fanofthegenre | [ forced decompression ]

Entry tags:

oom,
rick castle

[ forced decompression ]

Combing the parking garage for any sign of the third victim's body proves fruitless. The killer - whoever he is - isn't sticking to his normal M.O. of leaving the body where he's killed them, either. Forensics bags the lone pump, the clumps of blonde hair, swabs the places where her blood had spilled, but Beckett isn't hopeful yet. Changing his tactic means he's becoming more unpredictable, getting harder to pin down, but the fact that she's being sent home after feeling like she and her team can actually be a help is weighing heavy on her shoulders. Her protests fall on Agent Shaw's ignoring ears, and she leaves feeling more helpless than before - a feeling she doesn't appreciate having at the moment. It's not until she's climbed into her car and left that she realizes Castle's still there, but something tells her he doesn't mind being left with another brilliant mind to build theory with.

The unit, a small trio of suits wearing earpieces, are waiting in various places throughout her apartment building by the time Beckett gets there, a bag of takeout Chinese in one hand. The sight of them only re-emphasizes her frustration over the situation, and her other hand tightens around her keys when she lets herself into her apartment. She makes a point of checking all the windows, combing rooms, and then pokes her head out into the hallway and tells the guys to head on home. There's no point in keeping them around when everything's perfectly secured and she's got a gun in her bedside drawer - and one in the living room, too.

Beckett changes into a loose-fitting shirt and a pair of jeans and cracks open the Chinese, mixing rice and veggies together with her disposable chopsticks. Fifteen minutes in and the casefile is spread out on the couch in front of her, and Beckett settles in Indian-style, combing over the information: crime scene photos, eyewitness accounts, victims' backgrounds - searching for anything she might be missing, anything Agent Shaw and her team (and her "smart board") haven't pinned down yet.

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Castle had stayed behind at the parking garage while CSU swept the scene once, then twice. When they came back empty-handed, Shaw had ordered them to go over it again and a couple of them had grumbled about not getting paid overtime to be federal lackeys -- but they'd at least had the foresight to do it when they were out of earshot of the female agent. Castle'd had mixed feelings about Beckett's forced leave of absence. On the one hand, he agreed with Shaw: Beckett needed a break. She'd been running down leads in her sleep, trying to make impossible connections, and Castle had more than once caught her with her nose pressed close to the precinct's whiteboard, as if she believed the thing was actually going to talk to her.

On the other hand, watching Beckett slump into the SUV was like watching a favourite sports hero strike out at the bottom of the ninth. It stung. There was no way Castle could guess exactly how she was feeling, but he had a couple of speculative guesses. Not being included made Beckett want to go buggo -- either that, or she'd already started to dig in deeper, determined not to be underused.

Which is why, at nearly eleven o'clock at night, Castle hails a cab for her side of town. He's got a bottle of good French wine under his arm because, hell, if she thinks she's being underused, she can at least use his wine cellar to come to terms with it.

The street is empty when the cab sidles up to the curb. Castle pays the driver and gets out, sweeping a look up and down the street. He knows that the feds are paid to be inconspicuous, but this is ridiculous. It doesn't even look like these guys are here. He glances up the facade of Beckett's building. Lights are burning on the second floor, and her curtains are drawn. A good, upright, well-reared girl like Beckett knows better than to leave her lights on when she's not around; she's gotta' be home. He hugs the bottle of wine beneath his arm and goes inside, puffing (but only a little) on the short flight of stairs.

He's compulsively checking corners and dark hallways. What are you going to do if you actually run into someone? Download a gun-shaped app?

Castle makes it all the way to her door before he realizes he's got an even bigger problem:

How in the hell is he gonna' explain why he's here in the middle of the night, with a bottle of wine?

Beckett's camped out on the couch, cardboard and styrofoam containers covering the coffee table while the cushions themselves hold as many files as she could grab on what they've dealt with so far. The way she sees it, Shaw won't even miss handwritten files when she's got her smart board or her data matrix or whatever other fancy-shmancy top-of-the-line gadgets she's working with that has Castle making his googly eyes. Half-subconsciously, she angrily stabs at a bundle of rice with her chopsticks before she realizes what she's doing and almost starts to laugh at herself. It's ridiculous, and she shouldn't even be letting it get to her.

So why is she?

Beckett sighs around a mouthful of chicken and brushes a few photographs into the center of the pile. They're from the carousel, the second body they'd been tipped off about and found while it was still running. Even now, it brings back memories of the all-too cheery merry-go-round music playing as the ride circled and the body was brought into the foreground. It had also brought Agent Shaw into their midst, but Beckett mentally surges forward before she gets caught up thinking about that all over again.

