182. Sequins in their eyes

“Good morning, darling,” his mother carols, from halfway down the stairs. Castle looks round, wishes he hadn’t (he is sure his mother is not colour-blind but from her dress patterns he wouldn’t have bet on it), and greets her in turn.

“Hello, Mother. How are rehearsals going?”

“Oh, well, if any of them had the thespian talent God gave a goose we might get somewhere,” she sighs, “but I shall persevere, and we will not disgrace ourselves. Tuesday may come too soon…” She casts herself down in a wearily languishing fashion.

“About that,” Castle says.

“About what?”

“Opening night. We’re all coming.”

“Oh?” Martha emits, pleased but slightly disbelieving.

“So could I have” – Castle suddenly rethinks – “five tickets? Do you even get an allocation or should I call the box office?”

“Five?”

“Alexis, me, Beckett” – Martha looks astonished – “Jim” – her mouth falls open – “and one other, for luck.”

“All right, darling. I’ll see what can be done this afternoon, when I go to try to whip this mess into shape.” She pauses. “Really Katherine and Jim?”

“Yes,” Castle says. “But no pressing them to come here, Mother.”

Martha nods. Castle leaves it at that, for now, not wanting to precipitate that row.

“Now, about your new apartment.”

“Oh, yes. Will it take long to organise movers, and to get an entry date? Moving the piano will need planning, darling, and of course I’d like to have a housewarming party and it would be good to send invitations out as soon as possible so that everyone knows where to find me. Not that I’ll be in a lot, of course. I’ve been looking round my old contacts” – old flames, Castle thinks cynically – “and there are so many opportunities on the stage. I absolutely can’t afford to delay.”

Around this point Castle manages to retrieve his lost composure and close his about-to-be-gibbering mouth. “I told the realtor that I wanted everything done by the end of the month. You’d be able to move in then.”

His mother purses her lips, clearly considering. “Mmm, yes. That would work… then an elegant soiree in June, yes. Perfect. Well done, Richard. Now, if you would just help me sort out a moving firm, and perhaps a party planner? I’m sure your PR person must have some names.”

Castle is so relieved that the discussion has gone well that he doesn’t even think about a sarcastic comeback. In fact, he’d pay nearly anything to the removal company and the party planner to keep his mother off his back and on-side with moving out.

“I’ll call Paula right away,” he says enthusiastically. He doesn’t have to fake the enthusiasm. “She’ll know just the person to give you the most elegant soiree in Manhattan this year.” He wanders off to his office, has a very short conversation with Paula, and is shortly assured that she will provide a brief list of the best party planners that money can buy, before the end of the day.

Castle bounces off to the precinct on a wave of joy that life is finally progressing all in the right direction with all the myriad different difficulties being some way towards resolution, and is not in the slightest depressed by the prospect of cold cases and paperwork.

“Beckett,” he continues to bounce on arrival, “Beckett, I’ve had a brilliant idea.” Beckett does not regard him with the unfettered admiration which that statement should produce. “I have. Mother’s opening night. I think we should invite your dad along with us.”

“You what now?”

“We agreed you’d come,” Castle reminds her, “and we agreed that it would be – er – fitting for Burke to have to go” – Beckett nods with a very nasty expression – “and I thought that if we all have to suffer then your father should too. If nothing else, he can sympathise with Burke. Means we don’t have to.” She looks a little more receptive. “C’mon. We should share the joy,” he says piously, and is rewarded by a laugh.

“What’s up?” Esposito enquires, coming to find out if it’s something he should know. Ryan trots up behind him.

Castle and Beckett exchange a look containing considerable mischief and not a little it-would-serve-them-right.

“We’ve got a surprise for you,” Beckett says. “A reward for all your hard work.” Ryan looks pleased. Esposito, both more cynical and more attuned to the Beckett sense of humour, starts to back away slowly. “Come back, Espo. It’s for both of you.”

“What is it?” Ryan asks, hopefully.

“It’s a surprise,” Castle says. “You’ll enjoy it.”

“Says who?”

“Me,” Beckett says firmly. “There will be beer.”

“If there’s beer…”

“There will be.”

“Okay then.”

The boys wander off. Castle and Beckett exchange a very discreet fist bump, and try not to collapse in laughter.

