Perspicacity, Chapter 2: A Short Castle WIP

[pollylynn]

Title: Perspicacity, Chapter 2

WC: ~3400, this chapter; ~8000 total

A/N: Thanks for enjoying chapter 1 and thanks for saying so! Probably 2 more chapters after this.

Rating: M

Summary: "It's a little sad, because, really? Him pulling something over on her? Not exactly likely. But she wants him to have his fun for now. She's content to let him think he could ever-ever-get her back for his birthday. For now, she's content to let him think that."

Episodes: Set post-"Lives of Others" (5 x 19), but just meant to be a fun, off screen PWMP* piece.

Here's chapter 1, in case you missed it.



There's a subtle shift after The Incident. She thinks of it as The Incident, complete with capital letters, and she wants to kill him for that.

He's not at the precinct the morning after the morning after The Incident. (Oh, she could just kill him for that, except that every plot leading to his violent death begins with a replay of The Incident in her head and she never gets very far.)

He's begged off for the morning with some lame excuse. Ryan breezes in with a smile on his face and asks where he is. She snaps that she's not actually Castle's keeper and Ryan gives her a strange look. She mumbles an apology.

She feels lousy about it. It's not Ryan's fault. It's his. Castle's.

He has her thinking in capital letters and, actually, the shift isn't subtle at all. He's not subtle. He's smug. He's been insufferable for the last forty-eight hours. Like he knew exactly what she was up to the whole time. Like he knew and he turned the tables on her.

The minute she thinks it, she can hear him him in her head. She can hear him snickering. She can see that delighted, maddening smile on his face as he insists that no, he turned her on the table.

Heat licks its way up her face and over her collar bones. She catches Espo and and Ryan exchanging significant looks behind their file folders. Ryan's is upside down.

She spins away from her desk and spends some quality time at the water fountain waiting for the color in her cheeks to die down and revisiting the many creative ways in which she'd like to kill him.

He breezes in that afternoon and he's so smug. Too smug, in fact. He's touchy-feely with her and trying too hard. She wonders when the circles around his eyes got so deep and dark. She catches a glimpse of him in profile and wonders how she's missed them, the dark purple smudges like thumb prints at the bridge of his nose.

Ryan catches sight of him and calls out a thank you as he crosses the bullpen to her desk. Castle grins and shoots her a hooded look.

She's so busy thinking how smug he is-about all the different and painful ways that she's going to kill him-that she misses the first part of Ryan's explanation.

"You should see it, Beckett, it's huge!"

"What?" It slips out. It's loud and . . . scandalized. She'd like to kill him for that, too. For the word that pops into her head and the fact that there's no other word for it.

Castle presses his lips together and tries to look innocent. He tries and fails, and he is so fucking smug that she is definitely going to kill him the first chance she gets.

"The basket that Castle sent." Ryan darts a confused look from her to him and back again. "Jenny could barely carry it. And it's got scones and those gross British 'digestive biscuits' that she loves." Ryan claps him on the shoulder. "Thanks, man."

"No, thank Jenny," Castle says, wide-eyed and sincere.

Mock sincere, though Ryan doesn't catch it. He runs a palm idly over an empty patch of her desk. Definitely mock sincere.

"Her tea worked wonders."

Another couple of days go by, and she revisits the question of snooping.

What is snooping, anyway, when you practically live with someone? When he's so not stealthy and he thinks he is? When he blatantly manipulates you with-admittedly fantastic-desk sex? Really, what is snooping when this is war?

It's more than just that, though. It's more than the fact that The Incident raises the possibility that she might-might-have underestimated him a little. It's more than the fact that ever since The Incident she has some trouble concentrating in the presence of The Desk. Which she is definitely not capitalizing in her head.

It's more than all those things together that have her revisiting the question of snooping.

Ok, it's a lot about that. A lot of it is about The Incident.

She's still reeling. She's still in denial, because she never sleeps that hard, and he's clumsy at the best of times. These are not the best of times. He's been really clumsy lately. His hips and shins and elbows are covered in bruises because he keeps walking into things, and how the hell did she sleep long and hard enough for him to move whatever he's hiding in that damned drawer?

