The Double Down
"Hey, what are you doing here? Isn't today…?"
She glances up to see Detective Ryan poking his head in, concern etched in his brow.
"Needed some noise," she explains. "Didn't want to be left alone with my thoughts."
He nods, understanding. "Do any of these thoughts happen to concern my new temporary partner for the week? Paperwork doesn't write itself."
She presses her lips into a grateful smile, relieved he's not pushing her further. "They're transferring someone in from the 54th. Should be here tomorrow."
"Glad to hear it," he says, "Actually, while I'm here, I was wondering if I could request some time-off."
Beckett leans back in her chair with a knowing smile.
"What's her name?"
"How—?"
"You've never taken vacation the entire time I've known you."
Ryan bristles slightly.
"Maybe I think Javi has the right idea."
"I wouldn't call paternity leave a vacation," she remarks with a small laugh. "Have you heard from him lately?"
"He claims that becoming a father is the best thing that's ever happened to him."
They share a meaningful look.
"He's losing his mind, isn't he?" she posits.
"Without a doubt."
She chuckles lightly. "Tell me about this girlfriend. How'd you meet her?"
"You know that case last fall, the one we worked with Castle?"
She stiffens imperceptibly. "What about it?"
"He, uh, mentioned her—we used to date way back, so I looked her up later. She's recently divorced, and I reached out and…" A shy smile lights up his face. "We're taking it slow."
"He knew about an old ex of yours?"
"Pet name and everything. Told me and Javi he had a gift. Pretty freaky."
"Uh huh."
She processes this new information, filing it away as further anecdotal evidence of Castle's alter ego.
She'd gone full tinfoil hat one night after drinking a little too much wine, trying to figure out how the artifact triggered the appearance of his alter ego in their world.
Message boards had led her to stories of ancient alien technology and naturally occurring quantum anomalies associated with the artifact. The Incans believed it was a gateway to the gods—a chance to change your destiny.
If that were true…what had he wanted to change? And what did it have to do with her? She'd reviewed the interrogation tapes from the case, but they only confirmed the troubling theory that he was in a relationship with her. (Her alter ego, that is).
Maybe his other self was searching for a way out, for a new destiny that didn't include her. But she discounts that theory. He took two bullets and professed his love for her—not exactly the words and actions of a man trying to run away from a destiny with her. Or a version of her, anyway.
She wonders about the case six years ago…the one he worked with Detective McNulty. Wonders what would've happened if she'd been the one to question him instead.
She'd spent years in nowhere relationships with men she didn't love. She was the only one looking out for herself, scratching and clawing for every inch of respect as a cop. Climbing out of a hole of grief to repair her father. Using every ounce of self-preservation to give up on her mother's case.
No one had taken the time to love her, scars and all.
But it doesn't matter. The last thing she needs is romantic entanglement. Especially from some nosy writer with a playboy history. This Castle doesn't care about her like that. This Castle? Jesus, she was losing her mind.
But he could care, a voice inside her whispers.
"What's that?" Ryan nods at the white business card in her hand.
"Nothing," she says too quickly.
The Irish detective hitches an eyebrow and plucks it from her grasp before she can stop him. He flips the card through his fingers and lets out a low whistle when he spots the embossed name on the other side.
"Can you—" She stands and snatches it back. "Not?"
"Thought I saw him leave here. What'd he want?"
"Another ride-along."
His eyes glimmer mirthfully. "Is that what the kids are calling it?"
She glares at him.
"You've always had a thing for the freaky ones," he teases with a big grin.
"Do you want those vacation days or not?" she threatens.
His grin drops and he starts to slowly back away.
"Ry, wait." He pauses. "Why didn't it work out between you two the first time? You and your ex?"
He shrugs. "Too married to my work."
"Right," she says, guilt lancing through her. She remembers when she first made captain and their caseload doubled. All she cared about was trying to prove she could do the job better than anyone else, time for anything personal be damned. "I'm sorry."
"Not your fault," he says with a sad smile. He points at the card. "I think you should call him."
