Erm . . . . .I'll just leave this here. Castle WIP, Chapter 1
Edited 12/5/11 to add what's probably up through the end of Chapter 1
It's the end of the semester. I am awash in papers to grade. So naturally the start of a fic popped into my head and won't leave me alone . . .
Title: Six Impossible Things
Castle, End of Season 4
Warnings: No explicit spoilers; I'm only current up through Cops & Robbers and I know nothing beyond that. References to the Nikki Heat tie-in novels, in case you're worried about being spoiled for those.
Rating: PG at this point (mild language), although future chapters may include not-for-kids nookie (if the characters play nice.
Pairing: Beckett/Castle
Tags: UST, Crime, Adventure, Romance, Friendship
Beckett was creeping up on six impossible things before breakfast. Thing One: Castle answering on the first ring. Before the first ring had even finished, actually.
“Beckett. You have something?”
"Castle?" She blinked down at her watch, the slightly snarky message she'd
planned on leaving forgotten in her surprise at hearing his voice.
"Yes?"
"Castle," She repeated, fumbling the phone between her shoulder and ear as she
ducked under the crime scene tape, "I . . . you're . . ."
"Still here," he paused, waiting for her to continue, "Butt dial, Beckett?"
"No. No. I'm just surprised you're up at this hour," Beckett tapped the shield on
her belt, nodding to the uniform just inside the crime scene perimeter.
"Up. Oh, yeah . . . 6:05. Really?" Castle turned to the window. Full sun, so AM, then. Ugh. He winced and dropped his head back.
Beckett heard the familiar shriek of his office chair leaning back, "Castle, you know you're going to . . . "
". . . Whooaaa geeze," His words were lost beneath a colossal crash, followed by
a stream of profanity, "Ow . . ."
". . . fall," she finished. "You ok, Castle? You know I can fix that chair . . ."
"Fine. I'm fine, Beckett," he snapped, "And nothing touches my writing chair but
my finely toned butt."
"Finely toned?" She wound her way through a dense clutch of trees, stepping aside as a CSI armed with an array of brightly colored flags shot a pointed glare at her, "You sure about that? Here it is June and you're still in long jackets. Maybe a little too much time in the chair?"
"The deadline looms, Detective, but I can assure you that things are as high and tight on my end as they ever were," She could hear him moving through his office, sliding drawers closed, tidying the desk. "But you didn't call to talk about my ass . . . or did
you?" His voice dropped low.
“My only interest in your ass . . .” The bustle in Beckett’s immediate vicinity came to a sudden stop. She buried a wide grin in her fist and notched her volume down, “Castle, you dragging it down to Central Park. Southwest side of the reservoir.”
“Ooh, a case? Or did you just want to watch the sunrise over the city with me and my tushie?”
“Sunrise was 45 minutes ago,” Beckett stepped clear of the last of the trees ringing the reservoir and took a moment to take in Thing Two: A fairy tale castle, a little more than three-quarters finished, rising up against the June morning. “A case, Castle. And this one is really gonna hit you where you live.”
*****
Beckett circled around the back of the castle, taking in the bones of the rear wall and massive heaps of weathered stone waiting ready to complete the facade. There was a lot more work remaining over here. The guests would filter in from the park side, and the crew had probably focused on whipping that into shape first.
As Beckett continued walking the perimeter, an odd, not particularly pleasant smell caught her attention. She stopped in her tracks, unwilling to look down and confirm her suspicions.
“No. Just . . . no,” she cursed under her breath.
“Unfortunately, yes.” Esposito ducked through a narrow gap in the scaffolding, slapping aside a plastic tarp. “There’s a paddock in the courtyard. One of the horses is missing, according to the groom.”
Horses. Loose in Central Park. Good morning, Thing Three. Beckett thought with an impatient snort.
“The groom meaning the guy who takes care of the horses. The groom groom isn’t saying anything,” Ryan added, shooting Esposito an irritated look as the tarp swung back to hit him as he stepped into the clearing.
