10. We're doing splendidly

“No need to hurry, Beckett. Just let it happen.  I told you I’d give you what you wanted.  You don’t want to decide, or be in charge.  So don’t.  I’ll make the decisions.  You just have to say if it’s not what you want.”

“No decisions?” Really no decisions?  Really just let herself be swept up in the moment and not have to think or decide or be strong?  Really have someone else be strong instead: be stronger than she?

“No decisions,” Castle says firmly. “No decisions, no questions.  Whatever it is, lay it down for now.  Let go, Beckett.”  He enforces his point with a hard fingertip across her lips.  “Do you want this?  That’s the only decision you need to make.”

“Yes.” It’s the last word she needs to say.  Castle lays her back and slides out from under her legs, kneeling beside her.

“We’ll start here,” he purrs, and just for a second Beckett wonders if this had really been a good idea: if letting herself be Kat with Castle isn’t going too far, letting him into parts of her mind that she doesn’t want to share. He sounds more dangerous, suddenly, more predatory; and for the first time she realises something she hasn’t previously: that Castle always gets his own way.  It’s not obvious, and that happy-go-lucky playboy sexy charm hides it extremely well, but still, when it comes down to it, it’s Castle who ends up with the prize, whether that’s interfering in the original case or following her around or getting her to go Christmas shopping with him.

And then he kisses her again and sweeps a hand over her stomach and she gives up that and indeed any other line of thought in favour of running one hand into his hair to ensure he doesn’t stop or move away and stroking the other hand over his revealed chest. He’s assertive but not aggressive, forceful enough for her to be wholly sure that he’ll do it right, and Beckett simply slides away into Kat-who-likes-strong-men and enjoys it. 

Just like the previous time, she doesn’t get the option to roll away afterwards. It appears that Castle likes cuddling.  Cuddling hasn’t really formed part of her love life: too much of an admission of weakness, too much of an insight into the world behind her eyes and her walls.  She has to remember that she has other commitments, that she’s made other choices, that the only option left to her is strength.  The occasional evening where someone else makes decisions doesn’t change that the only person she can rely on is herself, and anyway she doesn’t need to compare Castle-as-father to her own father, which right now will only remind her of what she’s lost.  It’s very nice to be cuddled and cosseted but it doesn’t change what her life has become.

Eventually Castle has to go. He can’t take her with him, and she still isn’t telling him what was up with the pies, but he’d promised no questions and that’s where he’ll stay.  He’s got more of what he wanted, anyway: soft Kat in his arms, and soon it’ll be soft Kat in his bed not just in hers.  And Badass Beckett too, of course.  He likes them both.  Oh yes.  As long as Badass Beckett doesn’t give him that unpleasant feeling of being second-best, or settled for, or that he’s missing the point somehow.  He doesn’t like that at all.

He wanders home a little less happy than he had been.

Back in the bullpen on Monday, some progress has been made. The sketch the stallholder had reluctantly produced has thrown up another suspect, who’s on his way to Interrogation now.  Just in time for the interview to begin, Castle shows up full of the joys of Christmas and – much more usefully – with a large box full of the joy of doughnuts and other forms of pastry.  He looks a little blue when he discovers that the bullpen is certain to have finished every last crumb before the interview is done.

“You can always buy more, Castle,” Beckett points out, not enormously sympathetic. “Or miss the interview, if you like?”  That’s accompanied by a rather evil grin.  She’s perfectly well aware that Castle will sacrifice any quantity of food (and sleep) as long as he gets to do the interesting bits.  She wonders whether she could bribe him with food to do some of the uninteresting bits, such as paperwork, and decides that there probably aren’t that many doughnuts in the world.

“No. I’ll just have to buy more,” he grumbles.  He doesn’t say that he’s disappointed: that he’d wanted to share them with Beckett in particular, since the mince pies had been a washout.

The interview, however, is not a washout. This friend of Joe’s is maybe – on a good day, with platform shoes – five-ten tall and around six-ten wide, and definitely not in need of any more doughnuts.  He may not have much of a physique, but despite the thick Bronx cadence he has a reasonable mind and, it seems, a gift for observation.  He also turns out to have remarkably dextrous fingers.  CCTV shows him neatly nipping small valuables as he wobbles past each stall.  When confronted, he’s not exactly repentant.

“Gotta make my rent somehow, and ‘s not ‘s if they’ll miss it. ‘S all knock-off anyhow.”  He grins, and his four chins roll in harmony.  “Doin’ the tourists a favour, stoppin’ them gettin’ fleeced.”

