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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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.

Without a response, she heads back to her room, leaving him there to finish the wine and probably stay up to do something along the lines of what he'll be calling lookout. It's not uncomfortable, having him here - that isn't what keeps her up even as she tries to settle down and relax, rolling over to either side to find a comfortable position, watching the numbers turn on her alarm clock and counting how many hours she'll get if she falls asleep now.

Finally, her insomnia gets the best of her and she rises to go to the bathroom, but on the way there, she detours slightly and tiptoes down the corridor to the living room. The lights are mostly out - except for a small lamp that casts the room in a dim glow, and Beckett's gaze lands on the twin empty glasses on the table, then searches for the back of Castle's head among the couch cushions.

Another creaking floorboard announces her presence.

The room had seemed smaller when she'd disappeared. Castle chalked the feeling up to the wine -- he'd finished half a glass by the time he heard her bedroom door ease shut -- and turned out a couple of lights so he wouldn't have to look into corners anymore.

She'd left the case notes spread out over the coffee table, the margins filled with her tiny, precise handwriting. Castle had licked the pad of his thumb and flipped through the topmost sheet --

1ST VIC - 5 SLUGS - NIKKI.

She was talking about their first victim, the guy at the train station, and the five bullets they'd pulled out of his ribs. Castle's gorge rose at the creepy calling card.

2ND VIC - 4 SLUGS - WILL.

The writing got more emphatic at this point, and Beckett had evidently pressed the pen pretty hard against the paper: 3RD VIC - JANE DOE - ????? was an impression that went four pages down.

He'd put the pages back in order. 'Swirled the wine in his glass. It was a game. A sick, cruel game with Beckett at the center, moving around wherever the guy wanted her. Castle's grip on the glass had tightened. He flipped the cover of the file and leaned back into the cushions, thinking. No matter what, I've gotta' stay awake the entire night, he told himself, mouth full of a generous gulp of wine. A beat. He spit some of the wine back into the glass. 'Checked his watch. Shoved a pillow beneath his lower back to make himself sit upright.

This is a breeze, he'd thought, I'm all over this.

Cut to twenty minutes later and a creaky floorboard: Castle is asleep, sitting upright, his mouth askew. The wine glass, still halfway full, occupies his limp right hand.

He's got one of the files resting on his lap, slowly rising up and down at the edge with his breathing. Her eyes trail down the corner of his shoulder to where his hand still holds the glass, fingers almost magically retaining their grip even as he loses himself to the second stage of the REM cycle. Beckett steps over the next noisy floorboard and continues forward into the living room, her oversized shirt hanging loose from one shoulder.

She bends down to take the file from his lap, careful not to touch him where he'll flinch and stir, and places it on top of the others piled on the coffee table. The wine glass is a little harder to pry out of his hand, but he gives it up relatively quickly, and she eyes its nearly full contents before downing it within a few swallows. Liquid courage, her brain spits out while she sets the glass down, now empty, to join the other.

There's a blanket resting on the back of the couch, dark brown and almost blending in with the fabric it covers. She plucks it up and unfolds it with both hands, holding it open to spread out over his sleeping form. The bottom she straightens until his feet are covered, and the top end gets resituated to fall under his shoulders. Beckett smiles slowly to herself and leans in over his peaceful sleeping expression.

Some protection, she fondly thinks.

Something in Castle's biology has shifted since he's started working with Beckett -- he's learned to sleep like a cop. Scraps of rest, only when absolutely necessary, with a hair-trigger wake-up reflex.

The pressure of the blanket is slight, but it pulls him from sleep all the same, and when he feels a warm presence beside him he chooses not to open his eyes. The weight of her is beside him, her constant gravity keeping him anchored, and he takes in a breath of her perfume. Slowly, he hinges his jaw back together.

With his eyes closed: "I could smell you coming, Clarice..."

Beckett freezes in that brief second of allowing his words to sink in - and then promptly smacks his shoulder, though it lands as more of a gentle swat as her hand barely glances off him.

"Some lookout you are," she murmurs, though like her earlier thought, there's a trace of affection in the words, and she fits herself in alongside him on the couch, sitting where there's a small space on the edge next to his hip.

"Unless you'd been planning on, I don't know, drooling on our guy."

There isn't any drool. Not really.

Castle pushes the heel of his hand against his eye socket, then pushes his hips toward the back of the couch to make room for her. "I was only out for a couple of minutes," he insists, flashing a glance at his watch. Well, twenty minutes. He grimaces. "And besides, I was all ready to spring into action." His right hand closes around empty air. He pats the cushion for what he assumes is an upended wine glass. His fingers touch her hip in passing.

"What're you doing up?" he asks. "Can't sleep?"

"I'm sure," Beckett says, all in agreement with him without actually agreeing with him. Her hand reaches out, brushing along his arm in the movement, settling inside the crook of his elbow. She shrugs the bared shoulder.

"I guess," she adds. "I've never been able to get much sleep in general during a case, but something about this one makes it even harder."

She shouldn't be pretending she doesn't know the reason for it. That much is obvious enough.

Castle bumps his knuckles under the edge of the blanket and pulls her backward against his chest. "Me too," he admits. Although right now he's not thinking about the case at all. He pulls the blanket across her hip.

"You think she was wrong to send you home?" He doesn't have to ask. He knows what she thinks, especially if the gruesome coffee table spread is anything to go by.

"I don't know," Beckett admits. "I think I might've done the same thing if I was in her shoes. Running on no steam, being as connected to the case as I am - "

She leaves the end of that sentence hanging for now, her fingertips finding a place where the fabric of his sweater hangs loose and toying with it.

"At the same time, though, it's me he always wants to talk to when he calls. What if he tries calling again and I'm not there to answer?"

He slings his arm, low and comfortable, around her middle. The fingers of his left hand trace small circles on a tiny tract of exposed skin. "Who knows? Maybe she'll be able to use her teleportation device to get you into the precinct."

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject