30. Moving on up

Castle, some dark time later, squints at a clock and finds it to be after eleven. He should go home.  He should go home and be there for his daughter.  Family first, family before anything.  Oh. Ohhhh.  He’d never put that together with his reactions to Beckett’s actions.  Pushed one of his nuclear buttons, she had.  Anything that looked like abandoning family… his non-present, one night stand sperm donor non-father had abandoned them, Meredith had abandoned Alexis...  Oh, oh, oh.  No wonder he’d reacted so very, very badly.  Unspoken assumptions… triggered by his own past. 

But he’s identified them now, so he can pull them out into the disinfecting sunlight of knowledge and watch them shrivel up and die. He snuggles down again, content, and finds comfort of his own in the lax warmth of her form against his chest.

“Beckett,” he says into her ear, after a longer time. “Beckett, I’ve got to go home soon.”  He follows it up with a slight shake of her shoulder, and when that doesn’t work, a slightly harder shake.  She doesn’t stir.  Well, that’s not quite true.  She curls up closer into him and wraps her arm more tightly round his ribs.  This is very pleasant and very unhelpful.  He can’t go anywhere with Beckett clinging like a limpet to his middle.  He has an idea, and strokes around her face.  An eyelid rises, an eye glares at him, and the eyelid falls again.  It’s like trying to wake the Cyclops.

“Wakey, wakey,” he entices.

“No.” She burrows into his chest and pulls the coverlet over her head.

“Don’t, then. But I have to get home.”  He rolls a little, and detaches her.  At least, that was the plan.  Rolling a little has settled him on top of naked Beckett, neatly placed exactly where all sorts of deliciously pleasurable naughtiness might occur.  That was… not a good idea.  She is definitely not asleep now.  Which is not to say that her eyes aren’t large, and hazy, and very sexily sleepy.  She blinks, slowly.

“You seem to be pretty pleased to see me awake, Castle,” she drawls. It’s his turn to blink, and then to smile, lazily.

“If you’d woken up a little more quickly, I’d have been even more pleased. Never mind.  You’re awake now.”  He looks down at her, and moves a little.  Her sleepy eyes turn dark and widen.  He leans down, slowly, brings his hands around her face and then kisses her deeply.   “If you’re awake, then I can kiss you properly.  Can’t I?”

“Mmmmm.”

That sounds like agreement. It feels like it too, since her hands are sliding into his hair and bringing him down to her.  So he kisses her again, tasting her lips, slipping his tongue between them, quick raids to entice her to pursue him and open up, but she’s not being caught in that trap, so he nips her lip to tease her and she tries to retaliate but he takes advantage and steals her mouth and isn’t possession nine points of the law?

Once he’s taken her mouth, he’s found soft, open Kat who likes him to be sure, and searching, and certain of where he wants to take her; sure of how he wants to make love to her. Her certainty – at work – is diamond hard, has to be, so off-duty, having someone else’s certainty to lean on… is restful.  He stays exploring her mouth for a time, stroking a hand down over her smooth, silky skin, not pushing, not hurrying: no forcing the pace.  He carries on with the same slow seduction until Kat is loose-limbed and moving under his touch, then, assured of his welcome, begins to stroke into more dangerous areas, palming her breasts so she arches into his hands, slipping downward over the flat abs, the jut of her hipbone, the neat curls, the heat and moisture of her sensitive core.  She twists under his experienced, erotic ministrations, moaning quietly and then more loudly as he slithers down to lick and suck and taste her nipples; descends further and she writhes as his mouth meets the damp folds and his tongue laps over them and flicks over-stimulated nerves and then pushes in, slides out, over nerves again; repeated and repeated so that she arches and writhes and cries his name and comes.

And then he slides into her body as his tongue retakes her mouth and she’s kissing him as if the world will end tonight, legs wrapped around him to pull him deeper and she’s just as responsive, as gorgeously hot, as lost in him as he’d wanted and needed; as he is, once more, lost in her.

They’re wrapped in post-coital quiet when Castle remembers that he needs to go home. This time he achieves it, not without regret that he simply can’t stay.  Then again, he’s never been able to stay.  The first couple of times were too early, and then it was the slick sex that didn’t take them anywhere.  But now, he wants to stay; to keep her close and, most importantly, be there when she wakes so that she doesn’t simply revert to walled-up, closed-off Beckett without knowing that he’ll be there when she wants to stand down.

Beckett is woken by her phone.  It’s Dispatch, with a new body for her.  She’s up and out in quick time, fully focused on the case and dialling Castle as she goes.  By the time she’s reached Hamilton Fish Park, the team is there.  She’s not sure whether it’s a good thing or a bad that it’s Lanie on the case, not Perlmutter.  Perlmutter is a pain in the ass, but he won’t ask her any questions.  Lanie’s a far better ME, but it comes with the Inquisition.

