop finds, their silvering faded to a crackle glaze - nudging up against simply framed gastronomic awards from years gone by, their once creamy vellum brown spotted with age. The collection is extensive, wide-ranging and as diverse as the bistro's clientele, lending it the bohemian, European air the Alsatian brothers strove for when they opened their haunt with little money, and a grand surfeit of ambition, several decades ago.

Kate feels underdressed amidst this shiny crowd, still wearing her purple shirt and dark jeans, having come straight to the restaurant from the precinct. But then she spots Castle across the room and these concerns dissolve in the face of his dazzling, excited smile. He waves to her from a table in the corner, situated right next to the glass divider that separates the front and back sections of the restaurant. The tables are packed tightly together, so being seated next to this wall will give them a modicum of privacy on one side at least.

Castle stands as soon as she nears the table, still apologizing as she weaves and squeezes her way through the hectic, high-spirited throng to reach him.

"Wow," she beams, looking back in amazement at the path she's just had to forge through the chattering masses clogging the bar area to get to him.

He begins apologizing immediately, one hand held out towards her in offering, as the couple at the next table turn and stare, watching their hesitant interaction with undisguised interest.

"Sorry you had to fight your way in here alone," Castle says, regarding her earnestly, ignoring the rude vigil of the two bored strangers lurking in his peripheral vision. "When I made the reservation I thought we'd be arriving together," he explains, his gaze locking with hers, sending her pulse skyrocketing.

"Castle, it's fine. Really. I'm a cop," she shrugs, offering him an easy smile. "Think I can handle a few over-excited models, stock brokers and trustafarians."

"I'm not even sure I know what that is," he teases, while giving her an appreciative once-over that he makes no attempt to hide. "But I am sorry I missed picking you up at work," he adds sincerely, reaching out to help her as she peels off her leather jacket.

"Relax. Let's just…get seated, shall we?" she suggests, gesturing to the classic, wooden, hairpin back Bentwood chair facing Castle's side of the table.

"Eh—" He hesitates, and Kate frowns at the look of indecision on her partner's face.

"What? What's wrong?" she asks quietly, hyperaware of the listening ears of their neighbors.

"Is it okay if I kiss you first?" he asks, with a hopeful lift of his eyebrows, already moving slightly closer towards her.

Oh!

Kate smiles despite her surprise, her eyes sparkling, her cheeks flushing. She nods bashfully, feeling like she's falling off a cliff without a parachute and yet still relishing the descent. "I…I think that might be…yeah," she grins, leaning towards him. "That would be good."

Castle leans in the rest of the way, swerving off center at the last second to kiss her cheek. His fingers gently encircle her slender wrist as he does so, drawing them closer together. Kate ducks her head shyly, their faces just inches apart, and then Castle clears his throat and straightens up again, letting go of her wrist in the process.

"Please…sit," he says, inviting her to join him on the bench side of the table to get her out of the bustle of patrons milling around behind her back in front of the bar.

Kate edges between the two tightly aligned tables, apologizing to their immediate neighbors for the interruption, and then they settle down to sit side-by-side. They're both facing the bar, able to watch the flow of customers coming and going, ordering, drinking, talking, laughing and at times yelling to be heard above the happy, excitable din.

The paucity of space means they're seated very close together on the leather banquette, their shoulders and thighs touching. Castle feels warm next to Kate, his body a solid wall of heat soaking into the side of hers. His nearness is distracting, scattering her thoughts, and yet it heightens her awareness at the same time, attuning her to every breath he takes and every minute shift and movement he makes.

Before Kate can address the elephant in the room – the change in Castle's attitude and behavior over the last twelve hours – Raoul's character of a maître d' materializes out of the crowd, approaching Castle with his hand outstretched and a beaming smile of familiarity on his face.

"Hey, Eddie. Good to see you, my man. Another quiet night, I see."

Eddie nods in agreement with Castle's opening statement. "You bet," he replies, glancing around the crowded bar. "Never lets up."

"Thanks for squeezing us in," adds Castle, half standing to shake the older man by the hand.

"Anytime, Rick. Anytime. And who is this beautiful creature?" he asks, turning his attention to Kate.

"Eddie, I'd like you to meet Detective Kate Beckett. She's my partner," explains Castle, with some pride, before correcting himself. "Or rather, I'm hers," he backtracks. He turns to Kate, giving her a warm, confident smile. "Kate, this is Eddie H. Raoul's incredibly well-connected and long-suffering maître d'."

"What's this? You're a cop now, Rick? I didn't think they let felons join the NYPD," quips Eddie H., giving Kate a sly wink.