She holds out until the end of the week, the voice inside her growing louder and rooting in her thoughts like a stubborn weed.
He could care.
She tells herself she's only going through with it because she could use a distraction from the monotony of her workday.
Not because she's curious. No. Not curious at all. No hint of intrigue. Her interest—totally un-piqued.
"Go for Castle."
"That's how you answer the phone?"
"Captain Beckett? I sensed I'd be hearing from you."
"You spoke with your mother," she concludes.
"I'm touched you wanted to clear things with my family first."
"I was checking out your story. You lied to me, Mr. Castle."
"I explained that I would be staying within the confines of the precinct, per your request. They're totally on board," he entreats.
"I need to be able to trust your word or this isn't going to work."
"But you do want it to work? I can shadow you?" he asks hopefully.
"I have rules. If you break any, you're out."
"I expect nothing less."
She rubs her temple, wondering if she should call the whole thing off.
He could care.
"What does your Monday look like?" she asks instead, her annoying inner voice winning out.
"I'm all yours," he says and her stupid heart skips a beat. "How do you take your coffee?"
"You do not chase down leads. You do not interfere. You're here only to observe within the four walls of this precinct," she says firmly, like a schoolteacher scolding a rowdy student. "Do you understand?"
Castle sits across from her in a sharp suit, his blue-collared shirt open at the throat, the smell of his sandalwood cologne washing over her and dizzying her.
"I know I may have stirred up some trouble my first time here, but I promise to be the perfect gentleman, Captain."
She regards him for a moment, noting his mischievous smile. Why was he really here?
"How long do you think it'll take…this research of yours?"
"As long as you'll have me."
"Uh huh," she says, her eyes narrowing in suspicion. "One case."
"But it has to be a good one."
"A good one? Please tell me what a good murder looks like," she says flatly.
"Sorry, that was insensitive," he mollifies. "But c'mon, you have to admit there's something a little exciting about it—figuring out motives and digging up clues. You solve mysteries everyday. I just make them up, which is very fun, but not nearly as cool as the real thing."
She stares at him, utterly perplexed.
"I think you're the strangest person I've ever met."
He grins roguishly. "Makes you want me, right?"
She rolls her eyes.
"You need to sign these liability waivers," she deflects. "Just a precaution. Might want a lawyer to look them over and—"
But he's already leaning forward and scratching his signature across the page. He looks up at her with that infuriating smirk. "Are you kidding? He'd never let me sign these. And he's still kind of pissed that I don't even want to try and sue you guys."
He stretches back into his chair and retrieves a Moleskine notebook from the inside of his jacket, lifts a ballpoint pen from within its pages, and clicks the pen open—all in one fluid motion. She's momentarily mesmerized by it.
"So. Why'd you become a cop?" he asks, glancing at her expectantly.
She blinks. "What?"
"Youngest woman to make detective and then captain of her own precinct. Where would you say your drive comes from?"
"Why do you need to know?"
"I'm here to learn about you. Figure out what makes you tick and get inside your head. Find out how a woman like you ended up in a place like this."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Most smart, good-looking women become lawyers or politicians. Not homicide detectives," he says, his eyes traveling over her, his gaze scorching. "That means something happened to you. Or to someone you cared about. And you probably could've lived with that, but the person responsible was never caught."
She thought she'd vaulted up her grief, safely secured it away, but his words unlock something inside her and hot tears build behind her eyes.
"I'm sorry. I've upset you," he observes and she quickly cuts her gaze away, embarrassed that he's seen through her so easily. "Maybe I can come by another time," he says, rising to his feet.
"It was my mother," she says quietly and he returns to his seat, his face solemn.
She doesn't know why, but for some irrational reason, she trusts him. Maybe she feels like she owes it to him, this man who practically sacrificed himself for her, unknowingly or not, but the story spills out of her, flowing out of her mouth with an ease that unsettles her.
"They attributed it to gang violence. Random wayward event. And the killer was never caught."
"That's a lot to carry," he says, his voice soft and warm.
"My dad took it hard," she says, "He's been sober over ten years now." She shows him her watch and the engagement ring around her neck, explaining their meaning. "One for the life that I saved and one for the life that I lost."
"Do you ever think about re-opening her case?"
"All the time," she says, "But it took me years of therapy to decide I was better off leaving it alone."
Intense flames of empathy kindle in his endlessly blue eyes.
"I appreciate you telling me something so personal."
His sincerity is unnerving. Unexpected. Almost as if he actually cares.
See? her inner voice buzzes.
She squashes the bothersome thought and jokes, "Least I can do for the guy who took some lead for me, right?"
But he doesn't laugh or smile. The flames in his eyes just burn brighter and her heart pounds, the sudden tension in the air, blistering with heat.
"You saved me, too, you know?" he says. And it's too tender. Too earnest. "From what I hear, if you hadn't shown up, I probably would've been left for dead. And after I was shot, you got me to the hospital in time. So by my count, you saved me twice. Means I still owe you one."
She averts her gaze, the tension, too much. The flames, too hot.
"Right, um…" She clears her throat. "Can I give you a tour?"
He bows his head and gestures with his hand toward the door, as if he were a gentleman asking a lady onto the dance floor.
"Lead the way."
He's surprisingly helpful.
(Again).
When they catch a case later that day, they easily bounce ideas off each other, ping-ponging theories in an energetic back-and-forth. He's trying a little too hard to impress, but the thrill of verbally sparring with him awakens something in her…something about the process, positively electric, jolting her to her core and making her feel alive.
At one point, he makes a bet with her. Says if he can find the break in the case first, he gets to stick around until he finishes the book.
She crosses her arms. "This is a murder. Not playtime. Show a little respect."
He grins smugly. "You're scared I'll win, aren't you?"
"Please," she scoffs. "I have over a decade of experience. What do you have?"
He steps closer to her, invading her personal space.
"Twenty-two best-sellers."
She doesn't budge, and her eyebrow arches in challenge.
"And one abject failure."
He pouts and puts a hand to his chest in mock-offense.
"Ouch. That stings, Captain."
She smirks.
"Get used to it, Writer Boy."
His mouth quirks playfully. "So the bet is on?"
She leans her face in, inches from his. "Oh, you bet your britches the bet is on. And if I win, I never have to see you again."
He holds her gaze. "Not even for dinner?"
She pauses and her eyes involuntarily flick to his lips. Lips that are far too kissable. But no. She doesn't want to be just another notch on his bedpost or another line of ink in his little black book. She wants...
Because I love you, Kate.
"Not even for dinner," she decides. She'd written off romance long ago and she's survived just fine without it. He's no Prince Charming and she's certainly no damsel in distress.
"You hesitated."
She backs away from him. "No, I didn't."
"You totally did."
She narrows her eyes and shoves her hand between them. "Do we have a deal or not?"
He smirks, entirely too pleased, as he grips her hand in a firm shake. Her skin burns at his touch and she quickly severs the connection.
His eyes sparkle.
"Oh, yeah. We have a deal."
He doubles-down when one of his theories starts to pan out.
"If I win, then not only do I get to stay on, but you have to come over and let me and my family cook for you."
"And if you lose?" she pushes.
"I won't publish the book."
"You're awfully sure of yourself."
"I have a good feeling about this one," he says, staring at her a moment too long.
She can't stand it.
"Your funeral," she deadpans.
She lets him think he cracked the case before she did.
(He's interesting).
"So, uh, I guess you won the bet," she prompts oh so casually.
"Uh, yeah." He tries to read her expression. "But look, if you don't want to—"
"No, no. You won. Fair and square," she presses. She can't remember the last time she had this much fun. Her life has been quiet and boring for so long. Too long. And he's…loud.
Something new.
A lopsided grin slowly spreads over his face, almost shy and bashful. Nothing like the megawatt, rakish one he usually flashes. Her heart races.
"See you tomorrow, Captain?"
She bites her lip, hiding a smile.
"See you tomorrow."