50. Mountain high

The break room contains the coffee machine, clean mugs, and, approximately ten milliseconds after it contains Castle, also contains Ryan and Esposito. Both of them are now in Big Brother mode.  It would be extremely effective, except that Castle retaliates by looming over them by some three or four inches and giving back a similarly intimidating attitude.

“What’s up with Beckett?”

“You tell me.”

“C’mon. Montgomery don’t bench any of us for nothin’.  Somethin’s up.”

“She won’t tell me,” Ryan says morosely. “We’re her team, and we’ve made it all work round her…issue… for years.  And now she won’t say squat.”

“She ain’t talking. I ain’t surprised.  But she’s ours.”  There is a note of definite warning in Esposito’s tone.  Castle raises his eyebrows.

“Yours? Didn’t think she belonged to anyone.”

“Our team. You gonna mess that up?”

“No.”

“So what gives?”

“Nothing that’ll mess up the team.” It’s flat, not inviting further comment.  Ryan and Esposito exchange quick, flicked glances which say everything to each other, and drop the idea of interrogation 101.

“You got this, Castle?”

“I got this.”

The tone doesn’t permit disagreement. The boys are not inclined to disagree.  They’ve got what they wanted: an answer; though they’re not entirely sure Castle knew that they were asking a question.  The answer is the right answer.  The man’s part of the team.  More to the point, he’s got Beckett’s back.  And finally, whatever he just said, it looks like he’s got Beckett as well.  About time, too.  They exchange brief looks of satisfaction, collect their coffees and leave.

Castle is also well satisfied with that conversation. The boys will back off Beckett, which is likely what she needs today, from her earlier tells, and they won’t get in his way, which he needs.  This is all – Beckett is all – very fragile, and Ryan and Esposito blundering around trying to interrogate her will not help at all.  God knows, he’s done enough blundering around and getting that wrong to recognise the problems that might bring.  Later, though – later, but not very much later, Ryan and Espo will be vital.  They’ve been her support for years, even if she never let them into her private life: they made it possible for her to work as she does and support her father.  They know the history.  As, he suddenly thinks, might the resident mountain of Central Park Precinct, O’Leary.

Mm. Yes.  O’Leary.  Castle’s done his research, but there’s not a lot of emotion in research.  He’s talked to Jim, which had a lot of emotion, but that hasn’t shown him Beckett’s experiences, it’s shown him Jim’s.  It’s only shown him Beckett, or Katie, as reflected by Jim, which is very partial and very fractured.  Beckett may have spilled out the truth about her feelings with her tears, but she’s stayed a long, long way away from what actually happened.  In mystery writing, he remembers from a book he read years ago, when you know how, you know who.  So if he finds out how it went down, he’ll know more about Beckett.  Maybe then he’ll be able to support her better, or at least avoid obvious mistakes.  O’Leary.  Yes.  Just as well he, Castle, is a multimillionaire, though.  O’Leary’s likely beer consumption would put a noticeable dent in the output of Coors, Budweiser and Miller, without putting a dent in O’Leary’s sobriety.

He crafts an extra-careful coffee for Beckett, another for himself, and wanders back out to see what’s going on. Nothing much is.  He finds it difficult to believe that it’s another cold case day: after all, this is Manhattan, where the city never sleeps and the murders never stop.  The other teams seem to be reasonably busy… Oh.  Oh wow.  Montgomery really is on top of his precinct, isn’t he?  This team’s been overloaded for a month, and Beckett, who in some strange way holds it together by force of personality, is broken…so Montgomery is very subtly giving them a break.  Clever.  Very, very clever.  Castle’s respect for Montgomery’s sneakiness takes an upward leap.  The downtime can’t and won’t last, but Montgomery’s seen an opportunity and he’s taken it.

“Can I have a case?” he says hopefully.

“You want a cold case?”

“Yes. I’m bored.  It’ll amuse me.  And I came up with a good solution on the last one.”

“Okay, have the next one up. But no way-out theories.  We do not need aliens, invisible men, or unknown poisons.  We do need facts and evidence.”

“That’s no fun.”

“That’s cop work.”

The morning passes without incident and without a new murder to play with. Castle pesters Beckett, who has become distressingly quiet and unsnarky, until she agrees to come out of the precinct for lunch, squares it with Esposito, who reschedules the gym for the next day, and stuffs her with burger and milkshake – he has Coke: he finds milkshakes to be neither close enough to ice-cream to be satisfying nor liquid enough to be thirst quenching – until she looks a little less strained.

“Do you want me to come over tonight?” he asks. Asks, because she’s stressed and she might want space.  That thought doesn’t stop him sneaking his fingers over hers, which are cold, and staying there, to warm them up.  He wishes they were in a booth, where he could hug her.