The nine slugs recovered from each of the first two bodies spell out the beginnings of a message: NIKKI WILL. Whoever this third victim is, there are four bullets left that contain the last part, and Beckett's getting the sinking feeling that they'll know what it is all too soon.

The sound of creaking floorboards outside her apartment door isn't a foreign one. There's a set of them just outside the door; she walks over them almost every day and has the particularly groan-like noise memorized by this point. But when it happens more than once, her brain races to land at the worst-case scenario: someone might be, could be, is lurking at the door, and whoever they are, they aren't knocking. Which might possibly mean they're waiting for her to let their guard down so they can come in without warning.

She stabs her chopsticks into the white carton and moves on silent feet to the chest of drawers by the front door. There's a gun she keeps in there; she just needs to get to it before she makes any more moves. The safety clicks off quietly, her other hand reaches for the chain to pull it free, setting it down against the doorframe without a rattle and then turns the doorknob, and the door flies open just in time to surprise her attacker and the wine bottle in his -

The wine bottle.

Beckett lowers her gun.

"Castle? What are you doing here?"

Edited 2010-03-31 19:47 (UTC)

You looked like you needed a drink today. He shakes his head. You looked like you could use a drink. No good, either. I wanted to see what kind of pajamas you were wearing. This last excuse, while partially true, doesn't even give him a moment to fantasize because suddenly the door to her apartment is open and he's looking down the wrong end of her service piece.

So, for all of his troubles, Castle's response ends up being a high-pitched "YELP!" and a half-second impulse to throw the bottle of wine at her and bolt in the other direction.

When his heart slides back down his throat to its rightful place, Castle holds the bottle aloft. His hands shake perceptibly.

"Wine?"

Somebody check this guy's shorts.

The safety goes back on; Beckett leans out into the hallway without stepping forward and curls a hand around the arm that isn't attached to a trembling hand holding a wine bottle. She casts a furtive glance in one direction over Castle's shoulder, then the other, checking to ensure no one else is lurking out here before she moves to quite literally yank him inside.

"Come on," she mutters, the door closing behind them. She's quick to lock the deadbolt and resecure the chain, and the gun resumes its resting place inside the living room drawer.

"You shouldn't sneak up on someone like that," she adds, trying to pretend as though her feathers hadn't been momentarily ruffled, and allows him to linger on the receiving end of a eye-narrowing gaze before she resituates herself back on the couch, stacking up files and photos and neatly setting the pile to one side.

"All those threats I kept making about shooting you and it really could've happened just now."

He slinks into the apartment and casts a dubious look around. No agents in here, either. He almost imagined a guy standing in a corner somewhere, like a potted plant, one finger punched up against a wire in his ear. Subject is mobile and making her way to the living room with a Creamsicle, over. The place is empty. Castle's half tempted to check the bedroom, too, but she's still got her gun.

"I wasn't sneaking," he defends, sounding a little hurt. "And you're not supposed to be the one defending you right now. What happened to your detail?"

She hasn't turned out to put him out on his ear, so Castle takes that as a sign that he's welcome to stay, if only temporarily. He shrugs out of his jacket and drapes it over his usual chair. 'Shows her the bottle of wine and goes into the kitchen for a corkscrew, rattling around in drawers until he finds one. It's on top of the other implements in the drawer.

Somebody's been tense lately, he guesses, rolling up his sleeves to tackle the bottle.

There's one file in particular she's been poring over with a pen, jotting down the occasional note here and there and trying to pinpoint connections where she's able. In the background, she hears the sound of Castle rummaging through kitchen drawers and the audible pop of the bottle opening, and she spins the pen through her fingers like a drummer with a miniature stick.

"Oh, I sent them home after I got in," she casually replies.

She doesn't have to be looking to see Castle's expression at the sound of her admission; the sound of him stopping mid-pour would be clue enough. Regardless, it puts her on the defensive, feeling some strange need to explain her actions.

"What? The windows are locked, the door's locked. Plus I'm armed," she adds, as if he hadn't found out about that part in the more literal sense only a couple of minutes ago. The pen stops between her index and middle finger, and her gaze drops to the casefile in her other hand.

Castle doesn't look particularly convinced and, even though he's an only child, he does a pretty good job of aping a "big brother" look while he pours the wine. Don't ask him, but right there and then he decides to stay. He hopes plying her with a glass or two of wine'll at least get him a spot on her couch.

