Get a Clue
He brings her coffee every morning.
He'd wrinkled his nose at the precinct stuff, a bitter and acidic drink that was affectionately known on the homicide floor as sewer sludge. Someone had once labeled the decaf pot Tar and the caffeinated one as Jet Fuel. She didn't mind it. Even at home, she swallowed down a simple black coffee all the time. It got the job done. Why the hell did it matter what it tasted like?
But the writer insists on introducing her (and her fellow officers) to "flavor country." She begrudgingly accepts the fancy restaurant-style cappuccino machine he buys for the break room. What she doesn't anticipate is the next week, where he spends hours and hours brewing and blending different fusions of lattes and espressos, even bringing special high-end ingredients from his personal cupboards, just to figure out what she likes best.
She surprises herself when she chooses one of the more lavish options as her favorite—a mocha caramel latte with two sprinkles of sea salt.
It's foamy, chocolaty, creamy richness with a little extra kick.
The perfect mix of sweet and salty.
Just like him.
(Jesus, her crush was getting out of control).
She tries to make a cup on her own, but she completely screws it up. He jumps at the opportunity to teach her and against her better judgment, she lets him put his arms around her under the guise of showing her how to properly use the milk frothing tool.
She hates the way her body sinks easily into the cove of his, how solid and warm he feels, how his hot breath washes over her neck and drives all coherent thought from her.
When his lips "accidentally" graze the shell of her ear, she startles so badly that she spills everything onto the front of her white blouse.
(Fan-fucking-tastic).
God, how was she supposed to get through a dinner with him and his family?
When he swings the door to the loft open on Sunday night, he's in a Darth Vader costume, helmet and all, wielding a flashing red lightsaber.
"Beckett! You're early," he says in a warped, modulated voice. She quirks an eyebrow. Of course he went for full authenticity.
"You said six, right?"
She'd arrived right on the dot.
Alexis materializes over her father's shoulder in a white floor-length and long-sleeved dress, her dark hair hastily twisted into makeshift Princess Leia buns, a blinking blue lightsaber in hand.
"We must've lost track of time," she says apologetically. "I was telling Dad about going to Supernova Con with some new friends next week and he wanted to see if our old outfits still fit. One thing led to another…"
Castle exhales the heavy trademark breath of his character, pivots toward his daughter, and dramatically states, "I am your father."
She and Alexis roll their eyes in unison.
"Hey! I saw that!" he whines robotically.
She and the young woman grin at each other.
"Let the poor girl in!" Martha hollers from somewhere in the kitchen.
Big Castle and Little Castle promptly step aside and she enters, clutching the bottle of wine she brought with her.
Her eyes flick around the newly renovated space.
It's no longer the inside of Marie Antoinette's palace. The chandelier is gone, and she's able to notice the impressive skylight and gorgeous wooden beams across the ceiling. The vintage-style furniture has been replaced with a more modern black couch and sleek but comfy-looking gray chairs.
And metallic art pieces like a model of the Manhattan Bridge and a silver dog statue decorate side and end tables, while the frilly, accent wallpaper over the bookshelves has been stripped and the surface painted over in a warm, welcoming red. A lot like his bedroom. Sophisticated yet accessible.
When she peeks into the study, she sees that the large, life-size portrait of Martha has been switched out for a stately photo of a winding, spiral staircase. She likes the effect of it.
"Wow, it looks great in here," she says sincerely.
Castle wriggles his headgear off and grins, big and wide, his hair sticking up in the back. (It's not adorable whatsoever).
"See, Mother? She thinks it looks great."
"Oh, pish-posh," the redhead tuts, tearing some basil leaves from a stalk and throwing them into a blender.
"She really wanted to keep the chandelier," he murmurs. "But I played the I-almost-died card and she had no choice but to fold."
Beckett laughs. "That's just evil."
"Guess that's why I'm on the Dark Side, huh?" he chuckles. "Care to join?" he asks, offering her a gloved hand.
She pushes the wine bottle into it. "I like to use The Force for good."