“I’ll buy an extra two shortly,” Castle says happily. “What do you think they’ll say when they find out.”

“I’d wear your vest when they do,” Beckett says dryly. Castle snickers, and the day passes in quietly satisfied style. Castle takes a call from his mother, and then calls the box office, from a conference room. He wouldn’t want to spoil the boys’ surprise. No way.

“Time to go home,” Castle eventually announces.

“Mm?”

“Time I went home. I have to arrange Mother’s moving out. And her moving in party. Ugh,” he says gloomily.

“It’ll be a roaring success.”

“I don’t want to be thrown to the lions,” he replies plaintively.

“Grrr!” Beckett says, and grins evilly.

Castle pouts. “Okay, see you tomorrow. Oh – and don’t forget we have a date,” he murmurs. “You might want to allow time to change after work? I’ll pick you up at seven.”

“Do I need to dress up?” Beckett asks provocatively.

“Up to you. You can wear jeans and a t-shirt if you want, but I was going to book somewhere really nice for dinner. Seeing as you never normally let me buy you anything,” he finishes with an equal share of sulkiness and saintliness.

“Where?”

“That’s your surprise. You’ve given Espo and Ryan a surprise, now you’re getting one.”

Beckett mutters darkly at her papers and desk, neither of which seem to reply. Castle merely smirks. “Till tomorrow,” he adds happily, and exits before Beckett can take any form of revenge.

Left to her papers and her own devices, Beckett finds that Lanie and indeed O’Leary have both provided – amazing! – overlapping availability for beer and fries. She ponders. Next week is already far more sociable than Beckett ever usually manages, what with the opening night – she winces – and Castle’s on Friday. She still has to talk to her father about opening night – another wince – and lunch or dinner on Sunday, like they used to but from a much better place. She’ll just deal with that now, she thinks, and wanders casually into a conference room where she can shut the door and have privacy.

“Jim Beckett,” comes through the phone.

“Hey, Dad.”

“Katie, hi. What’s happened?” Her father sounds a little worried, which means he’s a lot worried. She hastens to reassure him.

“No, nothing. I called because I wanted to come over for dinner on Sunday, like we used to? Just me.”

“Not Rick?”

“Nope. Just us?” She can’t help the hints of uncertainty in her voice.

“Sure.” Jim pauses for a second, and starts again with considerable mischief. “I can grill you about your intentions towards him. And then I’ll beat you at Sorry.”

“In your dreams, Dad.” She regroups. “Anyway, there was something else.”

“Yes,” he says suspiciously.

“Well, we’ve got some tickets for a first night performance, next Tuesday, and I thought you’d like to come. You, me, Castle, and Alexis.” She doesn’t mention Dr Burke.

“Sounds interesting,” Jim says, lawyer-cautious. “What’s on?”

“A Midsummer Night’s Dream, at La Mama Experimental Theatre.” Beckett crosses her fingers under the desk.

“Mmhm. I can’t say Shakespeare’s really my thing, but I suppose I tried Samuel Beckett and I liked that, so I’ll give it a go.”

“Great. I’ll text you all the details when I’ve got them.”

“I’m sure you have an ulterior motive, Katie. I can hear it in your voice.”

“Not at all. Typical attorney, totally cynical about even the nicest offer. Stop looking my gift horse in the mouth.”

“It’ll bite me, you mean?”

Beckett laughs. “See you Sunday, Dad. Five-ish?”

“Yes. Bye, Bug.”

“Bye, Dad.”

Beckett swipes her phone off with a sense of some achievement and a feeling of general happiness that she and her dad can make this work. Since she’s on a roll, she decides that speaking to Dr Burke is also a good plan, before she loses the will to do anything other than go home and have dinner, possibly with some yoga afterwards, or a nice long run, or both. She dials again.

“Dr Burke, please.

“Dr Burke speaking.”

“Hey, Dr Burke, this is Detective Beckett.”

“Good evening. Is everything all right?”

“Yes, yes,” she says briskly. “I’m not calling to see you on Friday. It’s about Tuesday.”

“Mm?”

“You remember I told you about Martha’s play? Well, it’s opening on Tuesday.”

“So you wish to reschedule? That seems very reasonable. You can make the arrangements with my receptionist.”

“That wasn’t why I called you.”

“Oh?” Dr Burke sounds just a little confused. Beckett grins to herself.