There's a moment-an actual moment-when she wonders if he could have drugged her. Or maybe Jenny's tea really does have some secret ingredient and she fell victim to the horrible fumes?

It's quite a moment. So. Yeah, it's a lot about that. It's a lot about pride and the unsolved mystery. The Incident. The Curious Case of the Detective and the Desk Sex. It's about the fact that he was so smug about it.

But it's not just that. Pride isn't the only thing that has her revisiting snooping.

She's worried about him.

That's not going away. It's getting worse.

He really looks like hell and he's not himself. He's smug when he remembers to be. When he's trying too hard at work, he shoots her looks and pats the desk invitingly. But mostly, he's too quiet for too long, and his default lately is the thousand-yard stare. It's really not like him.

His theories, when he even has them-when he even bothers-are downright mundane. His heart isn't in it most of the time, and when it is-when he shakes himself like he suddenly realizes he's not keeping up his end of things-it's too much. It's manic.

Different manic. Not standard-issue Castle manic.

She has another moment where she worries that it's her. That he's bored. With the work. With them. With her.

It's not a great moment. It sends her into retreat. It has her folding her arms and redefining snooping in the other direction. Because if he is-if he is bored and looking for an out-she'll be damned if she'll turn to that woman. She'll be damned if she snoops.

That moment passes almost as soon as it arrives, though. Thank God, it passes, because it doesn't fit.

If anything, he's a little clingier than usual. He fishes for compliments, and when he's not slumped and staring into the distance, he's trying too hard. Not just with being smug. He's trying too hard with her.

She wrote it off to his birthday at first. The sudden rush of romantic gestures. She thought it was just the birthday thing. Part not wanting to be one upped, and part real gratitude. A real rush of warmth and feeling because he meant it when he said no one's ever done anything like that for him before. That breaks her heart a little.

So she wrote it off to his birthday, but it's been nearly a month. And anyway, it's not just the gestures. It's not just the little gifts and notes and surprises.

It's not just that he's bringing his A game every time when it comes to sex, though he is. He really is. Every single time, and it's not like she minds. She mostly manages to keep a lid on the capital letters in her head, and she does not mind at all.

But it's a little much. It's a little ridiculous.

Because it's always great between them. Long, drawn out days and nights where she feels like she's going to snap. Quick and efficient and laughing when they're running late-they're running so late-and he slips into the shower with her anyway. Exhausted and sloppy and comforting after long days and bad cases.

It's always great, and since his birthday, he's been trying too hard.

She doesn't mind, but she's a little worn out with it. She's a big fan of his A game-a big fan-but she wouldn't say no to just the essentials if it meant they'd both get a little more sleep. Because the essentials are great, too. It's always great.

But it's all A game since his birthday, and he's not smug, then. He's not smug at all. He gives her these timid, hopeful looks. Like it's last summer again and he wakes up every morning afraid it'll be over. Like he's trying to earn her.

So she's not really worried that it's about her or about them or about that. Not for long, anyway.

But she's worried.

There's something going on with him, and she's starting to think it's only with him. That it has nothing to do with birthdays or revenge. That maybe it has nothing to do with her at all.

It's not just the phone calls anymore. He starts skipping out on the precinct. She latches on to the lame, complicated excuses he makes up for not coming in with her. For ditching out in the middle of the day. For not showing up at all, even though he was supposed to.

She latches on to the excuses and tells herself that it has to be the birthday. It has to be.

Otherwise he'd tell her. If there were really something going on with him, he'd tell her.

He's a confessor.

He is now that she knows what pushes his buttons, anyway. Those buttons. Not the other kind.

Although sometimes they're the same kind. There is considerable button overlap sometimes.

But he's a confessor, and usually it's a matter of applying the right kind of pressure and then waiting.

But she's tried all the usual buttons and-nothing. All kinds of pressure and nothing. Nothing.