“Not tonight, Castle, thanks. I’ve got a health check straight after shift.”  She manages to quirk an eyebrow in a way that strongly implies that the appointment will include areas to which she wouldn’t refer for fear of embarrassing Castle and/or the boys.  “Takes a while.”  Which is only a little bit untrue.  The therapy session is certainly going to take a while, and is going to be bad enough without letting anyone know about it beforehand.  She doesn’t need people stressing her out even further by worrying about her.  She’ll see how she feels afterwards, though appalling is the first word that springs to mind.  Peace, quiet and most likely Kleenex are the most likely companions she’ll want around her.

Castle sneaks a surreptitious glance at Beckett, notes the strain lines around her eyes, and concludes that whatever the appointment is, she’s not looking forward to it. It only takes him half a second to wonder if this is not a medical doctor she’s seeing, but a therapist, despite the impression she’s giving off.  She hasn’t lied, but her truth could be very misleading.  He wishes she’d told him, but the middle of a busy diner, with, no doubt, plenty of cops dashing in and out, isn’t exactly the time or place and, he works out an instant before he opens his mouth, she may not want anyone metaphorically peeking over her shoulder.  Still, he would have supported her… oh. Only you can save yourself.  Hm.  Support doesn’t necessarily mean talking about it to him.  It might just mean that he should be there afterwards.  Without mentioning why he’s there, and without asking her anything.  But not today.  Not this soon.  He’ll stalk her pattern, and then be there for her – support for her, for which she won’t need to ask.

“Okay. Ice-cream?”  

Beckett looks at her watch and makes a disappointed face. “No time.  We have to get back.”  She draws in a breath as Castle’s fingers close over her hand and cover it: his thumb stroking slowly over it, trying to infuse warmth and comfort into her chilly flesh.

“Pity. I wanted ice-cream.”  He smiles slowly.  “Something sweet on my tongue.”

“Can’t help that.”

“You could, you know.” His voice has turned molten and seductive.  “But maybe not right now.”  He runs the tip of his tongue over his own lips, and grins as Beckett blushes.  “Salt,” he says.  She glares.  “C’mon.  Time to get back.”  He stands, and pulls her with him, only just managing not to pull her into his arms.  That wouldn’t exactly be discreet, or sensible.  Holding her hand isn’t, either, but she’s not objecting to that and while she’s not objecting he’s not letting go.  In fact, once they’re out of the door he tucks both their hands into his coat pocket and carries on the soft stroking of his thumb.  She sighs quietly and walks just a little closer to him, so that their shoulders rub and occasionally their hips slide together.  Inside his fleecy pocket, her fingers twine into his.

Of course, ten yards from the precinct door her hand removes itself and a narrow quarantine zone springs up between them, but he can cope with that.

The afternoon progresses slowly and with immense tedium. Castle can’t find a single theory on his file that won’t get him shot, has drunk enough coffee for his hands to start to shake, and has almost bitten through his tongue in order not to start either an entirely inappropriate conversation, which would be amusing for the few seconds it took Beckett to despatch him to the morgue – as a subject – or a much more serious conversation, which would be neither amusing nor allow him to escape the morgue.

He contemplates the empty evening ahead of him and recalls that he’d meant to have a drink or few with Detective O’Leary. Today seems good.  He claims utter boredom, to an equally utter lack of anyone’s surprise, wanders off home, digs up the number of the Central Park Precinct, and asks for O’Leary.  He’s actually there, somewhat to Castle’s surprise.

“Detective O’Leary.”

“O’Leary, it’s Castle.” He leaves off the Rick.  This is a cop to whom he’s speaking, after all.

“Mr Castle? Castle?”  There’s a silence which is full of enthusiasm.  Then it dulls.  “Why’re you calling, Castle?  Have you lost Beckett again?  She’s not here.”

“No, I know where she is. I called to see if you wanted to go for a few beers.  You know I said I was writing about the NYPD and you said you had some stories…?”

“You wanna talk to me? Sure.  I got lots of stories.”  Castle can hear the wide smile on the Mississippi delta of O’Leary’s mouth.  “Guess you’ll want the earlier ones.  When d’you wanna meet?  There’s a so-called Southwestern restaurant – Cilantro – on Columbus: does good beer and good food.  I don’t usually go there, prefer the Irish bars, but it’s nice to have a change.  I finish around six.”

“I’ll be there around six then, unless you call to say you’ve caught a body.”

“See you there, Castle. Are you bringing Beckett?”

“Not this time. I want the stories, not the bullets.”

There’s a bass rumble which sounds like a volcano considering its options and which is probably shuddering the walls of the Central Park precinct. “You got me there.  I don’t want her shooting me either.  She’s scary when she gets mad.”  The subwoofer stops pumping out bass vibrations.

