6. A game that I hate to lose

“What?” Beckett’s got no further, so any insane idea is better than the nothing that she’s got.

“It’s really old-fashioned. I mean really old-fashioned.  But I know a guy who runs a shop” – he’s flagging a taxi as his words spill out, falling over themselves to escape from his throat – “that specialises in really old board games, and he reminded me about this one which was really good fun and I always meant to get that one for Alexis but I never did though I’d played it a lot and it might be just perfect and even if not there might be something else you liked and”-

“Castle, stop just for a second.  Slow down.  What are you talking about?”

A taxi draws up and he hustles her into it with a hand on her back. When they’re underway he starts again, looking slightly sheepish.  “It’s a board game.  It’s called Sorry.”

“Sorry?”

“Yes, that’s its name. It’s a bit like a complicated version of Parcheesi.  Instead of dice you draw cards, and different numbers let you do different things.  It’s quite strategic.  You can get it new but this guy has a shop with really old versions rather than Phineas & Ferb…”  Somehow it’s not a surprise that Castle has watched Phineas & Ferb.  She imagines that the psychedelically insane (or chemically-induced: whatever the writers are on, every so often she would love some) inventions, humour and music would be right up his alley.

“So why didn’t you get it?” Castle goes a little red. 

“Well, by that time Alexis was already beating me at enough games that I didn’t want to add another one to my extensive list of defeats. The owner taught me to play, though.”

Beckett is stabbed by a memory of her father teaching her to play first Uno, then gin rummy, then poker, over summer vacations in the cabin on the days it rained too hard for them to go fishing together.

“I never let her win – well, not once she would notice,” Castle continues, “but it didn’t seem to matter. And she was disgustingly triumphant when she won, egged on by my mother.  I’m sure my mother helped her.”

“Or, of course, she’s simply a whole lot brighter than you,” Beckett says without most of her usual snark. Castle only grins. 

“That’s possible, too. She’s certainly more mature.”  He doesn’t comment on Beckett’s sudden lack of focus.  He files it for later.  “Almost there,” he says happily.

The cab draws up at a very small, dark looking store front with a variety of old boxes and decks of cards in old-fashioned designs. Castle bounces out the taxi as enthusiastically as he’d bounced into it and offers his hand as Beckett steps out.  The sidewalks in this mess of small streets are not nearly as clear as in more populous shopping areas.  In fact, it looks like no-one’s walked down here all day.  When Beckett feels the slide of slush under her boot she decides that she prefers Castle’s proffered hand to falling on her ass, and takes it.  His grip is surprisingly firm.  She remembers vividly how he’d felt, not in bed, but sitting on her couch, holding her close in.  He doesn’t let go when she’s straightened up and caught her balance.  She doesn’t ask him to, nor does she pull away, until they enter the gloomy store.

There’s a wheezy cough from somewhere in the back, and a shuffling of feet. Despite these foreboding portents, when the person arrives it proves to be a rather elderly man, white-haired and gently balding in a tonsure pattern, and wearing – carpet slippers? – and a velvet smoking jacket in a distressingly bright violet with a paisley pattern in red and gold.  He falls on Castle’s neck with trilling enthusiasm.

“Richard! Dear boy, where have you been?  You haven’t come by for months.” he flutes.  He notices Beckett.  “And who is this lovely young lady?”  He regards her with an artist’s appreciation.

“This is Detective Kate Beckett, NYPD, Julian.” Julian takes her hand and kisses it.  “She needs a Christmas present for her father,” Castle says emphatically, regarding Julian with a very strange expression.  Beckett thinks that it looks rather like confusion at the kiss.  “So I thought of you.  And here we are.”  Castle gestures widely, only just missing an ivory chess set and a delicate model of a WWII fighter plane.  Julian looks flustered and not a little nervous, much as if a large, bouncy dog had bounded into the store. 

Beckett looks around. She can’t see a single electronic toy or game.  She smiles vaguely at Julian and starts to wander around the shelves.  Most of the boxes look older than Beckett – though they all seem to be in perfect condition.  She peers at them, picking one or another off a shelf to examine.  She’s never seen a lot of these games: she’s far better than competent at many forms of card game, (she turns hard away from the pang of memory) but there had really only been chess and checkers; Monopoly and Clue at home.  She turns back to the two men.

“I don’t know what to get my dad,” she directs toward Julian. “He likes chess, and checkers, so Castle suggested a game called Sorry.”  She sounds rather uncertain of its acceptability.

“Sorry,” hums Julian. “Hmmm.  Now where did I put that?” 

“The one you tried to get me to buy,” Castle points out, attempting to be helpful.