His eyes glint impishly and he's about to respond when his mother calls out, "Richard, how do I work this? Do I simply turn the thingy?"
They both glance over and Castle shouts just as she spins a dial on the blender, "No, wait—the lid!"
But it's too late.
The would-be pesto sauce whirls out, splattering the actress in green paste all over. She shrieks like a banshee and Alexis quickly leaps into action, yanking at the power cord and unplugging the blender before it can do more damage.
They all stare wide-eyed at the matriarch, hands over mouths, holding in laughter, as she wipes some of the puree from her face. There's a long beat of silence before she finally lets out a dry chuckle and says,
"Do you think basil exfoliates?"
"I had a really good time."
It's an understatement. Dinner had been wonderful. She'd been worried about feeling like she didn't belong, like she was intruding. But it was as if she'd always been a part of the puzzle, a missing piece slotting into place. It was kind of magical, really. It reminded her of family dinners growing up, the way everyone teased each other and shared funny stories, trying to compete for the biggest laugh.
The homemade Alfredo pasta was perfectly savory and the bruschetta appetizer, deliciously crispy and fresh. The expensive red wine, a perfect pairing for the cannolis they'd picked up from their favorite hole-in-the-wall Italian restaurant down the street.
"Us, too," he says, helping her into her coat. "Maybe we can do this again. Make it a weekly thing."
She pulls her hair out from underneath the collar.
"Why? So your mother can give me more ammunition against you? I can't believe you used to do ballet as a kid."
He reaches past her to open the door.
"I was the most sought-after dancer!" he exclaims. "I never dropped a girl."
She shakes her head with a smile and exits into the hallway.
"Look, Captain—" he starts.
She turns.
"Kate."
"Kate," he echoes with a small grin. The affection in his tone has her veins fizzing with warmth. "Look, uh…when I killed off Derrick, I thought I was giving myself a fresh start. Something new. But instead, I lost myself. My savings. My daughter." He pauses. "I traveled down the wrong path and sought validation from the wrong people." His brow knits. "And for the past five years, I had no idea how to change course…until I woke up with some bullet wounds."
He finds her gaze with deep, fathomless eyes, and she stands, transfixed by his words, her heart thumping loudly and blood rushing in her ears.
"You brought my family back to me. And well, the news of my shooting actually led to a spike in sales of my old works, so technically, you also helped bring some money back into my bank account."
"You're kidding."
He shrugs. "Guess I'm worth more practically dead than alive."
She pushes a hand into his shoulder. "Don't say that."
He grins sheepishly. "Point is, I never thought I'd write again. Not anything good or worthy. Nothing I believed in. And now I can't seem to stop." He leans against the door jamb. "So for purely selfish reasons, I'd like to have you around as much as possible. Because you're kind of my good luck charm. And maybe we can be friends."
"Friends, huh?"
"If that's okay with you," he rushes out nervously, "I don't want to force you into anything you're not comfortable with. And I don't expect anything else." He stuffs his hands into his pockets. "It's just…you had my family's back when I was in a tough spot. So I'd like to have yours. I figured it's the least I can do."
She has lunches with her dad. Dinners at the Montgomerys. Drinks with her team; Lanie. She has people. A life. She doesn't need more.
But she thinks of the cold, empty apartment waiting for her, thinking maybe it's not enough anymore. Maybe she wants more. More of this down-to-earth and goofy guy who plays dress up with his kid for fun and says sweet things with a sincerity that steals all the breath from her lungs.
No one's ever called her a good luck charm before.
Oh, why the hell not?
"Yeah, okay. I can do friends."
"Yeah?"
She shyly ducks her head and twirls a piece of hair around her finger. "Yeah."
"Should we shake on it?"
He proffers his palm, but she doesn't take it, instead rising on her toes and brushing her lips to his cheek.
It's impulsive and rash and unlike her.
But something about him inspires a little recklessness in her, reminding her of a rebel girl who once rode a motorcycle and actually dared to live a little.
And the slack-jawed look of awe on his face is totally worth it.