“Stealing, Benny. You were stealing.”

“Naw. Just…” he thinks for a moment… “recirculating.”  There’s a muffled snort by Beckett’s side.  She kicks Castle in rebuke.  He winces.

“While you were… recirculating… did you see Joe getting into any arguments? Anyone getting in his face?”

Benny shakes his head, setting up a small wave pattern over his cheeks and jowls. He’s sweating.  Beckett clocks it with considerable and concealed satisfaction and starts to go in for the kill. 

“You sure about that, Benny? You’re looking a little nervous there.”  More rivulets baste his face.  “Your pal is dead, Benny.   Don’t you worry that whoever killed him might be after you next?  It’s not like you’re anonymous.  They’ll pick you out no problem, the way you look.”  She lets that sink in.  Castle preserves a mildly menacing silence beside her.  He’s not bad at that, for a non-cop: he must have picked it up from Espo.  She can’t imagine that he really needs it for his writing: laptops are not known for picking up on atmosphere.

“Your best chance to stay safe is to tell me everything you know, Benny. I can’t help you if I don’t know the truth.”  She stops there.  She knows she’s got him.  She only needs to let him realise it for himself.  Fortunately Castle knows enough – works well enough with her – by now to recognise when to keep his mouth shut.  Gaping, ominous silence stretches across the interrogation table.

“Okay,” Benny blurts. Beckett doesn’t twitch a muscle though she’s thoroughly pleased to have bluffed him.  “So Joe was with me, but he don’t like it when I lift stuff so I don’t let him see.  But the guy”-

“What guy?” raps Beckett.

“The stallholder guy – he was gettin’ in Joe’s face about things disappearin’.” He looks sulky.  “It wasn’t Joe’s fault.  He shouldn’t have had them at the front.  Just askin’ for them to walk.”

“Right into your pockets, Benny.”

“Like I said, recirculation.”

“So what happened next?” Castle asks.

“Stallholder started yellin’, Joe yelled back, suddenly there’s fists flyin’ an’ I dragged Joe outta there before he got in trouble. He got a temper, Joe.”  Realisation dawns.  “Had a temper.”  His moon face slumps into discomfort.  “Stallholder was still yellin’ he’d take it outta Joe when we were round the corner.”

They continue for a while, but fat Benny doesn’t know anything more than that. Now, though, the stallholder is looking a lot more interesting.  Beckett sends Ryan and Espo to pick him up again.  While she’s waiting, she examines the empty box where the pastries used to be, and thinks that a doughnut is just what she needs.  Shame there aren’t any left.  She becomes aware that Castle is peering plaintively at the space where pastries once were too, and shares a mutually sympathetic – and hungry – look.

“I could get some more,” Castle suggests. Beckett looks at her watch.

“No time. Boys’ll be back with our suspect” –

“Suspect?”

“Yeah, suspect. He didn’t tell us about much of that, did he?  Gotta wonder why not.”

“Oh.”

“Anyway, they’ll be back in a few minutes. So no time for doughnut runs.”  But she looks a little regretful.

“I’ll buy you a meal later,” falls out of Castle’s mouth. “Or come to dinner, and I’ll cook.”

Beckett considers. She’s still thinking when the boys roll back in a few minutes later with the irritated stallholder between them and she doesn’t have to think about difficult questions like going to dinner with Castle any more.

“So, Jake,” she opens up, best menacing tone on show, “how come you didn’t tell us the full story last time you were here?”

“I told ya enough. Rest din’t matter.”

“I’ll decide what matters,” Beckett snaps. “Not you.  I think it matters a lot that you were throwing punches at Joe.”

“Never hit him. Din’t matter.”

“Really. So it didn’t matter that you were the last person to have an argument with him and next thing he winds up dead?  Because I think that matters a lot.”

“Never touched him.”

“That’s not what the witnesses say.”

“So I took a swing. So what.  He was liftin’.  Deserved everythin’ he got.”

“I don’t think he deserved to be dead,” Beckett observes, coldly.

“Stupid lowlife’s no loss.” He evidently realises that this line of conversation is not improving Beckett’s view of him.  “Din’t know where he lived.  So it wasn’t me.”