“Yeah,” Castle agrees fervently. “She sure can be.”  She can be anything she likes, but she doesn’t scare me. No.  What she’s done to herself, and what she’s done to me, terrifies me.  He finishes the call, and settles down to write for a little while.  A character much like O’Leary is nibbling at his neurons.

Beckett uses complete concentration on her cold cases to try to forget about her early evening appointment, and mostly succeeds. It doesn’t do much for her temper, though, and by the second time she’s been a little sharper than she needs to be with Ryan the boys are leaving her a wide berth, though Esposito produces a warning scowl which wards her off.  She rams her nervousness back down, prays devoutly that Montgomery doesn’t try another run at her today, and focuses firmly on the cases.  She’d really love a new body to drop now.  Right now.  Any time before shift ends, in fact.  A headache starts to gather behind her temples.

No body drops. Beckett tidies her desk as slowly as she can and still no body drops.  As she files her papers in her desk she notices Esposito and Ryan observing her with some confusion. 

“Going home. See you tomorrow.”  Neither of them say anything.  She trudges to the elevator and out.

“She don’t look too good.”

“You gonna call her on it? After today?”

“Nah. But if she don’t look better tomorrow I’ll set Castle on it.”  Esposito smiles sharply.  “Safer for both of us, bro.”  Ryan sniggers.

“Yeah.” He turns serious.  “You trust him to make it right?”

“More chance than we got,” shrugs Espo.

Beckett stands outside a clean, unmarked building, headache – surely it’s the headache, or the chill wind – pricking at her eyelids and watering her eyes. She doesn’t want to go in.  But she has to. Only you can save yourself.  She has to do this.

She walks in.

Come six o’clock, Castle bounces into Cilantro on Columbus, orders himself a beer and one for O’Leary, who is very evidently not there – there are no mobile mountains on view – and acquires a table. He watches the early evening crowd come and go, taking mental notes of anything particularly interesting or suitable for inspiring him as he does, and occasionally scribbling in a small notebook.  It doesn’t stop him noticing when O’Leary strides in.  It is, after all, difficult to miss anything that size, such as – say – Amtrak engines, or a 747, rolling up beside you.

“Hey, O’Leary. Want a beer?”

“Sure.”

Castle companionably pushes the bottle across the table, indicates that the bartender should bring some more, and grins.

“So,” he says. “How’d you meet Beckett?”

O’Leary smiles, iceberg-sized teeth gleaming.

“You really wanna know?” he grins back.

“Yeah.” Castle scents a story.

“Well…” O’Leary almost blushes. “I was a uniform, only a little bit past bein’ a rookie… and I arrested her,” he rushes out.  Castle chokes on his beer.

“You arrested Beckett?  How?  Why?  What happened?”

O’Leary’s blush manifests itself, but his laugh rumbles out. “You know Beckett’s pretty hot – wasted on me, but she sure is pretty, so there you go” – Castle shifts, a little uncomfortable – “so they picked her up for Vice ops any time there was a need, right from the beginning.”

Castle begins to smirk. He can see this story unfolding.

“Anyway, I was with the Sixth then, been there a year or so. Tended to get sent out when they thought there might be trouble.  When you’re a uniform, you do what you’re told.”  He shifts uncomfortably in his turn, causing a small gale to flap the napkins.  “So we got told to pick up all the hookers down in the Meatpacking District to support some bigger operation.” 

Castle’s eyes sparkle.

“No,” he breathes, on a ripple of laughter. “You didn’t.”

O’Leary droops a little. “Yeah.  We did.  Brass forgot to tell us that the tip came in from Vice and they had some eyes on the ground.  I go in to haul in this Russian brunette who’d got a little feisty…”

“Feisty?”

“She’d taken down a couple of guys already. Lieutenant reckoned I was big enough that she couldn’t take me down.”  Castle looks at him.

“I’d say your Lieutenant got that right,” he says dryly. “So what’d you do?”  He can’t repress his ever-widening grin.  O’Leary’s grinning, too.

“You have to get that she looked like any other hooker. Tight tube top, ton of make-up, skirt that barely covered her ass, six inch heels…  I thought the two guys had... got distracted.  I wasn’t out then, so I didn’t say anything ‘bout that.”  He squirms a little.  “You won’t get upset, Mr Castle?  She’s your girlfriend.”

“Castle, O’Leary. And no, I won’t be upset.”  He’s far too involved in the story, and in trying not to die of laughter.  “What did you do?”

“Um… she tried to kick me in the balls – only just missed” – Castle winces in considerable male sympathy – “how anyone can kick like that in a tight miniskirt I still dunno even though she showed me it later, sparring – an’ while I was still – er – protecting myself she landed a real haymaker in my chest. Only thing was, she hadn’t quite allowed for my size, so it din’t do much ‘cept hurt her hand.”

“She missed?”