“What have we got?” she inquires, looking down at a twenty-something-not-a-lot African-American man, in winter weight sports gear. As she does, Castle arrives and peers at it.  He’s standing an unnoticeable fraction closer than normal, concealed from the others by his heavy coat and by his brandishing a large cup of coffee at her.  She takes it without even thinking.  It’s cold, it’s undoubtedly about to snow, again, and standing around is very chilling even wrapped up in warm clothes.  And, of course, Lanie is regarding her with an ominously penetrating glance.  The chill in her body is joined by a chill in her soul.

“The hole in his shoulder is a single GSW, but that shouldn’t have killed him. My bet is that he drowned in the pool, but I’ll need to get him back to the morgue to find out.  Gimme till this afternoon.  I’ll call you soon as I know.” 

Lanie gives her team of cleaner-uppers instructions and the body disappears towards the morgue. Unfortunately, and predictably, Lanie does not.  Beckett wishes that hiding behind Espo would not be a complete giveaway that she really does not want to talk to Lanie at all, and finds herself deserted as Ryan and Esposito rapidly depart at Lanie’s glare, taking a reluctant Castle with them.  She locks down, the more relaxed mood with which she had woken, which had started to drain when she’d seen Lanie, and which had then been somewhat reinstated by the coffee Castle had brought, wholly evaporating.  She doesn’t want to talk to Lanie.   Still, she’d managed to avoid conversation last night and she can avoid it now.

“Time of death, Lanie?”

“Gave it to Espo already.”

“Okay, I’d better get back to it. Call me when you get something.” 

“Kate, what was up Monday?”

“I was busy.”

Lanie looks at her. Beckett looks back, with a degree of cool challenge.

“You weren’t busy at lunchtime.   You dashed off like someone bit your butt, girlfriend.  So what was up?” 

“I had things to do.”

“Kate, you need to talk about this.” Beckett’s face locks down even more tightly.  “You really do.”

“I really don’t. It’s all done.”  She turns.  “I need to get back and get started.  See you Friday?”

“What’s all done?” Lanie says to Beckett’s departing back, and gets no answer. “Tonight, not Friday.  And you had better be ready to talk to me,” she adds, unheard.

Beckett’s better mood on waking is thoroughly ruined, thanks to Lanie. She returns to the bullpen and glares at her already-decorated murder board.   Esposito has started the timeline, and Ryan is interrogating databases to get an ID.  Castle is fiddling with a piece of paper and staring at the picture of their victim.

“Hey,” he says happily, and, as the boys aren’t looking, smiles with a very male edge of appreciation and memory.

“Hey.”

“Lanie have anything more?”

“No.” That’s snipped off.  Castle deduces that Lanie had tried to pick up where – he presumes – she had left off on Monday.

“Shame,” he says blandly, and doesn’t comment further. “Coffee?”

“Please. I’m cold.  Standing around the park looking at a dead runner really didn’t help.”

“Runner?”

“Runner. Thought you’d have noticed that, Mr Observation.”  Castle can’t exactly say that actually he was paying much more attention to Beckett, whose adrenaline and tension had been high when he got there and who had been regarding Lanie much as if she were a small bomb.  He’d have been paying more attention to Beckett anyway, to see if she had rebuilt her walls against him, but that hadn’t been obvious in the face of the threat from Lanie’s beadily interrogative stare.

“Okay, Ms Supercop, what’d I miss?” Beckett follows him to the break room, which is good.

“The shoes. Those weren’t bought for show: those were serious gear.  Expensive.  His clothes were the real deal too.  This wasn’t some joe who runs to look good, this was a serious athlete.”  She frowns.  “I’d have expected a college logo somewhere, but I don’t remember one.”  She moves to the door.  “Hey, Espo?”

“Yo?”

“You remember any sort of logo on our vic’s gear?”

“Naw. I can call the morgue, if you want?”

“Yeah.”

“On it.” She stalks back toward the coffee machine where the aroma is tickling the air.  Castle watches the way she walks and accurately concludes that the case is the only thing on her mind.  He also accurately concludes that this is an entirely deliberate focus to avoid thinking about anything else, such as Lanie’s questions, or last night.  Detective Beckett, on the job.  Murderers, beware.

“Why would someone shoot a runner?”

“Envy.”

She raises a brow. “Okay, let’s tug on that.  Competitors?  I’d like that better if there was a logo on his pants or top.”

“Did he die of the shot or something else?”

