Six Impossible Things, Chapter 6 (Castle Fic)
A/N: Be aware that there's a spoiler for Heat Rises in this chapter, if you care about those things.
"Guess those two kissed and made up," Ryan remarked as he watched Beckett and Castle act out a familiar scene on the other side of the one-way glass. Currently, Beckett was frowning hard into a folder, pretending to be annoyed as Castle's mouth ran a mile a minute.
"Good for them," Esposito answered, turning to lean his back against the glass as Beckett's grin finally won out and she bopped Castle on the nose with the folder, "Better for us, bro."
"Amen, bro," Ryan held out a palm and Esposito returned the secret handshake.
"What are we celebrating boys?" Beckett stifled a laugh at the way they both jumped.
"N-nothing," Ryan smoothed his tie, "What's up? Need something before we show the gr . . . Mr. Reed into the box?"
"Castle says he's technically the Marshal. Groom's a generic underling," Beckett stepped into the space between them and peered through the glass.
The door to the box opened and a uniform ushered Andrew Reed to the chair opposite Castle. Esposito and Ryan exchanged glances over Beckett's head.
"Boss?" Ryan said tentatively.
"Just the opening act, Ryan," Beckett gestured to Esposito, "Sound?"
"Yeah, we were just giving you and Castle . . . sound!" Esposito turned to the console and quickly navigated through control panels. Castle's voice poured through the speakers.
" . . . to thank you for your time. Detective Ryan said you were very helpful this morning. Sorry to drag you down here," Castle rose to shake Reed's hand.
"Sure," Reed perched awkwardly on the edge of the chair.
"My partner, Detective Beckett, will be just a few minutes. Can I get you anything? Water? Espresso?"
"No, no thank you," Reed folded his hands tightly on the table in front of him, "You're . . . not a cop?"
"No, I'm a consultant, and . . ." Castle leaned in and lowered his voice, "Well, I'm really a writer, Mr. Reed, and I am in awe of your résumé: Special thanks from Ariana Franklin, a dedication from Alys Clare . . . and is it true you turned Ken Follet down flat?"
"Novelists," Beckett said before Ryan and/or Esposito could ask, "Medieval novelists. Castle thought Reed's name sounded familiar. He called around, and it turns out that this fairy tale wedding is a rinky dink affair compared to the circles Reed usually travels in."
" . . . and the mechanical horses in the battle scenes from Braveheart! That was you?" Castle leaned back in his chair.
Reed gave a nervous smile and his hands relaxed slightly, "The horse movements and some of the formations, but not . . . not the armor. I quit when they wouldn't listen about the armor."
"Braveheart's . . . what, '96? This guy couldn't have been more than 20 then," Esposito said.
"It was '95. Andrew Reed was 23," Beckett watched Reed gradually unwind as Castle kept up the apparent small talk.
"I've only just started looking at the financials on this wedding," Ryan tapped a bulging folder on the conference table, "But I don't remember any Hollywood-sized checks made out to Reed."
"Maybe his bubble burst between then and now," Esposito shrugged, "Gotta be an expensive business. And working for Clayton Winnert has still gotta be a pretty payday."
"If he's turning down Ken Follet mini-series, I doubt it's the money," Beckett's attention was still on the box.
" . . . can't be the money," Castle slipped a photograph from one of the folders and pushed it across the desk toward Reed, "And given the mishap with one of the horses - gorgeous animal, by the way - I'm assuming that you didn't have the influence and control you'd normally demand, so I'm curious . . ."
"What's this?" Reed tapped the photograph.
"Your horse. The one Detective Esposito recovered - it's a Belgian, isn't it? - don't worry, it was completely unharmed. Which is more than I can say for . . ."
"This isn't my horse," Reed's color rose. "And, yes, it's a Belgian heavy cavalry horse. Why would I have a 17th century horse at a medieval castle?"
"Uh . . ." Castle glanced toward the mirror.
"Dude," Ryan looked at Esposito, aghast, "You wrangled the wrong horse."
"I wrangled the horse in front of me," Esposito absently rubbed at the bandage on his hand.
Six. And I never had breakfast. Beckett swore under her breath and made a beeline for the door into the box, "Mr. Reed, I'm Detective Beckett. I'm sorry to have kept you waiting."
