Six Impossible Things, Chapter 2 (Castle Fic)
I think this is the entirety of chapter 2. We'll see.
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). Outlook for nookie not currently great. It seems to want to be a case-based story, despite the fact that they are both so pretty and should definitely be getting it on.
Pairing: Beckett/Castle
Tags: UST, Crime, Adventure, Romance, Friendship
Beckett glanced at her watch. 7:45 and four impossible things already. She scowled at the empty chair by her desk. Esposito and Ryan had stayed behind at the crime scene. They'd divide and conquer on the interviews. Between the construction crew, the wedding planner's staff, and Central Park's contact people, they'd be lucky to finish early enough to grab a late dinner.
She'd followed the ME van back to the precinct to handle the formal ID and next-of-kin interviews. Castle, of course, had fallen into step beside her after she'd left Esposito and Ryan to it.
"Worker bees at the precinct forwarded me the press on this wedding, Castle." She pressed send, forwarding the email to his phone, "And now you have it. The bride-to-be is Audra Winnert . . . ."
"Winnert? THE Winnerts?" Castle whistled low and glanced back through the trees at the turret just visible against the bright blue morning, "Suddenly, the castle seems understated."
"Serious money, serious influence," Beckett agreed. "Anyway, Audra, now 29, has apparently been planning this wedding for 20 years."
Castle scrolled through Beckett's message "The Lifestyle section ran a 4-page spread on the wedding. Complete with excerpts from her three-hundred-page wedding scrapbook. Images, research, storyboards . . . What does she do for a living?"
"She's a Winnert, Castle. She doesn't do anything."
"Shame. I wonder if she'd be interested in writing those Victoria St. Clair tie-in novels Gina's been after me about."
Beckett's spine stiffened at the mention of Castle's double-ex. Biting back a comment, she said, "This interview should be right up your alley, then. One eternal child to another."
"Interview," Castle glanced at his phone again, "Yeah, Beckett would you mind if I skipped that? Got a . . . thing . . . I have to take care of."
Castle was so absorbed in his phone, I took him a minute to realize Beckett had stopped in her tracks, "A thing? You're telling me that you don't want in the room on these interviews?"
Finally, something in her tone dragged his attention away from the phone, "Course I do, but this . . . thing. I'll catch up with you later back at the 12, 'kay?"
Beckett stared after him, open-mouthed.
“Detective. A word.” It wasn’t a request. Gates didn’t really do requests. Beckett hadn’t even realized that the Captain was already in. She wondered, not for the first time, if Gates actually lived in her office. Or had some kind of supervillain lair beneath the precinct. “Detective. Now.”
“Yes, sir,” Beckett turned her back on the empty chair and followed Gates into her office.
“I assume I don’t need to tell you that the Winnert case requires special handling?”
But you are telling me, aren’t you? Beckett kept her face neutral, despite her irritation, “Technically, sir, it’s the Grayson case.”
“And who is coming in to ID the body, Detective?” Gates did not invite Beckett to sit.
“The victim’s fianceé and her father.”
“Clayton Winnert owns half of New York.”
“Does he own the 12th, sir?” Beckett shot back before she could think better of it.
Gates compressed her already-nonexistent lips, “He does not, Detective. I do. And I’m telling you to bring your A-game to this case.”
“Only game we have, sir,” Beckett returned her captain’s level stare.
“Fair enough,” Gates relaxed ever-so-slightly, “I’m not trying to tell you your business, Beckett, but where Clayton Winnert goes, the press goes. And not just the paparazzi. I don’t want to see unflattering pictures of my people on page 1.”
“Understood,” Beckett turned to go.
“And Detective? That includes Mr. Castle.”
**********************
“A thing?” Lanie leaned back in her office chair.
“That’s what he said,” Beckett shrugged.
“What is up with that man these days?”
“What do you mean?”
“Kate, please,” Lanie shook her head, “Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed.”
“Noticed, what?” Beckett folded her arms tightly across her chest.
“It’s June. When have you ever known Castle to be in New York this time of year?” Lanie ticked off her first point and raised a second finger, “And when have you known him to show up at a scene looking like he did this morning?”