He fills two glasses and brings them into the living room, surreptitiously eyeing the files. So she's digging deeper. That's better than her going crazy. He really didn't want to have to change his shirt. "Anything new?" he asks, flopping down onto the couch beside her.

Her mouth twists to one side when she glances from one page to the next, her brain recycling its earlier thought pattern from before he'd nearly given her a scare. She senses the couch sink beneath their combined weight but doesn't glance up, musing out loud. "Our guy killed the others where they were found. Why not this girl? Why didn't he just leave her in the garage where we'd find her?"

There's something about this body in particular, this victim. Otherwise they would've come up with more than pieces of hair and a blood trail leading to nowhere. Beckett catches Castle holding something in her periphery and looks to see a wine glass dangling in front of her nose.

"Oh, no thanks."

Castle tries to put himself into the mind of their suspect. Years of following criminal profilers around for little crumbs of insight into the criminal brain have given him a fair bit of knowledge about how they operate, but the fit is still uncomfortable no matter how many times he does it. It's like slipping on a pair of shoes that someone's already had their sweaty feet in for a couple of days.

Her question's a good one. Castle goes with his gut. "He's changing it up." They've already established that this guy is a prize short of a Cracker Jacks box; the most likely reason for stealing a body would be to throw them off the trail, disorient them, so they don't know who they're looking for.

A frown when she refuses the wine. "No, no." Swirling the glass beneath her nose. "Agent Shaw said we need to decompress. And nothing decompresses like a bottle of 2000 Chateauneuf Du Pape."

He hopes that, between the wine and the puppy-dog eyes, he'll be able to successfully bait her to take the glass.

And normally, this wouldn't be weighing on her mind the way it is, but given her involvement in the sense that their killer is gunning to contact her, or dedicate these murders to her, or whatever it is - that and the fact that Agent Shaw had sent her trudging back to her apartment like a dog with its tail between its legs, of course.

It's ironic, maybe, or it's a coincidence that Castle mentions her now, and she tries not to scoff or even reveal it through her tone of voice, but there's definitely hints of it there. Just when she thought she was going to have a Shaw-free evening ahead of her.

Beckett reaches out for the glass and mimes a mini-toast, inclining it in Castle's direction. Maybe the wine, as unnecessary as it is, might actually be helpful in this so-called ordered decompression. Then again, maybe not.

"Oh, well, if Special Agent Shaw said so."

There's a warm little thump in Castle's heart when she takes the glass. Small victories. He's gotta' appreciate them when it comes to Beckett. Getting the woman to accept simple courtesies or compliments was like trying to negotiate peace in the Middle East.

He's so wrapped up in his own cunning (and in the colour of the wine) that he almost misses what she says. 'No missing that tone, though, and it paints a crease between his brows.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing," is Beckett's immediate reflex of a reply, but she knows all too well that it's not enough of an answer to satisfy Castle and he'll keep probing and prodding until he peels away the layers to get the one he wants.

True to form, he's watching her intently, and as she continues, her hand moves, inadvertently swaying the contents of the wine glass, and the smell hits her nose again.

"I just see the way that you listen to her, the way that you look at all of her fancy equipment. Now my murder board's not enough for you? Now you need a smart board?"

Castle puts the events of the last couple of days on rapid-fire replay in his brain, from the carousel to the parking garage. Yeah, it's true that you'd have to be pretty dense to miss the obvious tension between Beckett and Special Agent Shaw, but Castle had assumed that was a jurisdictional thing. Local cops always hated the Feds nosing in on their territory. Hell, either that, or Beckett just resented the fact that Shaw'd turned up with more gadgets than a Sharper Image.

Now he's not so sure.

"Are you jealous?" He's fishing here. His arm comes up over the back of the sofa.

It is true that Beckett hasn't been exactly appreciative of Agent Shaw and the Feds coming in on her turf and taking over her investigation, or setting up shop at the precinct with equipment that looks like it could've been pulled out of a sci-fi movie. But what really gets her goat is something that's beginning to rise to the surface even as she continues to respond.

"I'm not jealous," she evenly answers. "I'm just embarrassed, the way that you act like a ten-year-old all impressed by her data matrix. 'Oh, it collates information so quickly, Agent Shaw. Tell me all about it.'"

Edited 2010-04-01 02:49 (UTC)

Castle holds a mouthful of wine for a second. "You are ridiculous," he finally answers, in the slightly patronizing tone people usually reserve for talking to people who think they see the Virgin Mary in pita chips. It should be noted, however, that this is not a firm denial.