She walks away without glancing back, smiling to herself, feeling the burn of his stare.
"What kind of name is Gemma Frost?"
"The badass kind. I was also thinking of Nikki Heat."
"That's a stripper name."
"Well, I told you she was kinda slutty," he says. Off her scowl, he adds, "But also really clever and cool in a crisis. That's why I'm gravitating toward Frost. Heat suggests a more hot-headed persona. And you Captain, are anything but. Did you know they call you the Ice Queen?"
"I don't like either of them. Pick another one," she demands.
"What do I get if I do?"
"How about I won't be pissed at you?"
"You're always pissed at me."
"Okay, fine. We can visit a crime scene."
"Deal," he says eagerly, stretching out his hand.
She stares at it, suspicious. "You're not going to change it, are you?"
"They're already workshopping cover art with it. But I'll do anything else to accompany you to a body drop. Please. Please. Please." He puts both hands under his chin in a prayer-like pose. "You know you miss it."
You miss the streets.
"Forget it."
She's not going to put him in harm's way.
He shows up a couple days later in a Kevlar vest with WRITER emblazoned on it, saying he'll wear it every day if that's what it took.
"And statistically, you're the one more likely to get shot. It already happened to me," he recites, "So, if anything, I should be the one worried about you getting hurt."
"You want to put me in danger?"
"What? No. That's not what I meant. Stop ruining my argument with your logic!"
"How about neither of us put ourselves at risk, 'kay?" she says tersely, closing the subject.
But he keeps wearing it, true to his word, and eventually, he wears her down.
"Just one crime scene," he pleads. "I'll never ask again. Just one."
God, he was annoying.
She makes sure to clear it with Martha and Alexis first. She promises to have his back, promises she'll do everything in her power to bring him back home safe.
They said they trusted her. (When did that happen?)
And then, she's back on the streets again, the thrill of chasing down clues coursing through her.
One crime scene turns into two.
Then three.
She stops counting after five.
It's unusual but not entirely uncommon for a captain to stretch their legs and knock on doors. All her bosses care about is if she turns in her CompStat reports on time.
She acts more as a consultant really, checking in more often with all of her teams and dropping in on more than one interrogation.
Castle crafts stories, formulates motives, and helps her and her detectives string evidence together in cohesive narratives. His breadth of knowledge is impressive and she admires his intellect. (Not that she'll ever let him know that).
It's almost disconcerting how well they work together. They have whole conversations without talking. All she needs is to throw him a look or lift her brow in a certain way and he knows exactly what she's thinking. She's also able to read his expressions, whether it's a wiggle of an eyebrow or a twitch of his mouth.
Ryan and Esposito swear their minds are melded together. Her other two teams of detectives—The Veterans (Karpowski and Velasquez) and The Newbies (Hastings and Stegner)—say it's like watching a screwball comedy from the 40s or a tennis match, their banter flying to-and-fro with incredible speed.
Their precinct's clearance rate actually improves.
She keeps telling herself that she keeps him around because he makes her job a little more fun.
That it has nothing to do with how her skin flushes when he's near, or the warm look in his eyes when he coaxes a laugh out of her.
She's not falling for him.
She's not.
They're just friends.
That's it.
One night, Alexis is extolling the virtues of her poli-sci professor.
"He's so, so dreamy," the young woman sighs. "You would like him, Kate. I could probably get his number for you, if you're interested."
"Oh, no thank you," she chuckles. "Every time Lanie tries to set me up, it's kind of a disaster. And it's hard to find someone who understands the hardships of my job. I prefer bubble baths and a good book."
"You know, my son is single," Martha jokes.
Castle scoffs a derisive laugh.
"What was that for?" his mother asks.
"Kate has a rule against dating mystery writers. But she won't tell me why."
Alexis and Martha look at her, curious and expectant.
Damn, it.
They'd make excellent interrogators.
She sets her fork down and blots her mouth with a napkin.
"Have you ever heard of Alex Conrad?"
They shake their heads, but Castle straightens in his seat.