“Like what?” An image of Castle, playful mask down for once, flicked through Beckett’s memory.
“Like he’d been ridden hard and put away wet,” Lanie’s palms hit the desk, “You didn’t!”
“I . . . what?” Beckett shook her head, trying to banish the several dozen inappropriate thoughts that crowded her mind.
“You didn’t,” Lanie’s shoulders slumped. “I don’t need to remind you that when you do . . .”
“Do? No one is doing anyone, Lanie!”
“You don’t have to tell me that.” Movement in the reception area caught Lanie’s eye. “Ok. Showtime.” Lanie rose and stepped through her office door.
Beckett pushed herself out of the chair and took a moment to center.
“Mr. Winnert, I’m Dr. Parish, medical examiner’s office. We appreciate your coming down,” she held out a hand toward Kate. “This is Detective Beckett.”
“Sir, thank you for your time,” Beckett filed Winnert’s handshake under exceptionally firm, “Can we offer you something while we wait for your daughter?”
“My daughter is not here, Detective Beckett, nor will she be.”
“Mr. Winnert, Audra is listed as Mr. Grayson’s next of kin. We need . . .”
“You need an ID. I can give you an ID. And if it’s not Philip, Audra doesn’t need to know anything about this,” Winnert replied.
“As I’m sure you’re aware, sir, the press was all over the scene this morning, your daughter . . .”
“Detective, I have spent almost 30 years protecting my daughter from the press,” he looked around, “Let’s get this done, shall we?”
**************
Castle had made record time getting back to the loft. The empty loft. He checked his phone for the 15th time. It stubbornly refused to display any word from Alexis in response to his text Need to talk. Wait for me. OMW.
He leaned against the door and eyed the bar. Both the clock and the sun insisted that it was far too early for even an eye-opener, let alone the this-many-fingers of scotch he was feeling more than ready to put away.
Coffee, he thought, Coffee is what real people drink in the morning, and we are pretending to be a real people.
He trudged over to the counter and picked up the thermal carafe. Empty. Castle stared into the carafe's black, cruel, empty depths. There was a real possibility that he might cry.
Autopilot took over and led him through the motions to make another pot. He slumped into a stool at the breakfast bar and swiped at his phone. No text. No call. Not from Alexis, anyway. Almost against his will, his thumb tapped the icon opening his mail. He scrolled past Beckett's case notes to the email from Rudy, his very favorite concierge:
Guest: Ashley Linden
Check-In Date: June 9, 2012
Check-Out Date: June 11, 2012
Secured by: AmEx ****-******-4365 (A. Castle, signature)
Mr. Castle:
We are delighted to have a guest of yours staying with us. I have taken the liberty of upgrading Ms. Linden to a suite. Please do not hesitate to contact me of there is anything we can do to make her more comfortable during her stay.
Sincerely,
Rudolph Floyd
It wasn't that Alexis was booking rooms at the Plaza for (with?) her ex-boyfriend . . . (Ok, it was totally that. Plus! ex-boyfriend, right?) But she hadn't told him. She'd always told him everything, even the things he'd quietly (Sometimes not so quietly.) freaked out about and wished he didn't know. She'd told him. Always.
The hollow slurp of the coffee finishing its brew cycle drew Castle momentarily out of his funk. He weighed the horror of entering his office against the horror of drinking coffee out of something other than his favorite mug. The mug won.
Steeling himself, he flung open the office door, lunged through, and grabbed air at the corner of the desk, where his mug wasn't. He mentally reviewed his movements during Beckett's phone call. He'd straightened up his work space (Ha! Work. Right.), like always, but no mug. His fingers absently probed the tender spot at the base of his skull where his head had hit the window sill when he’d fallen back in the chair.
Shit, he thought as he dropped to his knees and scurried behind the desk. Pleasenotmymugpleasenotmymug. His hands raked over the floor. Under the chair. Under the desk. Behind the easel. SHIT.
Castle sank back on his heels. The mug lay in three pieces. He was definitely going to cry.
At that exact moment, there was a knock at the door-an ominous, insistent knock-and his phone rang. Moving as little as humanly possible, Castle slid the phone from his pocket, thumbed the ringer off, and tapped “Accept.”