Hell, it's hard not to be impressed by Special Agent Jordan Shaw. First in her class at the Academy, one of the first female pioneers in the Behavioral Crimes Unit at the FBI. She had more collars to her name than Lassie. When you needed a go-to gal for unsolvable crimes, Jordan Shaw was your MVP. But that didn't mean that Castle was fawning...did it? (The night-vision goggles were really cool.)

The night-vision goggles, not to mention the taser. But she's not going to dwell on those details when it turns out there's actually a bigger issue at the heart of this, and maybe it's a sign of progress that Beckett chooses to share this next part with him - in herself, in their relationship, whatever it is. Or maybe it's just an attempt to get that look of incredulity off his face.

"Oh, and then to top it off, you are now building theory with her."

It's not that she doesn't wait for much of a reply from him; actually, she doesn't wait for a reply at all, but this has all been bubbling up inside her and now the lid has blown off and it's spilling out of her before she can think to button up.

"You're supposed to building theory with me. You're supposed to be on my team."

Now, this is just plain bizarre. If Castle didn't know any better, he'd swear that Beckett was going territorial. Over what? Him? The fact that he'd thrown out a couple of ideas and Shaw had been on the other side of the room with a catcher's mitt? Oh man. This went way beyond jurisdiction.

"I thought we were on all the same team," he points out. What's that funny feeling at the back of his neck? Oh yeah -- the completely unfamiliar, unusual sensation of being the "sensible one" in a conversation.

"We are."

Now she's trying to backtrack - or, at the very least, figure out how to say what it is she wants to say without actually saying it. And the way Castle's looking at her like she might be close to going off the deep end leads her toward the realization that she may be blowing this out of proportion. Either way, she needs to make her point - and she does.

"It's just - I think that if you have an insight, you should run it by me first."

They're in uncharted waters now, paddling around something bigger than either of them are willing to deal with without finishing half of this bottle first. Castle levels that laser sight of a look of his right over the rim of her glass. His expression is half curious, half amused.

"Fine. I will." He hefts his glass. "Now drink your wine."

Edited 2010-04-01 03:19 (UTC)

His concession is unexpectedly quick, and he catches her off-guard for the second time that night. The words she's just spoken are still echoing in her head as she glances down at the deep red liquid in her glass.

"Thanks. But, um, I'm tired, and I need to go to bed."

An action that wine would likely aid in, admittedly, but she's already up on her feet, setting the file down to rest for the night, and gives him leave to exit with a hand that moves to indicate the front door.

He follows the track of her hand -- is she actually trying to shoo him out of her apartment? -- and then locks his eyes back on her face. "Oh no. I'm not leaving. I'm here to protect you."

Said with a completely straight face and everything.

Embarrassment over her confession quickly turns to surprise, then amusement, and she's fighting back a smirk even as she answers.

"What, with your vast arsenal of rapier wit?"

Castle may be a good shot - he's proven that before in his desire to secure information from her - but the notion that he's refusing to leave because he wants to protect her is one that has her torn between laughing and feeling flattered at the sentiment.

Castle's no knight in shining Italian loafers, but part of him can't help feeling that this whole case is somehow his fault. Authors always want people to admire their work, but stacking up a body count is going too far.

He curls the glass of wine toward his chest, prepared to deliver the emphatic line of reasoning he'd rehearsed several times on his way over: "There is a madman gunning for you because of me. I'm not going to leave you alone."

There's a different kind of insistence in his gaze, different than the times he's begged her to let him work the siren or follow her into a potentially dangerous situation. It's the kind of insistence that says, I know how you feel about letting someone else keep an eye on things, but deal with it.

So she deals with it, her hand falling to her side.

"Fine. I'm too tired to argue."

And for some reason, as she crosses the living room to head down the hall to her room, she feels compelled to spin on one heel and add:

"But if I see that doorknob turn - I will have you know, Mr. Castle, that I sleep with a gun."

It's an empty threat, of course, given that he already knows what she sleeps with - or doesn't.

They're conceding all over the place tonight. When she gets up, Castle leans in and scoops up her abandoned wine glass. Waste not. It's a damn expensive bottle of wine, too, and he's determined not to let it turn into vinegar before the morning. He dumps her glass into his and turns, offering a wide and comely grin when she tells him she sleeps with cold steel.

"Understood." With all the gravitas that acknowledgment requires.

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