And no matter how much Beckett pushes, aided by sharp interventions from Castle, they get no further. She has to let him go, but she is perfectly certain that there’s more to it than Jake-the-dubious-stallholder has admitted.  She sets Ryan to investigating camera footage and Espo to arranging another canvass – this time with photos of both Jake and Benny.  Then she spends some time glaring at the murder board and running scenarios in her head.  Jake is looking more and more like her killer with every moment.  This is not a Beckett-flavoured case.  This is extremely mundane and does not require any of her team’s normal jaw-dropping brilliance.  She humphs.  It’s not that she wants to re-run The Silence of The Lambs, but… she could do with something that would give her an excuse to be spending hours in the precinct.

Beckett becomes aware that Castle is regarding her with an air of expectation.

“Yeah?” she says, pulling her head out of the pack of options and possibilities that she’s shuffling.

“Boys are back.”

“Oh?”

“Camera footage.”

“Yeah?”

“Guess who was caught on Candid Camera with a switchblade?”

“Jake.” Castle looks very disappointed.

“You guessed. That’s no fun.  I had this amazing theory to astound you with…”

“Save it, Sherlock. Sounds like we got the guy.”

They have got the guy. Jake caves under the evidence and is taken away, only an hour after shift should have ended.

Castle acquires an air of happy resolution and a wide, Christmas-flavoured grin.

“Dinner time, Beckett.” She looks bemused.  “I said I’d get us dinner.  Or cook it.”

Oh. Yeah.  She’d accidentally-on-purpose forgotten that.  Why couldn’t Castle have forgotten it too?

“I…” She can’t think of an excuse that might actually be believable. I don’t want to is both rude and requires an explanation, which latter is an even less desirable outcome than being rude.  She really does not want to be either rude or provide explanations.

But she doesn’t want to go to the loft for dinner. She doesn’t want to watch Castle be a doting father, supporting his daughter; rather than his daughter supporting him.  She doesn’t want to see all the trappings of Christmas around a bright, cheerful loft; or to eat festive food, or to drink festive drinks.  She doesn’t want to take the risk that some other inadvertent action or item will trigger the memories and leave her sickened and reeling.  And especially strongly, she doesn’t want Castle to know her father’s weakness and pity him, or still worse pity her, or use it to inform his book.   It’s sheer luck that he hasn’t yet put it all together, but she can’t go on relying on luck.  He’s beginning to look curiously at her. Hell. 

“Okay,” she says, almost hiding her reluctance. “Where shall we go?” Please not the loft please not the loft please.

“I’ve got some nice food at home – and some very good wine, Beckett. I saw how much you liked that Bordeaux the other night, and though we finished it” – he looks momentarily regretful – “I’ve got something very similar that I think you’ll like.”  He smiles happily, clearly thoroughly enthusiastic at the thought of feeding her at the loft.  “Let’s go.”

Oh no. She should have been rude.  Or suggested somewhere.  Even McDonalds would have been better than this.  She turns around to pull on her coat and not incidentally hide her face for long enough to reinstate a brightly, blandly, socially acceptable expression.

“The wine’s sorted, Castle, but what do you mean when you say ‘nice food’? Should I worry that this is a foray into molecular gastronomy?”  He stares at her, open-mouthed.  “Close your mouth, Castle.  You’re catching flies.”

“That is so hot,” he breathes.  “Foray.  Molecular.  Gastronomy.  Three wonderful words in one sentence.  If I didn’t think you’d shoot me I’d kiss you on the spot.”

“I will shoot you if you try.”   Castle looks mischievous and Beckett takes a prudent step out of range.  She wouldn’t put it past him to have a bunch of mistletoe in his pocket just on the off-chance that he could use it to annoy otherwise calm detectives.  Or something like that.  Fortunately the elevator arrives, full of cops and noise, before he can do anything outrageous.  She’s sure that the skim of his hand over her coat-covered hip is only because the elevator is busy and crowded.

On the way to the loft, she’s not nearly as sure. He’s an inch closer than discretion or work relationship might indicate, as if their – associations – have given him a right to brush hands with her, to trail fingers discreetly across her hip. He always seems to get what he wants, she thinks again, and the thought doesn’t make her entirely happy.

Castle is happy. Beckett’s coming home with him, and he can feed her, produce some excellent wine, and generally provide her with Christmas cheer, warmth and sociability.  A few kisses probably won’t hurt either, though not in public.  He’s carefully pinned some mistletoe over his study door.  On the inside.  Contentedly thinking of the possibilities which it offers, it takes him several minutes to realise that Beckett isn’t exactly exuding enthusiasm.  She’s not unenthusiastic, precisely, but there isn’t any wholesale forward momentum either.

