188. What a photograph!

“I had an idea, Beckett,” Castle chirrups as soon as she opens the door.

“Hey, Castle. Hey, Beckett. Nice to see you,” she snips, spoilt by a yawn.

“No, no, no. You have to listen to my idea.”

“I haven’t had enough coffee for crazy theories, Castle – and we don’t even have a case.”

Castle stops and takes a look at his Beckett. She’s still in silky pyjamas and a light, short, silky robe. Her feet are bare, and her face unadorned; her hair is ruffled.

“You only just woke up,” he says. “But it’s after ten.”

“I was tired,” she says. “Now I need coffee. Want some?”

“Of course I do.” He sidles up close to her. “But I want a kiss first.”

She turns into his arm, sneakily positioned to catch her as soon as she spun round, and tips her face up to meet his. Their kiss is leisurely and prolonged, and is only interrupted by filling the kettle and then curtailed by the kettle boiling. Coffee isn’t quite as good as kisses, but it’s necessary. It’s taken to the couch, where they can be in contact without being unable to drink.

A few mouthfuls in, Beckett has awoken enough to be interested in Castle’s idea. “So what’s the grand idea?” she asks.

“You know Mother’s moving out” –

“Yes” –

“and she’s planning a housewarming party” –

“Ye-es?” says Beckett, much more suspiciously.

“Well, I’ve told her that she needs to save some spaces for me. And I thought” –

“You want me to come,” Beckett says flatly.

“Yes. But not just you. The whole team, and Lanie. And your dad. And Alexis, obviously, and my writing poker buddies.”

Beckett’s initial petrifying tension is fractionally relieved, but only fractionally. “When is this party?” she asks tightly.

“No date set yet. Not before the middle of next month, anyway.” There is another fractional relaxation. “Alexis said I should invite Burke.” Beckett is electroshocked into sitting vertically.

“She what now?”

“I won’t,” he says hurriedly. “But how about if I invite O’Leary? And Pete, if O’Leary wants him there.”

“Uh?” Beckett emits, totally blindsided.

“I want you there, and I want my friends there, and I like the rest of the team and I like O’Leary and I like your dad and my poker buddies. So, what about it?”

Beckett doesn’t answer. She does move slightly closer, which induces Castle’s arm to curl around her shoulders, and leans on him. “All of them?” she queries.

“As many as’ll come. I’d invite all of them.” He looks pathetically at her. “Someone’s got to protect me from all those actors.”

“I’m sure Burke would,” she snarks.

“I’m not. Anyway, I can’t afford to meet her bail if Mother defenestrates him, so he’s not invited.”

“Good point.”

She relapses into silence again. It’s not exactly reassuring. Castle cuddles her and drinks his coffee, so that he doesn’t say anything. She only came to the loft last night, for dinner with Alexis. Granted she’ll have at least three weeks to think about it, this is a very big step. His mother is not Beckett’s favourite person, and their interactions to solve a case and a polite exchange of compliments after a successful first night do not amount to anything like friendship or even wary civility. Jim isn’t likely to be any more instantly enthused by the suggestion, either. At least Beckett liked Alexis: that problem was all around her own feelings about her own relationship with her father. Beckett had no problems with Alexis as a person at all.

Beckett considers, trying to be dispassionate. Leaving Martha out of the equation (which is difficult, since she’s the point), she’s not that keen on spending an evening with a group of actors and similar types. Her tolerance for pretension and theatricality is very low, and her experience with the Dream cast has not increased it. On the other hand, if there were the buffer of her team, Lanie, O’Leary (and Pete) and her father, then she would always have a safe haven to return to, no matter where Castle might be.

“I’ll think about it,” she says carefully. “It’s not a bad idea.” She ponders for another few minutes. “Would you invite them all even if I…”

“If you didn’t come?”

“Yeah.”

“I could do. Then you could decide right at the last minute.”

“Do that then,” she says decisively. “Do that, and then…”

“No pressure.”

“Yeah.”

She curls back in against him, feet tucked up under her. He draws little patterns over the silky robe, and enjoys the quiet.

“Mother’s moving out next Saturday,” he says, after a quiet time.

“Mm?”