“Nah. She didn’t know how much I worked out.  She’d have needed to be Mike Tyson to hurt me.”

“And?” Castle asks, completely fascinated.

“She had another go” – that doesn’t surprise Castle: Beckett never seems to give up – “so I caught her arm, an’ then” – he blushes – “I picked her up, put her over my shoulder” – he stops dead, and blush turns to searing red – “Are you sure you won’t be upset?”

“I won’t be,” Castle reassures, chortling outright at the thought of Beckett over anyone’s shoulder – and then having some thoroughly lustful thoughts at the thought of Beckett over his.  O’Leary looks a little uncertain: the tectonics of his face pulling his smile sideways.

“Anyways, she kept tryin’ to punch me in the kidneys, an’ though it wasn’t getting her anywhere it got a bit annoyin’ after the sixth time, an’ I needed both hands to stop her kicking me, an’ all the time she was cussing me in English and Russian… anyways, I got a bit fed up of it all.”

Castle suddenly realises exactly where this is going and utterly fails to control his face, laughter or imagination.

“You didn’t.  O’Leary, you’re amazing.  You’re outstanding,” he splutters. 

“Yeah,” he says, embarrassed. “I swatted her ass an’ told her to quit it or I’d do it again.”

“And you’re alive? How are you still alive?”

“I put the cuffs on her, got her into my cruiser, took a few more bruises doin’ it – Beckett fights dirty, an’ she just wouldn’t stop – but soon as I got into the car she dropped the accent an’ came clean.  Man, I was so embarrassed.”

“Not as embarrassed as the two she took down, I bet.”

“Nah. They got ragged round the whole of the Sixth for months.   Serve ‘em right.”

“What’d she say to you?”

“Said sorry for beating on me, said she didn’t know what to do, so she thought she had to keep cover till she was outta sight of everyone. Told me it was a Vice op, but she’d only been around a coupla months.  Lot more of a rookie than me.  She’d thought she really had to make it convincing, and boy, did she try – I had bruises an’ scratches for a week – and she hoped she hadn’t hurt me.  So I stopped soon as we were round a few corners, an’ took the cuffs off, an’ she slipped into the passenger side, an’, well, I said I was sorry for swatting her, an’ we got chatting.  She got a way about her, makes you wanna tell her the truth.”

Castle signals for another round. “Want some food, O’Leary?  Soak up the beer?  On me.  Anyone who lives after doing that deserves a medal, but all I can do is buy you dinner and beer.”

“Sure.” A few minutes are spent in pleasant contemplation of the menu and then ordering a container-load of nachos and quesadillas, plus enough tacos to feed the Marines; with several more beers.  Saves time, the men agree.

“She pegged me for gay soon as we got talking, before we got back to the Sixth.” Castle gapes.

“How? I thought I was pretty switched on, what with all the book conventions, but I didn’t notice a thing till you and Beckett let on.”

O’Leary rumbles happily, which two octaves higher might have been a laugh.

“You were too busy giving me the stink-eye for flirting with your girlfriend.” It’s Castle’s turn to colour up.  “She said she knew I was gay from moment one.”

“Yeah, but how?  It’s not the first thing you think of.”

“Didn’t try to cop a feel,” O’Leary mutters. “Everyone else did.”

“Oh,” Castle says blackly. “Did they?”

“Cool it. They were the two she put on the floor.  I heard tell,” he says conspiratorially, “that she went looking for them, when she was outta Vice and into Homicide, and suggested some sparring.  I did hear as how she said she needed some practice.”  He smirks as nastily as Esposito might, across a face as wide as Alaska.  “Set it up on the phone.  Invited me along to see fair play.  Or somethin’ like that.  That was a fun evening.  They looked a little blue when she showed up with a badge.  They looked a little black and blue when playtime was over.”

“You wouldn’t have had a little to do with that, would you?” Castle remembers that O’Leary’s first comment to Beckett had been when’re you coming to spar with me again?

“Mebbe,” O’Leary mutters. “Might have been her sparring partner for a while.”  Castle considers relative sizes, and decides not to ask about it.  He also decides that he’s very glad O’Leary is gay.

“So you said you got chatting, and I guess you got to be pals pretty fast?”

“Yeah,” the mountain rumbles happily. “Like I said, she’s easy to talk to.  An’ she don’t blab, either. An’…”

“And she was a good disguise, wasn’t she?”

“Yeah. For a while.  Then she met that Fed.  I didn’t like him much, but she seemed fine with him, till one day it was all over.  She didn’t say why.”

Castle contains his interest in that Fed, whoever he was, with consummate ease. He’s not interested in past boyfriends: all he cares about is that there aren’t any future boyfriends except him.  O’Leary disposes of another bottle of beer and a shovelful of nachos without appearing to open his mouth beyond a small amount.