“We thought it would be an appropriate gift if we provided you with tickets,” she says blandly. “I imagined that you would find the psychological tack that has been taken interesting. Would you like tickets for both yourself and your wife, or just for you?”

Beckett listens extremely carefully, and detects in the quality of Dr Burke’s silence something that might, at a stretch, be tangentially related to surprise. It lasts a mere instant, but makes her happy nonetheless.

“That would be very pleasant. However, for ethical reasons, I may not accept a gift from you. I would, however, like to attend, as long as you will permit me to pay for my own tickets. I shall consult with my wife and advise you tomorrow. Will that be soon enough, or should I ask her now?”

“The sooner the better, I guess.”

“Very well. I shall let you know as soon as possible.”

In no more than thirty minutes’ time, Dr Burke has confirmed that his wife is, unhappily, unable to attend, but that he will be happy to do so. Beckett manages to preserve a calm voice, and doesn’t give way to her desire to emit a deep sigh that he is just as pompous off duty as on. She devoutly hopes that her father will keep Dr Burke away from her. She doesn’t need to meet another murder in the same theatre, though if she commits it, she’s sure she can cover it up effectively.

She texts Castle the good (her father: both play and Sunday evening) and not-so-good (Dr Burke) news, finishes off, books her rescheduled appointment for Wednesday and goes home. After a nice long run she feels much better, which is to say that she has stopped planning to push Dr Burke’s smug, self-satisfied ass off the top of the upper circle. It must be noted, however, that the mere act of thinking about it has improved her mood to such an extent that small bluebirds are – metaphorically – tweeting happily about her head. This mood lasts just as long as it takes her to discover that she has no dinner, and that her favourite pizza place will take at least half an hour to provide it. She humphs, hungrily, and orders it anyway.

Castle spends a relatively quiet period of time reviewing Paula’s list of party planners, removing those who are best suited to a frat party during Mardi Gras, and eventually reducing the list to a very short list of three, which he will provide to his mother so that she can outline her specifications. He’ll vet those, too. Obviously he’s not going to let her host a party equivalent to the Macy’s Fireworks.

He reads Becket’s text with mixed feelings which, had he but known it, were almost exactly equivalent to hers; and then with entirely unmixed feelings of pleasure contemplates his booking at Jean-Georges for the following night, humming happily.

After a while he goes to play with his lovely new cookbook, and spends the rest of the evening happily engaged with first the production of Georgian foodstuffs (which, since he is a good cook, are very edible indeed) and then with the production of vast quantities of Nikki, punctuated by deletion of vast quantities of X-rated writing fuelled by the pinpoint perfect recollection of Beckett’s deep crimson lingerie, which should, he feels, be distributed across his bed (with Beckett inside it) and then across his floor (with Beckett remaining on the bed, with him). Naturally, his dreams are also X-rated.

Equally naturally, he remembers in the morning to arrange a babysitter for Friday night, and to confirm that his mother will be home after rehearsal.

When Castle finally wends his way to the precinct, for which he is unusually late owing to a sudden need to try out another recipe which will take time to cool before he leaves it for Alexis for her dinner, he finds that it’s still paperwork and still tidying up the last ends of Carl’s murderous acts. This is boring. Very boring. After an hour, it has become so boring, especially as Beckett is entirely impervious to his hints that she should ignore the paperwork and talk to him, drink coffee with him in the break room, come out for lunch with him and generally amuse him, Castle, rather than doing any work, that he departs again. Departure is hastened when Beckett informs him that if he expects her to be able to come out this evening he should let her get on with her work before she shoots him. Since shooting is undesirable both because of the pain and because it would delay their date, (a date!) Castle skedaddles.

Skedaddling does not make the time go any faster, he finds. He can’t concentrate on Nikki, he can’t concentrate on games, and even online procrastination is not occupying nearly the length of time which it should do. It’s entirely unfair. When he’s supposed to be writing, online procrastination occupies hours without any effort at all: indeed without him even noticing. When he’s trying to waste time, it doesn’t work. It is just not fair, he humphs.