“I don’t think she’d really thought about it till I said the movers were arriving at eight on Saturday morning. I’m sure it’s not going to go well, but I have to be there.”

Beckett turns slightly and slides an arm round his middle. “Not going to go well?”

“I don’t think it was real to her. Um… like the play got in between her and reality and so she’s not been thinking about it so it wasn’t real. Now it is.”

“You think there might be trouble.” It’s not a question.

“Yeah.” Castle sounds very flat, suddenly.

“Mm.” She cuddles more closely. “Is it worth you and Alexis doing something nice Saturday night? Make up for any nasty moments?” She thinks for a moment. “Or make sure Alexis isn’t there. A sleepover, and not getting back till it’s all done?”

“Mother needs to be at the theatre for the matinee, so I guess – I told her – that she’d only need to deal with the movers till eleven. Sleepover might work. I don’t need to listen to two worked-up red-heads. One at a time is enough. But I need Alexis to help supervise after that, when they’re doing the initial unpacking. She’s better at deciding how Mother likes things than I am.” He pauses. “Well, probably not. But if she does it Mother won’t complain as much. If Mother thinks I arranged it she’ll object on principle, especially if there’s been a row.”

“You can come here for Friday dinner, if Alexis is out.” The cuddle tightens, briefly, around his waist. He can’t see her face. “Um… I could help? If your mother wasn’t there. But not Saturday night. That’s just for you two.”

Castle pouts at the last part.   “I want you to come.”

“No.” Her head droops further. “It’s...going to be all about family and your mother and I can’t do that.”

He drops a kiss on her head. “That’s okay.” He grins. “I knew you wouldn’t come. I just wanted to see what you’d say.”

“What?” She sits up straight and withdraws all hint of a cuddle of any sort. “You were testing me? You rat! You…you…” She fails to find any other words that convey her annoyance in a suitable fashion.

“Yeah, and see what you did? You didn’t do what I wanted, you didn’t even hesitate. You just said no, and even said why.” Beckett growls in an indeterminately fierce manner. “Progress.” He acquires an infuriatingly saintly expression of patronising pride. “Dr Burke will be so proud of you – ouch! Not nice, Beckett.”

“You’re not nice,” she growls.

“I’m very nice to you,” Castle murmurs, and pulls her back into him, ensuring that her legs curl up over his lap in the process. “I could be even nicer.”

“You brought doughnuts?”

“Better than doughnuts.”

“I’m a cop. Nothing is better than doughnuts.”

Castle pouts. “I’m better than doughnuts.” Beckett raises an eyebrow. “I can do so many things that a doughnut can’t. Like this.” He kisses her firmly.

“I suppose doughnuts don’t do that,” she says. “But they do remind me of you in some ways.”

“I’m irresistible too,” Castle says, preening.

“I was actually thinking that they’re ubiquitous.”

“Mean.”

“You telling me your books aren’t on sale everywhere?”

Castle has no answer to that. “I’m nothing like a doughnut,” he humphs sulkily instead. “I’m not fattening, or deep-fried, or cheap and common.”

“Did I say you were? But you could be covered in chocolate frosting, if you like?” Beckett says naughtily, distracted from the main problem.

“If you have chocolate frosting in your cupboards I’ll be amazed. You never have any food unless you’ve invited me for dinner.”

It’s Beckett’s turn to humph sulkily. Since she combines her humph with a pout of which a toddler would be proud, Castle is totally unable to resist kissing the protruding lip, and having kissed it once, doing so several times more.

“What shall we do?” he asks happily, when she’s nicely ruffled and coloured up and just a little flustered.

“Do?”

“Do. We could go out to an exhibition or a museum or lunch” –

“Or I could do my chores and my shopping, like I need to do.”

“Oh,” Castle says, disappointed.

“But before I do all of that,” she says in a sultry tone, “I need to have a shower and get dressed.”

Castle brightens up instantly. “Need some help with that?”

“I don’t need help.” He droops. “But I’d like some.”

Some considerable time later, chores and shopping done, Saturday coming to a close and no new bodies dropping, Beckett contemplates the question of housewarming parties. Specifically, Martha’s housewarming party. She has no desire to go. She has no desire to see Martha socially, or indeed otherwise. She would, in fact, be perfectly happy never to see Martha again.