“Beckett,” he whispered hoarsely. “You have to help me.”
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). Outlook for nookie not currently great. It seems to want to be a case-based story, despite the fact that they are both so pretty and should definitely be getting it on.
Pairing: Beckett/Castle
Tags: UST, Crime, Adventure, Romance, Friendship
Beckett glanced at her watch. 7:45 and four impossible things already. She scowled at the empty chair by her desk. Esposito and Ryan had stayed behind at the crime scene. They'd divide and conquer on the interviews. Between the construction crew, the wedding planner's staff, and Central Park's contact people, they'd be lucky to finish early enough to grab a late dinner.
She'd followed the ME van back to the precinct to handle the formal ID and next-of-kin interviews. Castle, of course, had fallen into step beside her after she'd left Esposito and Ryan to it.
"Worker bees at the precinct forwarded me the press on this wedding, Castle." She pressed send, forwarding the email to his phone, "And now you have it. The bride-to-be is Audra Winnert . . . ."
"Winnert? THE Winnerts?" Castle whistled low and glanced back through the trees at the turret just visible against the bright blue morning, "Suddenly, the castle seems understated."
"Serious money, serious influence," Beckett agreed. "Anyway, Audra, now 29, has apparently been planning this wedding for 20 years."
Castle scrolled through Beckett's message "The Lifestyle section ran a 4-page spread on the wedding. Complete with excerpts from her three-hundred-page wedding scrapbook. Images, research, storyboards . . . What does she do for a living?"
"She's a Winnert, Castle. She doesn't do anything."
"Shame. I wonder if she'd be interested in writing those Victoria St. Clair tie-in novels Gina's been after me about."
Beckett's spine stiffened at the mention of Castle's double-ex. Biting back a comment, she said, "This interview should be right up your alley, then. One eternal child to another."
"Interview," Castle glanced at his phone again, "Yeah, Beckett would you mind if I skipped that? Got a . . . thing . . . I have to take care of."
Castle was so absorbed in his phone, I took him a minute to realize Beckett had stopped in her tracks, "A thing? You're telling me that you don't want in the room on these interviews?"
Finally, something in her tone dragged his attention away from the phone, "Course I do, but this . . . thing. I'll catch up with you later back at the 12, 'kay?"
Beckett stared after him, open-mouthed.
“Detective. A word.” It wasn’t a request. Gates didn’t really do requests. Beckett hadn’t even realized that the Captain was already in. She wondered, not for the first time, if Gates actually lived in her office. Or had some kind of supervillain lair beneath the precinct. “Detective. Now.”
“Yes, sir,” Beckett turned her back on the empty chair and followed Gates into her office.
“I assume I don’t need to tell you that the Winnert case requires special handling?”
But you are telling me, aren’t you? Beckett kept her face neutral, despite her irritation, “Technically, sir, it’s the Grayson case.”
“And who is coming in to ID the body, Detective?” Gates did not invite Beckett to sit.
“The victim’s fianceé and her father.”
“Clayton Winnert owns half of New York.”
“Does he own the 12th, sir?” Beckett shot back before she could think better of it.
Gates compressed her already-nonexistent lips, “He does not, Detective. I do. And I’m telling you to bring your A-game to this case.”
“Only game we have, sir,” Beckett returned her captain’s level stare.
“Fair enough,” Gates relaxed ever-so-slightly, “I’m not trying to tell you your business, Beckett, but where Clayton Winnert goes, the press goes. And not just the paparazzi. I don’t want to see unflattering pictures of my people on page 1.”
“Understood,” Beckett turned to go.
“And Detective? That includes Mr. Castle.”
**********************
“A thing?” Lanie leaned back in her office chair.
“That’s what he said,” Beckett shrugged.
“What is up with that man these days?”
“What do you mean?”
“Kate, please,” Lanie shook her head, “Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed.”
“Noticed, what?” Beckett folded her arms tightly across her chest.
“It’s June. When have you ever known Castle to be in New York this time of year?” Lanie ticked off her first point and raised a second finger, “And when have you known him to show up at a scene looking like he did this morning?”
“Like what?” An image of Castle, playful mask down for once, flicked through Beckett’s memory.