She dangles things he's missed in front of him. She taunts him with cases and pranks and things Ryan accidentally says in his outside-his-head voice. She arches an eyebrow and says he should've been there. He's distracted and says he's sorry he missed it and-nothing.

She tweaks his ego. She stacks up files high and comments on fast they've been closing things lately. She only tries that one once. She makes a crack that they get things done when he's not underfoot and sadness flashes over his face.

It's just a second. Just a moment when his shoulders slump and there's the kind of sadness in his eyes she hasn't seen in a year and then he rises to the bait. He plays his part and says she might be solving more cases, but she's not having any fun.

And it's true. It's true and she only tries that one once.

She grits her teeth and tries guilt, because she's worried. She's really worried at this point and she just wants him to come clean with whatever it is.

So she drags into the loft. She overplays how tired she is. She goes into all the grim detail about the leads she had to chase down alone and every low life she spent the day with.

He makes a big deal of it. He makes a big deal of her. He draws a bath and works at the knots in her shoulders until she forgets that she's supposed to be working him. She's supposed to be getting him to confess.

But they fall into bed and he brings his A game and she forgets.

She tells herself that he wouldn't keep something from her. Nothing important. He usually can't even keep anything unimportant from her. He's a confessor.

She tells herself he wouldn't keep it from her if there were really something going on. But she's tried all the buttons and-nothing.

She revisits the question of snooping.

By the end of the week, she goes from worried to flat out alarmed.

They fight.

He yells. Kind of a lot. Even when she yells back.

It's not unprecedented, but it's unusual. He gets sarcastic when he's pissed. He's cutting and self-contained and subdued, though she would never have thought it before.

She'd have thought he'd be one for dramatics, but he's not. Not when he's really pissed.

So the yelling is unusual.

But that's not what flips the switch. That's not what takes her from worried to alarmed.

She starts it. She's worried and he's not confessing and she picks a fight. She absolutely starts it, and part of her is satisfied-so satisfied-when he actually yells. When he storms off and she can hear him slamming around upstairs in the spare bedroom.

Part of her is so satisfied that she's getting any reaction at all from him. And part of her is furious and worried.

She storms off to the laundry room. Opposite corners. She yanks open the dryer and pulls clothes out by the armful. She's pissed off and worried and she forgot the damned laundry basket. She pulls clothes out by the armful and it's all mixed up. It's his t-shirts and her workout clothes and she drops to the floor and starts throwing things into piles.

She balls up his sweats and hurls them at the wall. She drops to the floor and mutters a string of curses because it's hard to imagine anything less satisfying than hurling his giant, ratty sweatpants at the wall.

She pulls them apart. His things and her things. She kicks his away from her and folds her own. She snaps everything into vicious creases and makes one pile and another.

The piles grow and she can't remember the last time she took anything home. She wonders where the hell her overnight bag even is. She's pissed and worried and shocked as hell when one fat tear and another and another drop on to the fabric in her hands and spread, staining the bright green dark.

She's pissed and worried and then mostly just pissed because she's crying and he's looming in the doorway and that's not how this goes. They're still in time out. They should be. Because when they really fight, that's how this goes.

They're both too quick to wound and it's not worth it. They both know it's not worth it to let themselves say everything that bubbles up on the first edge of anger.

So they go to their corners and come back together when it's safer. When they each know what's really worth saying.

But it's hardly been ten minutes and he's standing there and that's not how this works.

Her head snaps up, and she's about to yell. She's about to pick up where they left off, but then she sees him. She really sees him, and his hands are hanging at his sides and he looks awful.

"Castle." It's a plea and she doesn't care. She doesn't care that she's crying.

"Kate . . ." He tips his head back against the wall.

He leans his back against it. Heavy. Heavy. She has the absurd feeling that maybe the wall can't take it. That maybe he'll push right through or it will topple or something. But he leans his back against it and slides to the floor. He crowds in next to her and rests his chin on her shoulder.

"Kate, I'm sorry." He whispers and in that moment, she goes from pissed to alarmed.

She shoves the laundry away with her feet and twists toward him. His eyes flutter open for a grateful moment and he scoots down to lay his head in her lap.