"Hold on, I remember this guy. We have the same publisher. They used to call him—
"The next Richard Castle," she fills in.
"Yeah, how—"
"It's all he could talk about. Like three or four years ago? I think you were supposed to provide a blurb for the cover of his new book, but you wrote some scathing review instead. Said it was way too obvious that the girlfriend was the killer."
The writer grimaces. "Oo, yeah. I was deep in my misery back then. And very jealous of all the attention he was getting, so I got a little petty. Definitely not my proudest moment."
"Why'd it end?" Alexis nudges.
"Well, on one of our dates, he took me to this well-renowned psychic and she said some nonsense about an Alexander saving my life. And that he'd be extremely important to me. I don't put much stock in that kind of stuff, but Alex took it pretty seriously. He got really protective and controlling. Didn't want me to go to my job or even walk outside because he didn't think it was safe and it was his duty to protect me. So it sort of became an untenable situation."
"I'm sorry. That's awful," Martha endears.
Beckett shrugs it off. "It was never serious, but yeah, it made me wary of egomaniacal mystery writers."
The women chuckle and Castle pouts.
"You know, Dad's middle name is Alexander," Alexis pipes in. "His old one before he changed it to Edgar, anyway. That's why he named me Alexis. As an homage."
Beckett's cheeks heat with embarrassment.
Oh.
Sensing her discomfort, Castle blurts out, "I went to a psychic once. She told me that a beautiful woman would one day move into my loft and stay with me forever."
They all stare at him and her heart hammers.
"She neglected to mention it was my mother."
February has record low temperatures. One of their coldest winters yet.
She's supposed to go over to the loft later for dinner, but her nose was runny, her throat was scratchy, and her forehead was clammy with fever.
She texts him that she can't make it. That she doesn't want to risk getting anyone else sick.
He's been in book meetings all day.
Hours later, she's cuddled up on her couch in her favorite comfy PJs watching Temptation Lane when she receives his message.
Need someone to warm you up, Captain?
I'm highly contagious, she writes back.
Her doorbell rings and she reluctantly untangles herself, her slightly inflamed joints aching. Ugh. Who the hell is it?
A delivery man is on the other side.
"Ms. Beckett?"
She nods and he wordlessly hands her a large thermos and a tote bag. When she looks inside, there's an assortment of cold and flu medicines, a saline spray for nasal irrigation, and Vitamin C tablets.
"I didn't…"
But he's already disappeared down the hall. Her phone buzzes and the writer's book jacket photo flares on her screen.
She smiles and swipes to answer.
"Thank you."
"That chicken soup is home-made, by the way. My mother was not involved, so it's definitely safe."
She lets out a light laugh and hears the familiar screech, screech, screech of a violin in the background.
"Are you watching Psycho?"
"There's a Hitchcock marathon on Channel 7."
She migrates into the kitchen, setting down her spoils and gathering a spoon and bowl.
"Are you by yourself?"
"When you said you weren't coming, Alexis went to a poetry slam with her school friends and my mother swanned off, found some actor party."
"You don't have some hot date lined up?"
"She canceled on me. Said she had a cold."
Her heart trips in her chest.
"Very funny, Castle."
"Rear Window's on next. What do you say?"
She sips from her soup, tucked into a cozy blanket with a pair of wired earbuds connected to her phone and her TV tuned to Channel 7. He does most of the talking, and she enjoys his running commentary and the sound of his voice, so rich and smooth and honeyed. Like a warm hug.
She's not sure if it's the medicine or the soup or his company or a combination of all three, but she feels a lot better. Still a bit stuffy and her throat, a little sore (it hurts to laugh), but much, much better. She can't remember the last time someone went out of their way to take care of her like this.
Her doctor ex, Josh, always quarantined himself or took longer shifts at the hospital to stay away. Said he couldn't risk catching anything.
She knows Castle would be here if she let him, contagious or not.
But she's terrified. She doesn't know if she's ready for someone like him. Someone who could be everything.