Anxiety rolled of Reed in waves. His eyes darted around the room. His hands worried the edge of the photograph. Quiet, though. Beckett thought. Fretful. Not violent.
"I only agreed to leave the Park because I was told they had found Brom unharmed and I thought I could leave one thing to the constable"
"Not constable in the cop sense," Castle turned to Beckett, "It's a corruption of 'count of the stable' . . ."
"Castle," Beckett snapped, "I take it there's a problem?"
"Ah . . . yah. This horse that Esposito found? Seems to be an unrelated . . . horse."
Beckett walked to the door and barked out Esposito's name. He was at the doorway before she finished the last syllable. She said a few words in a low voice. He nodded sharply and trotted away. Beckett closed the door again.
Reed half rose from his chair, "I need to . . ."
"Mr. Reed, I know you must be anxious to take care of this yourself," Beckett held up a hand, "But I have my people getting the latest from the scene, and if you can wait for that information to come in, I'll get you an escort back."
"Detective, I don't think you understand. Brom has been wandering god knows where for hours," Reed protested, but sank back into his chair.
"Mr. Reed, trust me, if you give her a chance to run down the latest information, Detective Beckett can bend time and space. You'll be back on the spot much quicker than if you left right now," Castle shifted his attention back to the folders on the table, as though Reed's staying was a done deal.
Beckett picked up the cue and took her own seat, "And maybe in the mean time, you can help us figure out where this horse came from?"
Reed looked from Castle to Beckett and gave a resigned sigh. He pulled the photo closer, "I don't know whose horse this is, but you can bet that Bridget had something to do with it."
"Bridget?" Castle asked.
"The wedding planner," Beckett supplied, "I understand there was some tension between the two of you, Mr. Reed?"
"She hates me, and I won't be bothered with her. She thought Brom wasn't impressive enough. I should've known she'd go behind my back," Reed snorted and brought his palm down on the photograph of the horse from the scene, "Philip would've never been able to mount a stallion of that size, let alone keep his seat."
"You were teaching him to ride," Castle nodded.
"Not just ride. How to do everything. How to dress, etiquette, how to move in the armor. 'Prince lessons.' That's what he called it," Reed gave a small, sad smile, "We'd only just gotten him in the saddle in the last few weeks."
"That explains the abrasions on his thighs and buttocks," Beckett said.
"Saddle sores," Reed confirmed. "They had to be miserable, but Philip never complained. He was determined to be ready."
"Sounds like a lot of pressure," Castle said, "How was he handling it?"
"Handling?" Reed looked startled and immediately tried to cover it, "Oh, fine. Fine. Philip is . . . was . . . always . . . a really up person."
"Really? His therapy must have been going well, then," Beckett's tone was casual, but Castle knew she was watching Reed carefully.
"Therapy?" Reed didn't bother hiding his reaction this time, "Philip wasn't in therapy."
"The autopsy findings show that Mr. Grayson was taking an anti-depressant," Beckett made a show of consulting the lab reports, "We're tracking down the prescription."
"You won't find anything," Reed's knuckles went white as he pressed his fingers into the table, "Not a prescription."
"A lot of people are private about that kind of thing," Castle said carefully, "Even ashamed. Maybe Mr. Grayson . . ."
"He was not seeing a shrink," Reed's voice rose. He paled, and with obvious effort, continued more quietly, "Philip . . . Philip was afraid of horses when we started. I suggested a doctor - he's a miracle worker with that kind of anxiety - it's the only time I ever saw Philip lose his temper. I thought . . ." Reed swallowed, "I mean, he never said, but . . . I got the impression that he'd had a bad experience with . . . that kind of thing."
"Can you think of any reason why he might have changed his mind since then?" Beckett's made a note on the lab report, "Any change in his behavior or demeanor lately?"
"He was . . . tired lately," Reed admitted, "But I thought it was just the wedding."
"Thank you, Mr. Reed," Beckett's eyes flicked to the one-way mirror and she gave a small nod, "You've been very helpful."
A soft knock sounded on the door. Ryan poked his head in a second later, "Uniforms at the park found . . . another horse," Reed's head snapped toward the door and Ryan quickly added, "Seems to be fine. He was shut up in an abandoned outbuilding. There's a squad downstairs for Mr. Reed."
"Thanks, Ryan," Beckett tied the folders and rose, "You'll ride with Mr. Reed? Castle and I have appointment."