Kate shakes the man's hand, laughing at his putdown. "He's a pain in the ass, is what he is. But we put up with him. He's like…the department mascot, if you will," teases Kate, smirking when Castle gasps indignantly.

Eddie laughs at Castle's indignation. "Oh. Oh, boy, have you landed a good one there," chuckles the maître d', giving Kate an impressed look. "Feisty, that one. I'll bet you keep him in line, Detective."

"Yeah, well, despite what she says, she loves having me around," crows Castle, leaning into Kate's side just a little more.

Kate turns to look at him, her smile soft, her eyes like velvet. "Took a while. But, yes, I do like having him around," she murmurs, finally dragging her gaze away from her partner's face, and turning back to address the maître d'.

"So...what can I get you kids to drink? You wanna start with a little aperitif? On the house of course."

"Thank you. That's very kind of you. Dry martini with a twist for me, please," says Kate.

"Same. No, actually, Eddie, make mine dirty," amends Castle, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively at the maître d'.

Kate rolls her eyes and tips her head in Castle's direction for Eddie's benefit. "See what I have to deal with."

"Oh, I sympathize, honey. I do. Those drinks are coming right up. You kids behave now," he adds, giving Kate a departing wink. "I'll get Frankie to bring you a couple of menus to look at while you're waiting. Enjoy your evening."

"Just how long have you been coming here?" asks Kate, as soon as the maître d' has melted back into the scrum.

"Since…I don't know. Early nineties I guess. As soon as I had enough money in my pocket to buy a steak frites and the roughest glass of house wine you ever tasted. I know that much."

"Were you in the habit of going Dutch back then?"

Castle frowns. "Dutch? I don't follow."

"Don't try and tell me you came in here to dine alone. In your early twenties? Not possible," she grins, gently shaking her head.

Castle smiles at her astute observation, neither accepting nor denying anything. "Your point?"

"Well, unless your lady friends were on some kind of nil by mouth diet, I'm guessing you bought them dinner too."

"Could we not talk about my past tonight?" he groans, comically, rubbing his hands down over his face.

"Aw, am I making you uncomfortable?" teases Kate, enjoying the red blush beginning to stain her partner's cheeks.

"Is this your way of asking if I've ever brought other women here?" challenges Castle, since they seem to have adopted a playful, flirtatious mood from the get-go tonight by some mutual, unspoken agreement.

"Should I expect to see a picture of you and some actress-slash-model adorning the wall by the toilets?"

Kate has completely forgotten about Meredith when she make this joke; an undoubtedly painful and humiliating part of Castle's past. She closes her eyes momentarily before immediately apologizing for her gaff. "I'm sorry. I was just teasing."

And just like that Kate realizes how perfectly easy things are between them tonight; how easy it is to be honest, to speak plainly. They've forgotten themselves, the last couple of days and their fraught past, their struggles to get to this point: spending time alone together just having fun. Castle is the one setting the tone, and she's more than happy that he dictates the pace after she threw herself at him yesterday following so much time apart.

"Let's start again. I'm sorry I couldn't pick you up at the precinct like I planned."

"It's fine. Really. We're not exactly in the habit of spending all day together anymore. Not since my shooting."

Castle doesn't say anything. He just sits quietly, toying with his napkin, and waits for her to offer more if she's able. He's learned a lot from her over the last three years, when to keep his mouth shut prime amongst them all.

"I know your life must have changed while I was…gone. And I can't expect to just show up again, click my fingers and have you right back at my side like…like some genie I summoned by—"

"Rubbing a lamp?" smirks Castle, his tone suddenly loaded with playful, naughty innuendo.

Kate turns to stare at him, her mouth slightly open. "Richard Cas—" she gasps, her eyes twinkling with glee.

Before Kate can finish her sentence, she is interrupted by the shrill, nasal tones of one of the highest-pitched, squeaky-toy voices she's ever heard come out of a grown woman.

"Ricky!"

"Oh hell," mutters Castle, under his breath, as a tall, pneumatic, Barbie doll of a woman makes her way towards them on a pair of bright red skyscraper heels.

"Who's—?" whispers Kate, out of the side of her mouth.

"Camilla!" he exclaims, answering her question in a tone that strikes more of horror than enthusiasm, when the woman launches herself at him across the table. "How are you?"

"I'm good, Ricky. Real good," she coos, performing some kind of full body shimmy as she wiggles her skin-tight dress back down her thighs, before managing to boost her boobs up and out of the low-cut neckline of her dress in a hazardous move Kate would never have attempted in public. "How're you? You look great," she drones in her nasal whine, blatantly flirting with Castle while Kate sits quietly by his side.