“So what’ve we got?” Beckett asked.
“Vic is a 27-year-old male named Philip Grayson,” Ryan snapped open his notebook. “Construction foreman found him hanging from the portcullis at approximately 4:50 this morning. He and the groom . . . horse guy . . . ID Grayson as the would-be groom. Not horse guy. Wedding was set for Saturday.”
“We’ll have to wait on the official ID. Nothing on the body. No pockets in his tights, I guess,” Esposito added with a smirk.
“Canions,” Castle’s voice sounded faint behind the tarp. “Little help?”
Ryan fished around the scaffolding, drawing the tarp back and securing it to an upright post as Castle backed through the narrow opening, a cardboard tray carefully balanced on one palm.
“Coffee!” Esposito eagerly grabbed for a cup.
“Canions, Castle?” Beckett slapped Esposito’s hand away, “The large is mine. Two sugars.”
Castle shrugged apologetically and handed off the final coffee to Ryan, “Canions. Our groom . . . not the horse guy . . . is decked out in genuine medieval finery. Round hose and canions.”
“And canions are not tights because . . .?” Ryan raised his eyebrows expectantly.
“Canions are tight-fitting men’s garments that cover the leg from thigh to ankle. Authentic and expensive,” Castle replied, “This guy was no weekend medievalist. Those round hose are hand stitched!”
“And why exactly are you up on your medieval baby legs, Castle?” Esposito sipped his coffee.
“Research, my good detective.”
“You writing historical romances now, Castle?”
“He doesn’t,” Beckett replied, “But Jameson Rook does.”
“Technically,” Castle shot her a pleased smile,”Victoria St. Clair does.”
Beckett narrowed her eyes, “How do you even know what the vic was wearing, Castle? I thought CSI was still snapping away in there?”
“They were,” Castle pressed his own coffee into Beckett’s hand and rifled through his jacket pockets. He produced a neatly folded paper bag and added sheepishly, “Weber’s powerless in the face of Doughnut Plant.”
Ryan and Esposito shared a stricken look, “You gave our doughnuts . . . to Weber?” Ryan choked.
“I deployed resources where they would do the most good,” Castle shoved the offending bag back into his pocket.
“So what do we have?” Beckett said shortly.
“Not doughnuts,” Ryan looked despondent. Catching Beckett’s glare, he cleared his throat and returned his attention to his notebook, “Not much. Missing horse, tentative ID on our vic, a half-finished castle, and no happily ever after.”
“Who the hell builds a castle in the middle of Central Park?” Esposito leaned against the nearest pile of stone.
“Frederick Law Olmsted and Calvert Vaux?” Castle gestured south.
“Belvedere Castle,” Beckett added in response to Ryan and Esposito’s puzzled looks, “You know, where Castle tried to kill me in his last book?”
“I was showcasing Nikki Heat’s resourcefulness!” Castle assumed a wounded look.
“So who the hell builds a castle in the middle of Central Park, when there’s already a castle in the middle of Central Park?”
“Wrong kind of castle.” Castle straightened his shoulders, slipping into what Beckett thought of as his authorial pose, “There’s a right kind?” she muttered.
“Oh so very right, Detective,” he grinned and smoothly went on, “Belvedere is a classic Victorian folly. Gothic architecture sitting cheek by jowl with Romanesque. Completely inauthentic. This,” Castle turned to rap on the the completed portion of the wall, “is all about authenticity. Just like our vic’s fancy dress. Well,” he reclaimed his coffee from Beckett’s hand, completely failing to hide a self-satisfied smile behind it, “Most of it, anyway.”
“Castle, it’s not even 7 am. It’s 80 degrees. And I have horse shit on my brand new shoes. Out with it,” Beckett swiped a hand across the back of her neck.
“Detective Beckett?” Weber, the lead CSI photographer ducked past the tarp, wiping powdered sugar from his lips. “We’re done shooting the body. It’s all yours.”