She ponders deeply over why, and why not, she might go to the party. She is extremely keen to ensure that, when she does come to a conclusion, she knows exactly how she got there. She is also extremely keen to avoid coming to a decision simply because she knows that Castle would really like her there. She has to go – if she goes – for her own reasons, and because she feels that she can deal with it, not because she ought to or she wants to make someone else happy at the expense of her own feelings.

There’s an interesting line to walk here, she realises. Refusing to do anything that she might mildly dislike or might inconvenience her for a moment is selfish and stupid. But agreeing to martyr yourself because you always put someone else’s feelings first is also stupid. She needs to decide each time, on each set of facts. She sips her tea – she does like this Orange Pekoe tea – and thinks some more. She needn’t make a final decision right now. She can see how it goes. Help – after Martha’s out the way – next Saturday. Talk to Dr Burke about it on Tuesday, or next Tuesday. Take her time. And anyway, she’ll want to see how many of the gang are going.

Thinking of which, the gang is all congregating on Wednesday. That’ll be nice. No stress, no need to push herself, no need to second-guess herself or her reactions. And no actors or therapists of any sort.

On that thought, she goes to bed, wishing a little wistfully that Castle were here, or she were there.

Sunday again passes quietly, but this week she is not fretful when she goes to her father’s for dinner. In fact, she is, if not quite looking forward to it, quite sanguine about seeing him. Apart from anything else, they can always talk about the play. It would be entirely unreasonable for her father to want to cross-question her about Castle. Totally the wrong way round – though since he’s cross-examined Castle already she can’t exactly use that to stop her dad. She shrugs. She’ll deal with that if it arises.

She leaves for her father’s apartment quite content to be seeing him, without any feeling of obligation or necessity.

Her father is pleased to see her, though this turns out to be because he is intent on beating her at Sorry and wants to start immediately. It’s not that they’re competitive, or anything like that. Just… er… enthusiastic. That’s it. Enthusiastic. She has a sudden memory of a Monopoly game after which her mom had decreed that they were no longer allowed to play without an umpire. Her mom had declined to take the role.

“What’s so funny, Katie?”

“Remember when Mom told us we weren’t allowed to play Monopoly any more?”

“Yes. She was really cross with us.”

“It was your fault.”

“How was it my fault? You were cheating.”

“I wasn’t. You were.”

“I was not,” Jim says, grossly offended. He glares at Beckett, who glares back – and then snickers.

“Maybe she had a point,” she says. “We’re still fighting about it and we’re not even playing Monopoly.”

“Hm,” her father emits. “I’m still going to beat you at Sorry.”

He doesn’t. Beckett is unreasonably triumphant at her success, right up until Jim threatens that she won’t get any dinner.

“I’m not six!” she squawks. “You can’t still try sending me to bed without dinner.”

“I’m your dad. Goes with the territory. Though when you were six you didn’t have a gun, I guess.”

“I do now,” she points out ominously. “And I’m hungry, and” –

“I won’t like you when you’re hungry?”

Beckett laughs. “Exactly.”

They start to put the dinner out, while Jim grins mischievously. “I get it, Katie.”

“Get what?”

“Why you keep Rick around. He makes sure you eat.”

Beckett flashes her father a very careful-what-you-say glance, and embarks on her pasta and salad without further comment or ado.

“I just want to know if I can expect a dinner invitation from him,” Jim says. Beckett’s piercing stare does not diminish, but her smile turns evil.

“Not a dinner invitation,” she grins. “This time.”

“Oh?” Jim emits trepidatiously, examining her expression. “What, then?”

“They’re having a party.”

“That doesn’t sound too bad.”

“It’s Martha’s housewarming party.”

“Oh.” He sounds dumbfounded. “What’s that got to do with me?”

“You’re invited.”

“What? Katie,” he says as ominously as she had a moment ago, “did you put Rick up to this?”

“No. Absolutely not.”

“So why’s he inviting me? I get why you – are you going?” Jim says suddenly, looking closely at his daughter.

“Haven’t decided,” she mutters, and stuffs a mouthful of salad in to avoid having to speak.

“Mm. I guess I get that too. Anyway, why’s he inviting me?”

“Not just you. The team. Lanie. O’Leary and Pete.”

“Who?”