"This is my girlfriend, Kate," he suddenly blurts, slipping his arm around Kate's back and giving her waist a squeeze, unexpectedly tipping her into his side for a second.

Kate can smell his cologne again, the scent filling her nostrils like it did earlier today at the precinct. His hand is warm on her ribs, the heat of his palm leaching through the cotton of her shirt. Her head is swimming with the overwhelming sensation of him wrapping around her, making her dizzy.

"Kate, this is Camilla Friedman. Camilla's a model. Her father owns a cutting edge gallery over on West 24th Street."

At this point in the conversation the woman finally turns her attention to Kate, masking her surprise at the 'girlfriend' information Castle just let loose as well as Kate does, if her impressive, unwavering smile is anything to go by. "Actually, we run the gallery together now. Like a father-daughter thing," she informs Kate, showing off a perfect set of Hollywood-white teeth that must have cost a small fortune to achieve.

"A gallery. How interesting," exclaims Kate, aiming for friendly and impressed. "D'you represent any artists I might know? Anyone local?" she asks, out of politeness and for conversation's sake.

"Guy Bourdin, Corinne Day, Robert Mapplethorpe, David Lachapelle, the French photographer Ludovic Florent…"

Kate's eyebrows shoot up. "That's quite a stable. Mapplethorpe's work must be highly sought after. I saw a retrospective at The Whitney about…oh, five or six years ago."

"Mm," hums Camilla, unimpressed that Kate evidently knows a thing or two about modern art. "We specialize in pop art and photography," drones Camilla, clearly pleased with herself. "Erotic, iconic nudes mostly, if that's your thing."

She makes this last remark in a tone that indicates that she doesn't believe erotic anything to be Kate's 'thing'. Her presumption incenses the detective.

"I see," nods Kate non-committally, managing to maintain a tight smile when Camilla abandons their conversation, turning back to Castle at this point, as if a light bulb just went on inside her head.

Kate immediately detects a sudden anxious increase in pressure along her right side, Castle's body appearing to stiffen, as if bracing for impact when Camilla skewers him with her piercing brown eyes.

"Shaun Alexander has just produced some shockingly good black and whites," she tells him, a sales woman on a mission, before adding her next illuminating remark. "Do you still have the David Lachapelle?" she winks, leaning in closer to be heard above the din. "You remember, Ricky: the one of me with the riding crop and boots from the Equestrian Dreams series? I seem to recall you hanging it in your bedroom?"

The woman is brazenly draping herself over the table at this point, giving both Castle and Kate an eyeful of the pink satin bra she has on beneath her tight-fitting black dress.

Kate digs her nails into the palm of her hand, marveling at the woman's audacity in parading herself so shamelessly in front of her date while she sits there and stews. She decides to step in and crush her like a bug. Enough is enough.

"Actually, no. We took that print down a long time ago," she confidently tells the blond. Turning to Castle, ignoring his wide-eyed appalled look, she adds, "I think we put it in the downstairs bathroom of the Hampton's house. Remember, sweetie? When we remodelled last year?"

Five minutes later, the sweeping, dramatic departure of Camilla Friedman still fresh in their minds, Castle puts down his half-empty martini glass and turns to Kate.

"Well, that was—" he blinks, for once at a loss for words.

"Embarrassing? But definitely fun," offers Kate, clinking glasses with a stunned Castle while offering him a pleased grin.

"You were…wow! I don't think I've ever seen you like that before."

"Thank you…I think," she frowns, before adding quietly, "Old flame?"

Castle's response is lightening fast and unequivocal. "Nope. Not even a spark. I bought a few pieces of art from her father. Turns out she briefly modelled for one of the photographers he represented. I didn't even know that until I came to collect the print from the gallery a few days after the show. I've known her since she was fourteen."

"So?"

"Come on, Kate. Give me some credit."

Kate looks down at her lap. Pursing her lips she nods slowly. He might have been a player at one time, but he was never a sleaze.

"Listen, can I ask you a question?"

"Sure."

"You're…you've been so different today. I mean compared to when we spoke on the phone last night. And when I left the loft—" she shrugs one-shouldered, glancing sideways at him. "Look, I'm not letting this go. I don't mean that. But things between us looked pretty bleak yesterday."

"I don't hear a question in there."

"I would just like to know what's changed since last night. Also, who was your 'phone a friend'?"

Castle laughs, the tension leaving his face. "That's two questions."

"Okay, Sherlock. But I'm betting the answer to my first question is tied to the second. So…come on. Indulge me?" she requests, leaning in to whisper in his ear.

TBC...