Ryan and Esposito turned perfectly synchronized glares on Weber as they brushed past him into the castle’s interior. Weber shrugged and ducked back inside.
Castle caught Beckett’s wrist as she turned to follow, and stepped close behind her, “Don’t you want to know what I found out?”
Beckett fought back a not-unpleasant shiver snaking up her arm in spite of the morning heat. She was more than used to his attempts (And yours, prompted a still, small voice) at stealing a private moment here and there, but this was . . . direct. Not his usual style. She stopped short and turned to him, “You ok, Castle?”
Castle blinked, all-too-temporarily at a loss for words, “Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You look tired,” she tilted her head, considering, “And worried.”
“Tired? Me?” His usual, glib grin appeared briefly, then faltered. He looked down to find himself still grasping her wrist.
Beckett followed his gaze and missed a beat, caught for a moment by the sight and sensation of skin on skin. Carefully, deliberately, she pulled free. Another beat. She slid her fingers into his and squeezed gently, “Tired,” she said softly. Letting his fingers drop, she smiled, “You’re not usually this transparent.”
Castle smiled down at her, full on, and there went another beat. And another.
“Didn’t you want to show me something, Castle?” She inclined her head toward the scaffolding.
Castle shook himself and propelled her through the opening with his fingertips, “Detective, there are so many, many things I’d like to show you.”
**************
“. . . cervical dislocation or asphyxiation by hanging,” Lanie waved to Beckett and Castle even as she continued dictating into her voice recorder, “Won’t know which until the PM is complete,” she switched off the recorder, “But I suspect what’s behind door number 1. What is that smell?”
A step behind Beckett, Castle made frantic “cut” motions in the general direction of his friendly neighborhood ME.
“Don’t ask, Lanie. Please, just . . . don’t,” Beckett crouched down next to her friend, “So you think he snapped his neck?”
“Could go either way, but . . . big guy, short drop from high up,” Lanie held up the free end of a wide leather belt, “I like cervical dislocation.”
Castle picked his way through the field of evidence flags to the open kit behind Lanie. He bent down and rifled through it. Lanie’s head swiveled to stare him down. “Uh . . . May I?” He smiled brightly and held up a latex glove.
Beckett bit back a grin and shuffled sideways as Castle leaned in between them, taking the the the belt gingerly in his gloved hand.
“Are you ladies ready for show and tell?” Castle waggled his eyebrows.
“Ooh! Whatcha got, Castle?” Ryan peeked over Lanie’s shoulder.
“So, like I said earlier, our groom’s . . .”
“Not the horse guy,” Beckett and Ryan said together. Lanie rolled her eyes.
“Our groom’s duds are the real deal. Canions, not tights,” Castle plucked the probe dangling from Lanie’s fingers and lifted the hem on the vic’s short, full trousers to reveal the margin of the canions and a strip of pale skin above. Dropping the hem, he indicated the rich embroidery, “Incredibly detailed hand stitching on the round hose.”
“Fascinating,” Beckett rocked back on her ruined heels, “But given that we’re sitting in a castle, Castle, how does your cosplay enthusiasm get us anywhere?”
Castle’s head dipped closer to Beckett. She gave the barest shake of her head, and he cleared his throat, “I was getting to that. Look here,” He turned the inside of the belt toward the group.
“Writing?” Esposito joined the group.
“Runes,” Beckett peered at the belt, “I’ve seen this.”
“So you do have the extended editions, Beckett!”
“Is this another nerd thing?” Ryan glanced from Esposito to Lanie.
“Gotta be,” Lanie replied, “Care to clue us in, you two?”
“I know this!” Esposito grinned excitedly, “It’s Aragorn’s sword belt!”
“Baudrier,” Castle corrected. “It’s a movie replica, not a replica . . . replica,” he explained for the benefit of the others.
“So if the murder weapon doesn’t belong to the groom . . . ” Beckett and Castle straightened at the same time.