“Like he’d been ridden hard and put away wet,” Lanie’s palms hit the desk, “You didn’t!”
“I . . . what?” Beckett shook her head, trying to banish the several dozen inappropriate thoughts that crowded her mind.
“You didn’t,” Lanie’s shoulders slumped. “I don’t need to remind you that when you do . . .”
“Do? No one is doing anyone, Lanie!”
“You don’t have to tell me that.” Movement in the reception area caught Lanie’s eye. “Ok. Showtime.” Lanie rose and stepped through her office door.
Beckett pushed herself out of the chair and took a moment to center.
“Mr. Winnert, I’m Dr. Parish, medical examiner’s office. We appreciate your coming down,” she held out a hand toward Kate. “This is Detective Beckett.”
“Sir, thank you for your time,” Beckett filed Winnert’s handshake under exceptionally firm, “Can we offer you something while we wait for your daughter?”
“My daughter is not here, Detective Beckett, nor will she be.”
“Mr. Winnert, Audra is listed as Mr. Grayson’s next of kin. We need . . .”
“You need an ID. I can give you an ID. And if it’s not Philip, Audra doesn’t need to know anything about this,” Winnert replied.
“As I’m sure you’re aware, sir, the press was all over the scene this morning, your daughter . . .”
“Detective, I have spent almost 30 years protecting my daughter from the press,” he looked around, “Let’s get this done, shall we?”
**************
Castle had made record time getting back to the loft. The empty loft. He checked his phone for the 15th time. It stubbornly refused to display any word from Alexis in response to his text Need to talk. Wait for me. OMW.
He leaned against the door and eyed the bar. Both the clock and the sun insisted that it was far too early for even an eye-opener, let alone the this-many-fingers of scotch he was feeling more than ready to put away.
Coffee, he thought, Coffee is what real people drink in the morning, and we are pretending to be a real people.
He trudged over to the counter and picked up the thermal carafe. Empty. Castle stared into the carafe's black, cruel, empty depths. There was a real possibility that he might cry.
Autopilot took over and led him through the motions to make another pot. He slumped into a stool at the breakfast bar and swiped at his phone. No text. No call. Not from Alexis, anyway. Almost against his will, his thumb tapped the icon opening his mail. He scrolled past Beckett's case notes to the email from Rudy, his very favorite concierge:
Guest: Ashley Linden
Check-In Date: June 9, 2012
Check-Out Date: June 11, 2012
Secured by: AmEx ****-******-4365 (A. Castle, signature)
Mr. Castle:
We are delighted to have a guest of yours staying with us. I have taken the liberty of upgrading Ms. Linden to a suite. Please do not hesitate to contact me of there is anything we can do to make her more comfortable during her stay.
Sincerely,
Rudolph Floyd
It wasn't that Alexis was booking rooms at the Plaza for (with?) her ex-boyfriend . . . (Ok, it was totally that. Plus! ex-boyfriend, right?) But she hadn't told him. She'd always told him everything, even the things he'd quietly (Sometimes not so quietly.) freaked out about and wished he didn't know. She'd told him. Always.
The hollow slurp of the coffee finishing its brew cycle drew Castle momentarily out of his funk. He weighed the horror of entering his office against the horror of drinking coffee out of something other than his favorite mug. The mug won.
Steeling himself, he flung open the office door, lunged through, and grabbed air at the corner of the desk, where his mug wasn't. He mentally reviewed his movements during Beckett's phone call. He'd straightened up his work space (Ha! Work. Right.), like always, but no mug. His fingers absently probed the tender spot at the base of his skull where his head had hit the window sill when he’d fallen back in the chair.
Shit, he thought as he dropped to his knees and scurried behind the desk. Pleasenotmymugpleasenotmymug. His hands raked over the floor. Under the chair. Under the desk. Behind the easel. SHIT.
Castle sank back on his heels. The mug lay in three pieces. He was definitely going to cry.
At that exact moment, there was a knock at the door-an ominous, insistent knock-and his phone rang. Moving as little as humanly possible, Castle slid the phone from his pocket, thumbed the ringer off, and tapped “Accept.”
“Beckett,” he whispered hoarsely. “You have to help me.”