“What’s up, Beckett?”

“Nothing.” She almost sounds truthful.  “I’m fine.”  And then she deflects.  “What’s for dinner, Castle?”

“Slow cooked beef in red wine. Good for winter evenings.  It’ll stick to your ribs, Beckett.”

“What?”

“Stick to your ribs. It’s a British phrase.”  He smirks at his own cleverness.  Beckett rolls her eyes at his pretension.

“American not good enough for you, Castle? Translate, for those of us who lack your particularly well-honed ability to show off.”

Castle looks artificially wounded. “You have no appreciation of the finer points of vocabulary,” he says teasingly.  He knows perfectly well that Beckett has and uses an extensive vocabulary.  Usually to chop him off at the knees, it’s true, but still…

“Actually, I took a short course in etymology once.” Castle chokes.

“You? You?  When?  Where?”

“College,” Beckett says uninformatively. She hadn’t wanted to get into a discussion about it, but his statement had pricked her over-developed pride and she’d bitten back without thinking.   “Dinner sounds nice.”  She doesn’t pursue the phrase he’s used.  She doesn’t want to talk about Stanford.

“Bread and butter pudding, too. My special recipe, with orange and lemon.”

“That’s a very old-fashioned meal for Mr Latest-Tech. I’d have expected nouvelle cuisine.”

“Age has its benefits,” Castle oozes, waggling his eyebrows meaningfully. “All that experience, just waiting to be put to good use.  Tried and tested over a long period.  Satisfaction is always guaranteed.”  His flirtatious words and eyebrows are not matched by the look in his eyes, which is considerably darker and more intense.  Still, he isn’t doing anything about it.  She rolls her eyes, because it’s expected of her.  She has to be normal.

“Anyway, Alexis likes it.” His expression alters to the – always slightly disconcerting – look of parental pride cut with some surprise that he has such a wonderful child.  It scratches along Beckett’s nerves.  She knew Alexis would be there.  But she’s going to have to maintain her bright social exterior, all the while feeling guilty that she feels resentful.  She shouldn’t feel resentful, and she shouldn’t have the knot in her gut that she suddenly does about sitting through a pleasant meal in good company.  It’s a childishly unpleasant reaction and she is a better woman than that.

But she doesn’t want to go. She knows what she’ll see: she saw it when Castle dragged her out shopping.  Happy families, supportive, loving, interested parents.  Silly comments and shared experiences.  Her step falters.

“You okay there, Beckett? Slipping on the snow in those heels of yours?”  It’s a good excuse, and she seizes on it without considering the implications.

“Yeah. Don’t they clear these sidewalks?”  She hasn’t even finished the last word when Castle takes her arm in a very Victorian fashion.

“There. Can’t let you fall.  How would you chase down criminals with a sprained ankle?”

“You could do it for me. Get some exercise, do something socially useful, and best of all you’d need all your breath for running so you wouldn’t talk.  Win-win.”

“Unkind,” smirks Castle. “Very unkind.  You won’t get your pudding if you’re nasty to me.”

“If I’ve got a sprained ankle I wouldn’t be wanting to gallivant around anyway.” Castle mutters something under his breath.  “What was that?”

“Coming to dinner is hardly gallivanting, Beckett.  It’s a normal social interaction.”  But he’s turning the word over on his tongue again and again, as if he’s tasting its flavour.  “We could gallivant.”  His eyes sparkle.  “We should gallivant.  We’d have fun.  We could” – he thinks for a moment – “go to Coney Island.  Or the Sea, Air and Space Museum.  Or the top of the Empire State Building.  Or the Statue of Liberty.  Or” –

“Or not,” says Beckett decisively. “It’s winter, it’s freezing, and I am not gallivanting anywhere except home after the dinner you’ve dragooned me into.”

“That’s not gallivanting,” Castle grumbles. “That’s no fun.  And I didn’t dragoon you into dinner, either.”

Uh-oh. There’s a thought arriving in Castle’s annoyingly excellent and perceptive mind.  She can see it.

“You don’t want to come for dinner,” he says, surprised and hurt all at once.

“I’m here, aren’t I? Walking towards your loft.  If I didn’t want to come to dinner I’d have said No much earlier.”  She infuses it with all the considerable sincerity she can muster, and conceals any hint of fakery.  Castle makes a suspiciously disbelieving noise, but seems to be convinced by the direction her feet are taking.