“. . . It might belong to the murderer,” He finished.
It's the end of the semester. I am awash in papers to grade. So naturally the start of a fic popped into my head and won't leave me alone . . .
Title: Six Impossible Things
Castle, End of Season 4
Warnings: No explicit spoilers; I'm only current up through Cops & Robbers and I know nothing beyond that. References to the Nikki Heat tie-in novels, in case you're worried about being spoiled for those.
Rating: PG at this point (mild language), although future chapters may include not-for-kids nookie (if the characters play nice.
Pairing: Beckett/Castle
Tags: UST, Crime, Adventure, Romance, Friendship
Beckett was creeping up on six impossible things before breakfast. Thing One: Castle answering on the first ring. Before the first ring had even finished, actually.
“Beckett. You have something?”
"Castle?" She blinked down at her watch, the slightly snarky message she'd
planned on leaving forgotten in her surprise at hearing his voice.
"Yes?"
"Castle," She repeated, fumbling the phone between her shoulder and ear as she
ducked under the crime scene tape, "I . . . you're . . ."
"Still here," he paused, waiting for her to continue, "Butt dial, Beckett?"
"No. No. I'm just surprised you're up at this hour," Beckett tapped the shield on
her belt, nodding to the uniform just inside the crime scene perimeter.
"Up. Oh, yeah . . . 6:05. Really?" Castle turned to the window. Full sun, so AM, then. Ugh. He winced and dropped his head back.
Beckett heard the familiar shriek of his office chair leaning back, "Castle, you know you're going to . . . "
". . . Whooaaa geeze," His words were lost beneath a colossal crash, followed by
a stream of profanity, "Ow . . ."
". . . fall," she finished. "You ok, Castle? You know I can fix that chair . . ."
"Fine. I'm fine, Beckett," he snapped, "And nothing touches my writing chair but
my finely toned butt."
"Finely toned?" She wound her way through a dense clutch of trees, stepping aside as a CSI armed with an array of brightly colored flags shot a pointed glare at her, "You sure about that? Here it is June and you're still in long jackets. Maybe a little too much time in the chair?"
"The deadline looms, Detective, but I can assure you that things are as high and tight on my end as they ever were," She could hear him moving through his office, sliding drawers closed, tidying the desk. "But you didn't call to talk about my ass . . . or did
you?" His voice dropped low.
“My only interest in your ass . . .” The bustle in Beckett’s immediate vicinity came to a sudden stop. She buried a wide grin in her fist and notched her volume down, “Castle, you dragging it down to Central Park. Southwest side of the reservoir.”
“Ooh, a case? Or did you just want to watch the sunrise over the city with me and my tushie?”
“Sunrise was 45 minutes ago,” Beckett stepped clear of the last of the trees ringing the reservoir and took a moment to take in Thing Two: A fairy tale castle, a little more than three-quarters finished, rising up against the June morning. “A case, Castle. And this one is really gonna hit you where you live.”
*****
Beckett circled around the back of the castle, taking in the bones of the rear wall and massive heaps of weathered stone waiting ready to complete the facade. There was a lot more work remaining over here. The guests would filter in from the park side, and the crew had probably focused on whipping that into shape first.
As Beckett continued walking the perimeter, an odd, not particularly pleasant smell caught her attention. She stopped in her tracks, unwilling to look down and confirm her suspicions.
“No. Just . . . no,” she cursed under her breath.
“Unfortunately, yes.” Esposito ducked through a narrow gap in the scaffolding, slapping aside a plastic tarp. “There’s a paddock in the courtyard. One of the horses is missing, according to the groom.”
Horses. Loose in Central Park. Good morning, Thing Three. Beckett thought with an impatient snort.
“The groom meaning the guy who takes care of the horses. The groom groom isn’t saying anything,” Ryan added, shooting Esposito an irritated look as the tarp swung back to hit him as he stepped into the clearing.