She runs her fingers over his forehead and the lines smooth a little. He sighs and works his shoulders. He settles into her.

"Castle, what's wrong?" she says when it seems like he's not going to say anything else. Like he's just going to apologize for a fight she started and curl up with her on the floor of the laundry room. Like this is how they work.

"Not feeling great," he murmurs. His eyes don't open, but he turns his face into the warmth of her palm. "Headache."

She swallows hard. She's alarmed.

He's a baby. He's a huge baby when he's sick. He's not like this. There's nothing understated about him when he's sick, and now she's officially alarmed.

She swallows hard.

"You take something?" she asks softly.

He nods.

She slides her fingers behind his head. It's heavy against her hands and he lets out a tight, relieved sigh when she finds the knot and kneads.

"Should work soon. Thanks," he says faintly. "Thanks."

"Lot of them lately?" She hates how careful she sounds, but she's alarmed. "Headaches?"

"Couple." His voice is stronger. He's making it stronger and she feels the effort.

She feels his shoulders strain and his spine twist, and it's so much effort. He lifts one arm to hook around her neck and she just wants him to stop. He pulls her mouth down to his and his mouth is hot and the kiss is deep and it's so . . . skillful. It's his A game and she's alarmed.

She fights back. She takes his face in her hands and changes the game. She pulls her mouth from his and brushes light, upside down kisses at the corners. She nuzzles his cheek and traces his laugh lines with her thumb. He's surprised. His hand clenches in her hair and he's surprised, but she's relentless. She's alarmed and she's not going to let him run this time.

She slides her mouth over his cheekbone and hovers near his ear. "Let's take a nap."

"What?" His eyes pop open. He looks more like himself than he has in weeks and her spine goes soft with relief, even through the alarm. He looks like himself.

"Let's take a nap," she says as she eases her knees out from under his head. "Your head hurts. I'm tired. Let's take a nap."

He wants to argue. He snags at her knee and curves his fingers around her thigh and he's really trying to bring his A game. She dances back and reaches down for his hand.

He lets her. Something gives and he lets her and her throat is tight. She wants to slam him against the wall. She wants to beg him. She wants to make him tell her. But he looks awful and she thinks it can wait. She thinks it can wait until they both get a little rest.

They stumble to the bedroom, laughing now and clumsy. She tugs her bra out through her shirt sleeve and he doesn't even bother with his usual Tex Avery appreciation. He helps her with her jeans and slips out of his own and they tumble under the covers.

She tries to roll away, but he reaches for her and she doesn't have it in her to fight him. Her fingers dig into the base of his skull and he groans softly against her neck. It's some kind of relief. She's worried. She's alarmed, but it's some kind of relief.

She feels his hand on her hip. She feels the slow drag of cotton up and up and the heat of his palm at her waist.

"Hey. We're napping," she murmurs.

He opens his mouth against the hollow of her shoulder and traces the line of muscle with the tip of his tongue.

"We're napping," he agrees as his fingers barely brush the side of her breast. "Napping."

She presses the heel of her hand hard into the knotted column of muscle at the back of his neck and it carries her closer. It slots her body against his.

She meant to let him rest. She meant for them both to rest, but his hands are warm and sloppy and intermittent on her body. His breath is deep and smooth and coming faster as her hips press into his. His eyes flicker open and closed. It's not his A game.

They're a lazy, awkward jumble of limbs. Their mouths don't quite meet on every kiss.

She nudges him on to his back and tugs his boxers off. He curses at her crossly. She shushes him and slaps his hands away when he tries to reach down between their bodies. He gives her a tired grin and surrenders. His hands fall to her thighs and come to rest.

She meant for him to rest, but this isn't his A game and she can't resist this version of them. Alarm rises on a wave and recedes.

This first, she tells herself. This first and we'll rest and then he'll tell me.

She kicks her way free of her own underwear and he mutters something about violence.

She tells him to shut up and sinks down over him.

He does. He shuts up.

A/N: There has been some . . concern.

I can only assure you that the genre categories are not in error and that I am an Angst!Wimp.