“Shot. Even though it wasn’t fatal the shock would have laid him out for long enough to freeze – hypothermia – or he drowned because he breathed in the snow and slush.  So the shot killed him, even though it wasn’t cause of death.”

Castle finishes preparing the coffee and hands a mug over. Beckett wraps her fingers round it in a way which suggests that they are still cold, despite her gloves having been on outside, and smiles a brisk precinct smile. 

“No theories yet?”

“Plenty of theories. If it wasn’t a rival, maybe it was a distraught girlfriend.”

“That’s unusually normal for you.”

“Or he was a CIA messenger who was shot by a Chinese spy before he could reach his drop point.”

“And… back to the usual insanity.”

“Or he was that speedy runner from Men In Black. You know, the alien that Will Smith nearly catches before he’s a Man In Black?”  He looks at her quivering lips.  “You do know, don’t you?  You watch sci-fi films.”  He grins widely.  “You’re a fan.  Who’d have thought it?  Buttoned-up Beckett likes sci-fi movies.”  He smiles soulfully.  “I have a huge collection.  We could watch them together.”  His voice drops.  “I’ll bring them all round to yours.”  It’s added fast enough to remove the instant stiffening in her back.

“Beckett,” Ryan says from the doorway, “I got something.”

“What’ve you got?”

“His name’s Asher Washington. Lives off Avenue D.  Got the address.”

“Field trip?” says Castle hopefully.

“Yep. Let’s go.  Ryan, see what else you can dig up.  Next of kin would be good.”

“On it.”

Asher Washington’s apartment is, unsurprisingly, locked. The building superintendent produces a key, after some persuasion and the application of the most ferociously vicious stare Castle can ever remember Beckett emitting.  It’s on the sixth floor but at least there is an elevator.  The Stairmaster at the gym is one thing.  Panting geriatrically after Beckett’s no doubt Olympic standard stair-sprinting would be quite another.  Which tweaks a memory.

“How did you know about the serious gear?”

“Recognised it.” He waits.  “What?  I like running.  Just not in the snow and slush.”

“I thought you did yoga.”

“It is possible to enjoy more than one sport, Castle.”

“I could think of another sport you’d enjoy,” he leers. There’s a disgusted noise.  It’s reassuringly normal.  Under the influence of a nice new case, Beckett is apparently perfectly contented, and in the absence of Lanie, beginning to relax again.  He determines to keep it that way.

They look around the small studio. It’s relatively tidy, only a mug on the side.  A bowl, cereal and a spoon are out, but unused.  On further exploration, the bed is semi-made, and the towel in the bathroom is dry.  A button-down and dress pants are over a narrow chair.

“Looks like he went out for a morning run before breakfast, and meant to come back to shower and eat.” She pokes around a little.  “You see any phone, laptop, anything like that?”

“Laptop’s here,” Castle says, pointing at the nightstand drawer. “Got any gloves?”

“Sure.” She tosses him a pair and puts one on herself.  “Okay.  If he’d had a phone on him at the scene Espo or Ryan would have found it.  Bit weird to go out without one in this weather, but if he was on a short run he might not have bothered.  So it ought to be here.”

Castle looks around hopefully, in a random fashion. Beckett starts at one side and works methodically through each area and drawer. 

“A-ha!” they say together, spotting an edge of phone peeking out from under a cushion. Beckett pulls it out, and swipes it.  Naturally, it needs a passcode.  She taps in a sequence.  It opens up. 

“How’d you know the code?” Castle says with astonishment. She smirks, happy as always to have pulled off a trick that he hadn’t.

“Magic,” she says, and wiggles her fingers. Castle pouts.  Behind the childish expression, he notes again that Beckett has now become more relaxed than she has been for some considerable time.  He wonders how much of that is the case and how much last night – and how long it will last, either way.

“C’mon,” he whines.

Beckett sighs. “Most people never change the initial code.  I always try it first.  Seven times out of ten, it works.”

“Oh. That simple?”

“Yep.” She’s glaring at the contacts list.  “Where’re his parents?”  She scrolls down, muttering darkly.  “They should be here.”

“Maybe he doesn’t have any.”

“Huh?”

“Maybe he doesn’t have any. An orphan.  Little Orphan Asher.”  Her brow creases as she thinks, tapping her phone already.

“Ryan. You got anything on next of kin?”  Muffled words.  “Yeah.  No parents obvious on the contacts list.”  More muffle.  “Okay.  Seriously?”  She makes a face.  “Thanks.”

“What did Ryan have?”

“You’re not gonna believe this.”

“He really is an orphan? I knew it!”

“Yeah. Your crazy theory was right.”

“Say that again, Beckett. I don’t think I heard it.”  She glares.

“You heard.”