“So what’ve we got?” Beckett asked.
“Vic is a 27-year-old male named Philip Grayson,” Ryan snapped open his notebook. “Construction foreman found him hanging from the portcullis at approximately 4:50 this morning. He and the groom . . . horse guy . . . ID Grayson as the would-be groom. Not horse guy. Wedding was set for Saturday.”
“We’ll have to wait on the official ID. Nothing on the body. No pockets in his tights, I guess,” Esposito added with a smirk.
“Canions,” Castle’s voice sounded faint behind the tarp. “Little help?”
Ryan fished around the scaffolding, drawing the tarp back and securing it to an upright post as Castle backed through the narrow opening, a cardboard tray carefully balanced on one palm.
“Coffee!” Esposito eagerly grabbed for a cup.
“Canions, Castle?” Beckett slapped Esposito’s hand away, “The large is mine. Two sugars.”
Castle shrugged apologetically and handed off the final coffee to Ryan, “Canions. Our groom . . . not the horse guy . . . is decked out in genuine medieval finery. Round hose and canions.”
“And canions are not tights because . . .?” Ryan raised his eyebrows expectantly.
“Canions are tight-fitting men’s garments that cover the leg from thigh to ankle. Authentic and expensive,” Castle replied, “This guy was no weekend medievalist. Those round hose are hand stitched!”
“And why exactly are you up on your medieval baby legs, Castle?” Esposito sipped his coffee.
“Research, my good detective.”
“You writing historical romances now, Castle?”
“He doesn’t,” Beckett replied, “But Jameson Rook does.”
“Technically,” Castle shot her a pleased smile,”Victoria St. Clair does.”
Beckett narrowed her eyes, “How do you even know what the vic was wearing, Castle? I thought CSI was still snapping away in there?”
“They were,” Castle pressed his own coffee into Beckett’s hand and rifled through his jacket pockets. He produced a neatly folded paper bag and added sheepishly, “Weber’s powerless in the face of Doughnut Plant.”
Ryan and Esposito shared a stricken look, “You gave our doughnuts . . . to Weber?” Ryan choked.
“I deployed resources where they would do the most good,” Castle shoved the offending bag back into his pocket.
“So what do we have?” Beckett said shortly.
“Not doughnuts,” Ryan looked despondent. Catching Beckett’s glare, he cleared his throat and returned his attention to his notebook, “Not much. Missing horse, tentative ID on our vic, a half-finished castle, and no happily ever after.”
“Who the hell builds a castle in the middle of Central Park?” Esposito leaned against the nearest pile of stone.
“Frederick Law Olmsted and Calvert Vaux?” Castle gestured south.
“Belvedere Castle,” Beckett added in response to Ryan and Esposito’s puzzled looks, “You know, where Castle tried to kill me in his last book?”
“I was showcasing Nikki Heat’s resourcefulness!” Castle assumed a wounded look.
“So who the hell builds a castle in the middle of Central Park, when there’s already a castle in the middle of Central Park?”
“Wrong kind of castle.” Castle straightened his shoulders, slipping into what Beckett thought of as his authorial pose, “There’s a right kind?” she muttered.
“Oh so very right, Detective,” he grinned and smoothly went on, “Belvedere is a classic Victorian folly. Gothic architecture sitting cheek by jowl with Romanesque. Completely inauthentic. This,” Castle turned to rap on the the completed portion of the wall, “is all about authenticity. Just like our vic’s fancy dress. Well,” he reclaimed his coffee from Beckett’s hand, completely failing to hide a self-satisfied smile behind it, “Most of it, anyway.”
“Castle, it’s not even 7 am. It’s 80 degrees. And I have horse shit on my brand new shoes. Out with it,” Beckett swiped a hand across the back of her neck.
“Detective Beckett?” Weber, the lead CSI photographer ducked past the tarp, wiping powdered sugar from his lips. “We’re done shooting the body. It’s all yours.”