"Thank you again, Mr. Reed," Castle slipped something from his pocket and placed it in Reed's hand as he edged by, "I may be in touch."
"What was that about? 'I may be in touch'." Beckett asked as the elevator doors closed.
"I'm flattered that you think my voice is so deep and mellifluous, Beckett," Castle leaned against the back of the car and closed his eyes.
"That was my Bullwinkle voice, Castle," Beckett studied him out of the corner of her eye.
"I'm even more flattered, Rocky," Castle opened one eye and smiled. Caught you staring.
She bit back an answering smile, "Don't deflect. You'll be in touch about what?"
"Plan B," Castle muttered, swaying slightly as the elevator car bumped to a stop. "I may write a historical romance yet."
"Come on, Castle, it can't be that bad," Beckett pushed through the front doors of the 12th and dug her keys out of her pocket.
"Oh, but it can," Castle winced in the bright sun. "It can."
"So you missed a deadline," Beckett pulled the driver's side door open and leaned her chin on the roof, "Have you ever actually made a deadline?"
"Occasionally," Castle sniffed and ducked into the car.
Beckett shook her head and switched on the ignition.
"I torched the ending," Castle mumbled into his fist.
"I thought you said you didn't know how it ended," Beckett pulled into traffic.
"When I killed off Derek Storm no one but me knew until the manuscript went to press," He rested his head on the window, "I submitted a dummy ending and an . . . associate . . . swapped it out at the last minute."
"They must've loved that," Beckett turned to him as she pulled up to a stoplight, but he was still staring blankly out the window.
"Gina strong-armed me into a new contract after that. I agreed to deliver a draft of the last three chapters of every book in the Nikki Heat series 12 months out from launch," he thunked the side of his head on the window, "I got on my high horse and handed her the last three chapters of the first book 48 hours after I signed."
"Do you usually write like that?" Beckett tried to keep the eagerness from her voice. In all the silly, serious, angry, comfortable conversations they'd had over the years, he almost never talked about his process.
"Most of the time," he was back to getting finger prints all over her windows now, "I don't always know how I'm going to get there, but I know how it ends."
"Until now?" The light changed and Beckett pulled forward.
"When Paula called me with that obscene offer for the next three books," he dropped his chin toward Beckett and gave a wicked, genuine smile, "And it was obscene. I told her I wouldn't sign unless Black Pawn agreed to remove that clause. And a week after I signed, I sent Gina the nine chapters. Gift wrapped."
"Castle, I am amazed you still have a nose at all," Beckett shook her head, "So what happened?"
"After . . . in May," Castle cleared his throat and studied the passing scenery. "I rewrote Heat Rises almost from scratch. I couldn't . . . not."
"It still came out in September . . . " Beckett said quietly. She had to remind herself to breathe.
"I finished it in 3 weeks. I had some time," He gave her a half smile.
"Castle . . ." Beckett trailed off.
"It's ok, Kate. We're past it," He brushed her shoulder with his fingers. "Anyway, I dropped the manuscript in Gina's lap and she didn't say a word."
"I was . . . surprised," Beckett cursed the red light for taking away an excuse to keep her eyes off him, "By the ending. The cliffhanger."
"It felt right," Castle searched her face, "I felt . . . I'm not trying to make you feel bad. Because we are past it. But I felt . . . half dead. And I didn't think I'd ever recover."
"Were you . . ." Beckett started as a horn blared behind her. She flipped the driver the finger and cranked the wheel to pull to an illegal spot at the curb. Punching the hazards, she turned in her seat, "You were writing Rook out?"
"I guess . . . maybe? I don't know. I didn't know," Castle banged his head on the headrest, "All this year, the fourth book has been writing itself. It's the best time I've had in a long time, and it doesn't . . . I can't make it connect to the ending I wrote 2 years ago. And I don't know how it ends."
Beckett was torn between laughing, crying, and throwing herself into his lap, "Castle. What did you do?"
"I . . . well, not I, but someone - no one I know, I'm sure -" he cast a sidelong glance at her and almost looked like his old self again, "Someone kind of broke into Black Pawn and destroyed all existing copies of those three chapters."
Beckett lost count of the moments that ticked by as they sat smiling at each other. Finally, she turned back to face the wheel and turned the smile down just a notch, "If you promise to leave me the Ferrari, I promise I will get her for your murder."
"Deal, Detective."