He slides up to her. “Didn’t.  Temporary deafness.”

“You did.” A hand sneaks over her waist and away.  “Don’t.”  He opens his mouth.  “Just… don’t.  Please.  Not when I’m working.”  Stress has crept into her voice.  Oh.  Fine while she’s on the case.  Not fine as soon as she’s distracted.  What had Ryan said? If they don’t do something, she never stops.  Oh.

“Okay.”

She nods, once, in thanks. “Let’s get back and see what the boys have.”  The stress has – almost – disappeared from her tone.  “We can get lunch on the way.”

Beckett’s lunch consists of a small sandwich, an anaemic salad and a fruit salad. Castle quirks an eyebrow, and gets a scowl in return.  He subsides, before he can put his foot in it.  Although putting his foot in the salad might improve it.  Even slush would have more nutrition than that salad.  His lunch consists of a much more substantial Mexican wrap.  Beckett doesn’t seem to notice.  She’s eased off again, now she’s back in the bullpen.

“Beckett, we got next of kin. An aunt and uncle.  Placed with them when his parents got dead in a motor accident.  Parents were pretty well off, well insured” – Ryan smirks: it’s clear that’s all come from his digging even if Espo’s doing the whole of the talking – “so that’s likely how he could afford to live in Manhattan now.  Works at Schickoff & Schultz.”

“Who?”

“Attorneys, based in Midtown.”

“That’s where Dad’s firm is.” Beckett wrinkles her brow.  “Wonder if he knows anything about them?  I might see what the gossip is.  Lawyers gossip like a knitting circle – except about their clients, when it might actually be useful to us.”  Castle blinks at her disgruntled tone.  “What?  They never give us any useful information on a case.  Professional ethics.”  She scowls.  “I do get it.  Brought up with it.  It’s just sometimes…”

“Unhelpful?”

“Yeah.” She glares at the innocent desk, then breathes out and smiles nastily.  “Still, there might be some non-client gossip.”

Beckett has had an idea. It is extremely unlikely that her father will know anything about Asher Washington, though he might be able to give her some background on the firm and if she’s really lucky, some gossip.  It is, however, very likely that he will be free for dinner tonight, which means that she will be able to avoid Lanie.  Perfect.  Of course, she will have to deal with her father, but since Christmas that’s been slightly easier, mostly.  Slightly easier.  Her father has been more… fatherly.  Relaxed.  Less… fragile.  And it had all started at Christmas, with the game, and she’d talked about Castle, and somewhere her father seems to have got the idea that there’s more to it than she’d told him, and… and it seems that in thinking about Katie with a… a… something… sort-of-not-quite-maybe-relationship, he’s rediscovered something of himself. 

“Beckett!”

“Uh?”

“Did you even hear me?”

“No. What was it?”

“Are you and Castle going to go talk to the relatives?”

“Oh. Yeah.  Sure.”  She snaps back into focus.  “Ryan, are you waiting for street cams?”  He nods.  “Okay.  Espo, you start tracing bank, purchases, anything that might tell us what he was into that might get him killed.  If Lanie calls, ask her to text me and we’ll swing by the morgue on the way back.  Castle, give me five and we’ll get going.”  She disappears in the direction of the restroom, and on the way back calls her father.

“Dad?”

“Katie? Is something wrong?”  He sounds concerned. 

“No, nothing. I need some help on a case, and you might be able to help.”

“Me? I’m not a criminal attorney.”

“No. I need some gossip.”  Her father squawks.

“I don’t gossip.”

“C’mon, Dad, you all chatter like the Sewing Circle. I need you to tell me about Schickoff & Schultz.  Can I meet you for dinner?”

“Sure, come over and I’ll cook.   I don’t know a lot about them, though.”

“Anything’s more than the nothing I’ve got. See you about six-thirty?”

“Sure.” There’s a pregnant pause.  “Katie… if this is a case, shouldn’t you be bringing your Castle-fellow with you?”  Her father sounds – mischievous.  “After I’ve unloaded the information, we could all eat and then have a nice evening.”

“Dad! No, I wasn’t going to bring him.”

“I think you should,” Jim says. “If you don’t, I guess I’ll just come by the precinct after work and tell you there.  That way you’re doing what you’re supposed to: letting him shadow you.”

Oh God. Now her father’s turned matchmaker.  How the hell did that happen?  She’d been pleased that he was being a little more fatherly… but this is not pleasing at all.  Her father is still talking.

“So that’s agreed. You’ll both come by around six-thirty.  See you later.”  And he dials off before she has a chance to argue.  She’s left there with her jaw hanging open. Her own father has just sandbagged her.  She walks out, shell-shocked.