Ryan and Esposito turned perfectly synchronized glares on Weber as they brushed past him into the castle’s interior. Weber shrugged and ducked back inside.
Castle caught Beckett’s wrist as she turned to follow, and stepped close behind her, “Don’t you want to know what I found out?”
Beckett fought back a not-unpleasant shiver snaking up her arm in spite of the morning heat. She was more than used to his attempts (And yours, prompted a still, small voice) at stealing a private moment here and there, but this was . . . direct. Not his usual style. She stopped short and turned to him, “You ok, Castle?”
Castle blinked, all-too-temporarily at a loss for words, “Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You look tired,” she tilted her head, considering, “And worried.”
“Tired? Me?” His usual, glib grin appeared briefly, then faltered. He looked down to find himself still grasping her wrist.
Beckett followed his gaze and missed a beat, caught for a moment by the sight and sensation of skin on skin. Carefully, deliberately, she pulled free. Another beat. She slid her fingers into his and squeezed gently, “Tired,” she said softly. Letting his fingers drop, she smiled, “You’re not usually this transparent.”
Castle smiled down at her, full on, and there went another beat. And another.
“Didn’t you want to show me something, Castle?” She inclined her head toward the scaffolding.
Castle shook himself and propelled her through the opening with his fingertips, “Detective, there are so many, many things I’d like to show you.”
**************
“. . . cervical dislocation or asphyxiation by hanging,” Lanie waved to Beckett and Castle even as she continued dictating into her voice recorder, “Won’t know which until the PM is complete,” she switched off the recorder, “But I suspect what’s behind door number 1. What is that smell?”
A step behind Beckett, Castle made frantic “cut” motions in the general direction of his friendly neighborhood ME.
“Don’t ask, Lanie. Please, just . . . don’t,” Beckett crouched down next to her friend, “So you think he snapped his neck?”
“Could go either way, but . . . big guy, short drop from high up,” Lanie held up the free end of a wide leather belt, “I like cervical dislocation.”
Castle picked his way through the field of evidence flags to the open kit behind Lanie. He bent down and rifled through it. Lanie’s head swiveled to stare him down. “Uh . . . May I?” He smiled brightly and held up a latex glove.
Beckett bit back a grin and shuffled sideways as Castle leaned in between them, taking the the the belt gingerly in his gloved hand.
“Are you ladies ready for show and tell?” Castle waggled his eyebrows.
“Ooh! Whatcha got, Castle?” Ryan peeked over Lanie’s shoulder.
“So, like I said earlier, our groom’s . . .”
“Not the horse guy,” Beckett and Ryan said together. Lanie rolled her eyes.
“Our groom’s duds are the real deal. Canions, not tights,” Castle plucked the probe dangling from Lanie’s fingers and lifted the hem on the vic’s short, full trousers to reveal the margin of the canions and a strip of pale skin above. Dropping the hem, he indicated the rich embroidery, “Incredibly detailed hand stitching on the round hose.”
“Fascinating,” Beckett rocked back on her ruined heels, “But given that we’re sitting in a castle, Castle, how does your cosplay enthusiasm get us anywhere?”
Castle’s head dipped closer to Beckett. She gave the barest shake of her head, and he cleared his throat, “I was getting to that. Look here,” He turned the inside of the belt toward the group.
“Writing?” Esposito joined the group.
“Runes,” Beckett peered at the belt, “I’ve seen this.”
“So you do have the extended editions, Beckett!”
“Is this another nerd thing?” Ryan glanced from Esposito to Lanie.
“Gotta be,” Lanie replied, “Care to clue us in, you two?”
“I know this!” Esposito grinned excitedly, “It’s Aragorn’s sword belt!”
“Baudrier,” Castle corrected. “It’s a movie replica, not a replica . . . replica,” he explained for the benefit of the others.
“So if the murder weapon doesn’t belong to the groom . . . ” Beckett and Castle straightened at the same time.
“. . . It might belong to the murderer,” He finished.