Finally the curfew tolls the knell of passing day – or at least his computer beeps chirpily at him to signal that it is probably time to start his sartorial preparations for their date (it’s a date!). He wouldn’t like Beckett to think he isn’t taking it, or her, seriously. Despite everything, they haven’t been on a date in Manhattan before and he feels very strongly that he should make an effort. He showers, shaves carefully (if Beckett wants stubble she can have it in the morning), fixes his hair in a rugged yet attractive fashion, and dresses in a carefully judged manner which indicates enough effort for the effect to be (he flatters himself) sexy and sophisticated but without appearing to have tried too hard and overdone it.

When he arrives at Beckett’s, requesting the town car to wait, he isn’t entirely sure what to expect. He is, however, deeply hopeful that it will involve an elegant dress which is covering elegant (and sexy) underwear.

The door opening discloses Beckett in what appears to be an above-the-knee midnight blue dress, the design of which is largely obscured by the presence of an astonishingly beautiful silk wrap: also dark blue with silvery embroidery in a faintly fern-like pattern. The decoration is more felt than seen, except where the light catches it. Naturally, she’s wearing heels: also midnight blue. Castle embraces her, kisses her a little cautiously so as not to leave a flaw in perfection, and offers his arm to her. She collects up a small evening purse, takes his arm (he tries very hard not to be surprised by this), and they leave.

Jean-Georges is smooth, classy and elegant. All of these descriptions apply equally to Beckett’s dress. Descriptions of Beckett’s dress which do not apply to the restaurant, however, include silky, seductive, and sexy as sin. It is fitted at the bodice, which is cut low enough to be interesting while remaining discreet, and has a slightly full skirt, which swirls and swishes enticingly. It takes Castle a moment to realise that the bodice has rather less of a back than is normal: specifically, a deep V-cut with fine lacing holding it together. His rather stunned mind reminds him that it is technically called a corset back, which does nothing at all for his overheating thoughts but quite a lot for a potential Christmas list of Beckett-presents. This generous impulse is, of course, not at all initiated by the thought that the result would be a spectacularly beautiful present for him, preferably residing in his bed.

Ingrained manners allow Castle to let Beckett seat herself first in the small booth he had reserved. Ingrained instincts lead him to run a delicately sensual finger-stroke straight down her spine before she sits. She shivers, and it’s not because the restaurant is cold. He smiles lazily, and sits himself, next to her. The choice of table is quite deliberate in order to ensure the seating arrangement was the one he wanted.

Dinner is exceptional. Beckett even consents to a glass of wine, though her enthusiasm for both wine, appetiser and entrée, excellent as they were, is utterly dwarfed by her enthusiasm for the dessert. Castle had suspected that she would go for the chocolate tasting dessert, and he is not proved wrong. Nobody who didn’t know her extremely well would notice the enthusiasm, but Castle does know her extremely well, and does notice. There is still glaze on the plate when she finishes. It is not scratched. If, however, there is a single molecule of chocolate remaining, it would take MIT’s largest scanning electron microscope to find it. While Castle feels that using this method to ensure that all chocolate has been consumed would be overkill, he is not entirely convinced that Beckett would feel the same, and therefore declines to mention the possibility. They’ve had a delightful evening so far: conversation has been smart, witty and interesting; they are perfectly comfortable and content in each other’s company without anyone interrupting them; and Castle has been able to press his thigh discreetly against Beckett’s, while occasionally placing an arm around her.

Over coffee, it is clear that dinner has been a resounding success.

“That was lovely,” Beckett says. “Thank you.” She hesitates a little. “It felt just like when we were in the Hamptons.”

Castle is delighted. That’s exactly what he’d been aiming for. “It did, didn’t it?” His arm sneaks back round her. “We should do this more often.”

“Mm,” she hums happily, and leans in slightly. Kat, fed, watered and very content, is much in evidence.

“So we should have a regular date night,” he says, crossing the fingers of the other hand.

“Mm,” Kat hums again.

Castle considers saying and let’s run off to Vegas and get married to see what happens, but then reflects that he wants a proper wedding with friends and laughter and cake and celebrations – and no bullet wounds. Instead he says, “More coffee?”

“Mm, but let’s have it back at home,” Kat purrs.

Castle blinks. Her casual reference to home, though it is her home (for now) in connection with the two of them, is really very telling.

He settles the bill, stops Kat’s attempt to contribute by pointing out that he invited her, holds the wrap for her to be swathed into, and escorts her home in an entirely gentlemanly fashion, all the way to her door.