"I had a dream of you wearing that Grace Kelly dress once."
"Yeah, in Never-Gonna-Happen-Land."
"It felt very real. I don't think it's outside the realm of possibility."
"Maybe in another universe or parallel world," she jokes before thinking it through. (Damn fever brain).
He pauses briefly and she wonders if he knows, knows that she hasn't told him everything about their first case together.
Because I love you, Kate.
"What?" she prompts in the growing silence.
"Nothing. I just never pegged you for a sci-fi fan."
"Oh, so many layers to the Beckett Onion. However will you peel them all?"
(Yeah, he does not need to know about her Nebula-9 cosplay days).
He chuckles and they return to the movie. She eventually falls asleep to the soft lullaby of his chatter.
She updates her wardrobe full of black paint suits and charcoal jackets with splashes of color and she starts wearing her hair down and out of its signature ponytail more often.
The first day she wears loose curls with a powder blue pencil dress and a matching blazer, her team barely recognize her, but she gets a kick out of Castle's reaction the most, his face filled with wide-eyed wonder.
"Going somewhere later?" he asks.
"What's it to you?" she asks, coy.
"Uh, nothing. Just curious. For research purposes."
"Oh, sure," she says with a knowing grin.
"You look nice is all. Gorgeous, really. Not your usual doom and gloom."
"Doom and gloom?" she asks with a slight frown, her heart somersaulting at Gorgeous, really.
"I'm sorry. I meant sunshine and rainbows."
"Maybe I have a date," she tosses out.
"Do you?" he asks evenly.
"None of your business."
"You know I'm going to find out eventually," he says, "Might as well give it up now."
"Except I'm the one with the gun."
"I could have one if you let me. I'm certified!"
"I'm not going to be responsible for you getting shot," she says, her heart clenching. "Not again."
The humor vanishes from his eyes.
"That wasn't your fault."
"Castle," she warns. Why were they talking about this?
He grows uncharacteristically silent.
"I'll tell you what I'm up to. I actually do have a date tonight," he says after a moment.
Disappointment shoots through her, but she feigns indifference. "Oh?"
"With my daughter. She's contemplating a career change and wants my advice."
She covers her exhale of relief with a loaded barb.
"It's sweet she thinks you have anything useful to say, Mr. Everything-Is-A-Conspiracy."
"Law of averages demands I'll be right one of these days."
She shakes her head with a pressed-lipped but upturned smile.
"What kind of change is she contemplating?"
"She's been practically running this non-profit," he preens. "But she's worried it's not enough. Says the work is missing a personal connection with the people it impacts. She's actually wondering if she could talk to you as well."
"Me?"
The young woman calls her regularly for advice, but it still surprises her, still sucker-punches her in the gut that this family, this loud and noisy and amazing family, has accepted with such open arms. She was used to being a black hole, sucking everyone down into the darkness with her. But they've somehow managed to pull her into the light and turn her gray world, technicolor.
"She looks up to you. Respects what you do," he says.
"Budget meetings and paperwork?"
"You command a whole precinct. You make sure justice is delivered," he says, "And you're very good at bossing people around."
"I just make sure everyone's doing their jobs."
"You do more than that," he argues.
"Yeah, I also have to babysit you," she huffs.
But he doesn't rise to the bait, an all too serious look on his face.
"That's not all you do, Kate," he says sincerely, "I see how the families of the victims come in here, how you talk them through their pain. You share your grief and open your heart to them. You bring them comfort and reassurance. A sense of peace. Not everyone can do that. What you do is important."
It stuns her, how he sees her. How he brings her comfort and reassurance and a sense of peace when she least expects it.
"I'd love to talk to Alexis," she says quietly. But she can't handle this softness from him. It's too overwhelming. "God knows what nonsense you'd fill her head with," she jokes to break the tension.
"Must you always cut me down to size, Captain?" he jibes.
"Someone has to keep your ego in check."
She sits at her desk one Friday morning, staring at glossy cardstock, the fancy cursive letters on it, mocking her.
"What's that?" Castle asks, entering her office.
"Nothing," she says quickly.
"Liar," he says, handing off her coffee.
She takes it with a smile and then sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose.
"An ex of mine is getting married."
"Would that be the FBI agent, robbery detective, heart surgeon, or prosecutor?" he asks, sitting in his designated chair by her desk.
"The boys really need to keep their mouths shut."
"You certainly have a type, don't you? Clean-cut rule-followers. Tell me something, you ever have any fun? You know, drop your top, a little Cops Gone Wild?" he asks with a twinkle in his eye.
"Do you see me prying into your life and asking invasive questions?" she launches back at him.
"I'm an open book, Captain. Interrogate away."
She crosses her arms, trying not to fall into his trap. But she wants to wipe that damn smirk off his face.
"Okay. Why'd your marriages end?"
"You had that one locked and loaded," he says with a self-satisfying grin.
"Are you going to answer the question or not?"
God, he was impossible.
He's quiet for a beat.
"My first wife was Alexis's mother. When she got pregnant, I thought it was the right thing to do. To propose. But that's not enough of a reason to marry someone. Probably why I found her in bed with someone else."
Oh, shit.
"I'm sorry. I didn't know," she says, soft and sympathetic. She'd always assumed he was the one to stray. She feels like an ass.
"Bygones," he assures her. "And with Gina, my editor—it made sense on paper, but we didn't have any fun. It was all work and I was too protective over my relationship with Alexis…I didn't let her in."
"Why not?" she asks.
"It wasn't...magic." He fixes her with a pointed stare and her heart thuds painfully against her ribs.
She clears her throat and straightens a stack of forms on her desk.
"No one serious since then? Just a string of naive and impressionable models?"
"I wouldn't trust what you read in the papers."
"So you weren't a frequent guest of New York fashion week?" she asks with an arched eyebrow.
He pivots. "What else is one of New York Ledger's Top 30 Bachelors to do?"
"You were number 29," she scoffs.
"Why do you care who I date?" he asks.
"I don't," she says, bristling. "By all means, keep up your philandering. The more, the merrier. I can't wait to see who falls for your irresistible charm next. I'll be sure to catch it in an upcoming issue of Page Six."
"Believe it or not, some women in this town don't mind the idea of being romantically linked to me."
"How many of those women are under the age of thirty?" she fires back. And it's a little unfair. She knows he hasn't seen anyone since the shooting. Knows he's done chasing vacuous twentysomethings.
He sighs, giving up. "So you gonna go?"
"What?"
He gestures at the invitation.
"The wedding?"
"Oh," she says. "I RSVP'd yes, but I was, um…under the influence when I replied," she confesses.
"You marked the plus one box, didn't you? And you don't have a date, do you?" he asks, almost breathless with glee.
Her head falls onto her desk with a thunk and a groan.
"If you want to make him jealous, then all you have to do is ask," he sing-songs.
"I don't want to—"
"Please," he interrupts. "Why else would you go to an ex's wedding with a plus one? And who better than a ruggedly handsome best-selling author?"
She snaps her head up. "Absolutely not."
"C'mon, Beckett," he cajoles. "Afraid you'll have a good time?"
"I—"
He snatches the invitation from her.
"March 8, 2015 at The Waldorf-Astoria," he reads aloud. "Tomorrow?" he asks with a laugh. "You basically have no other choice."
"So you admit I could do better?" she retorts, not wanting to give in so easily.
"Yeah, yeah, I'm the worst," he says, not engaging. Instead, he gets on his knees and puts his hands together. "Please let me take you. I'm amazing at weddings. Please, please, please."
She huffs a laugh. "Jeez, Castle, you don't have to beg. You can be my plus one if it means that much to you."
"Wait, really? That worked?" He leaps to his feet, joyous. "It's a date," he says, grinning crookedly. Butterflies swarm in her stomach.
Oh, God.
This was a mistake, wasn't it?
xxx
A/N: Hope you liked the glitches in this one and basil does, in fact, exfoliate ;)