“O’Leary. Used to work with him in the beginning. Pete’s his partner.”

“Oh, okay. Cops.”

“O’Leary’s the cop. Pete’s an accountant.”

Her father consciously adjusts his assumptions. “Ah,” he says. “Partners.”

“Yeah, Dad,” Beckett sighs.

“Okay. Anyone else?”

“No.”

“Carter?”

“No.” Jim looks a little disappointed. “Do you really want to introduce a shrink to a room full of actors? Or my shrink to Martha when he can’t escape? Not a good plan, Dad.”

“Suppose not. I’ll wait for Rick to invite me, then. In the meantime, since dinner is done, how about I have another try at beating you at Sorry?”

“Er… can we do something else?”

“Scared I’ll actually win?”

“No. Um…” she chews at her lower lip… “er-um… I wanted to see the photos you showed Castle.”

Jim sits down with a hard thump. That was the last thing he expected Katie to say. “Erp?” he emits faintly.

“It’s fine,” she says quickly. “You” –

“I’ll get them,” Jim says even faster, before she can backtrack and flee. He whisks out of his chair and produces the most readily available albums, placing them on the coffee table in front of Katie. There are more albums, but they’re safely stowed away, and Jim has the unaccountable feeling that if he leaves the room Katie is very likely to abandon the apartment entirely. Therefore, he stays put.

Now that the albums are in front of her, Beckett’s screwed-to-the-sticking-point courage has almost failed her. Even asking had been a considerable stretch, but she’d thought of it over dinner and determined to do it before she could back away again. But now the albums are right there in front of her, and all the memories are piling up and pushing their way to the front of her mind, and she can feel her dad’s worry and tension and confusion and hope right there next to her…

“Shall I make some coffee, Katie?” he asks – and it’s enough. Enough that he’s stepping back, giving her a moment, being elsewhere and letting her start in her own time.

“Yes please,” she answers, and as he rises reaches for the first album.

“You showed Castle this?” she screeches as she discovers precisely what her father did when she wasn’t paying attention. “Dad! I am going to shoot you and dispose of your body in a pig farm in Connecticut. How could you?”

“It’s every dad’s duty to embarrass their daughter by showing the baby photos to their boyfriend,” Jim says mildly. “Anyway, you were really cute with the little tuft of dark hair in a clip on top of your head.”

“You” – Beckett wails. “You…”

“That one was cute, too. The teddy bear was bigger than you.”

“I hate you,” Beckett says, just as she might have done when she was three. “How could you show Castle these?”

“He thought they were really cute, too. Come to think of it, I never did get to see his photos of Alexis. I’m sure he’s got lots like this too.”

Beckett isn’t listening. Beckett is frantically flipping through the albums to find out exactly what damage her father has done to her twenty-nine year old dignity, and finding that she might very well have none left. The sheer horror of her father’s parental actions has completely washed out her misery. In fact, she has no room at all in her head for anything other than a series of detailed plans for murdering him and hiding the body. The only faint hope of salving her feelings is that the albums stop before she was ten, so don’t cover the braces and gawkiness of early teen-dom. Even so, she’s deeply embarrassed.

Jim is not deeply embarrassed. He’s not embarrassed at all, and in fact is highly amused by the whole situation. He hasn’t seen Katie flustered like this in years. His conviction that he will be receiving a formal visit from Rick strengthens, although he very much doubts that his permission will be sought at any stage. Katie was never big on asking permission, though she wasn’t exactly big on seeking forgiveness either, now he thinks about it. Anyway, her crossness is amazingly reminiscent of her childhood, and still amazingly cute. Still, better not poke the bear any further. He likes seeing his daughter, but he doesn’t want to see her through the door of a hospital room.

“Next time you mention photos I am going to vet them first,” Beckett eventually says. There is a bright line of colour on each high cheekbone.

“I like them,” Jim points out happily. “Shows me how much you’ve grown up.”

“Hm.” Beckett pauses for an extended period, and then speaks. “I’m… I’m glad I saw them.”

Without thinking, Jim hugs his daughter. After a very surprised pause, she returns the hug.

“Now,” Jim says, “how about that Sorry game? I’m definitely going to win this time.”

“In your dreams, Dad. In your dreams.”