“Ah yes, that.” Julian turns without any further hesitation to a small shelf towards the back of the shop and picks up a box.  “Now, Miss Beckett” – Castle winces slightly, but Beckett is intrigued by this elderly, old-fashionedly courteous man and doesn’t correct him as she normally would – “let me show you.”  He sets the box on a small octagonal table with a marquetry inlay of a chessboard in birch and mahogany, a rim of mother-of-pearl around the edge, and opens it carefully; first taking out a board and laying it precisely on the table.  There are four different colours, each having a place to start, a little tower of squares with a top – Home, it says – and some interesting looking arrows in a slide configuration.  Julian takes out three of the four small boxes and extracts some pawn-shaped, coloured wooden pieces, setting them in the relevant Start points.  Beckett looks at him sharply.

“It’s pretty,” she says, still intrigued, “but what are you doing?”

“Oh, my dear” – Castle winces even more obviously, but Beckett simply lets that wash over her – “the best way to discover whether you think the game will suit your father is to play it. Sit down here” – he presents her with a chair, and there seems no option but to consent.  Besides which, the game looks interesting – “and let us all play the game.  Richard, my boy, please will you shuffle the cards while I explain the rules to Miss Beckett?”

“Please, call me Kate.”

“Kate? Short for Katherine, I presume?”  Julian’s bright, birdlike eyes meet hers.  She nods.

“I do not like abbreviations. May I call you Katherine, instead?  Such a beautiful name.”  She has no idea why she assents to that. No-one calls her Katherine, now.  However, the old-fashioned atmosphere in the slightly dusty shop, giving her the feeling that she’s stepped into Miss Haversham’s parlour, and Julian’s decorous courtesy in asking no doubt had much to do with it.

“Of course. May I call you Julian?”  Her courtesy in return is entirely unforced.  The manners of a slower, more formal age seep over her, and here in this peculiar little shop, with this peculiar little gentleman, extraordinarily, she feels less tense and more at peace than in years.

“It would be my pleasure if you would do so.”

While they have been exchanging formalities, Castle has quietly brought two chairs for Julian and himself, and considered with some surprise Beckett’s alteration from her earlier stressed unhappiness to this unaffectedly courteous, poised – well, lady.  This trip, he thinks with considerable satisfaction, had inadvertently been an excellent idea. 

Julian finishes setting up the game. “Now, Katherine, you will already have discerned that the aim is to bring all your men safely home.  We will cut to establish who shall begin, but we will defer that for a moment whilst I explain the cards.  You may only start a man if you draw a one or two.  A two will provide you with the opportunity to draw a second card.  A four requires you to move backwards four places.  A seven may be split into two moves, by two of your men, adding up to seven.  Both must move forward.  An eleven allows you to exchange places with any other man on the board.”  He taps a finger on the coloured squares making up the tower.  “This is a place of safety.    Here, you are not at risk.  Anywhere else on the board, should another player draw a card which would allow him to land upon the same square which you occupy, your man may be sent back to its start.” 

He smiles beautifully. “It is customary and mannerly to apologise when you send another player’s man back to start, hence the title.”  Beckett smiles in return.  This sounds interesting.  She’s already beginning to think that even if, once they have played, she doesn’t believe that her father would like it – she certainly might.  “There are two final points to note.  Should you draw a Sorry card, you may start one of your men by removing any other man upon the board, except those in Safety; and apart from those cards which I have already mentioned, all moves must go forward in the direction of the arrows.  Should you land here, on a slide of a colour which is not your own, you may slide to the end.  Any other men on the slide will be sent back to their start, accompanied by your apology for the necessity.”  He pauses for a few instants.  “Shall we begin, Katherine?   If Richard believes that the cards are sufficiently shuffled, that is?”

Castle smiles affectionately at Julian. “Of course they are, Julian.  Didn’t you teach me how?”  Beckett blinks.  How long has Castle known this man?  But it’s time to begin.  It takes her a little while to become familiar with the pattern of play, and, much to her relief, neither man is patronising enough to make any concession to her lack of knowledge.  She loses the first game, naturally.  Julian, who appears to be hiding a razor-sharp tactical mind behind his fluttering personality, wins, and offers another game.  Beckett accepts instantly.  She likes this game.  It’s far more strategic than Parcheesi, but less complex than chess. 

This time, although she still loses, she has a far better grasp of the potential strategies, and the game is far closer. When they’re done, with Julian winning again, she’s decided.  She smiles contentedly.

“My father will very much like this game,” she says formally, her words chosen for her by the atmosphere of a bygone age. “Would it be possible to take two, though?”

“Naturally. May I ask why two?”

“One set for my father,” Beckett replies, “and one for me. I’ve really enjoyed this game.  Thank you.”  Julian clears away the pieces and the board, and then reaches for another box. 

“Would you like one gift-wrapped?” he asks.

“Yes, thank you. This one.”  She indicates the one which they hadn’t used.  Julian turns to the important business of precise wrapping in a heavy, brocade-print paper redolent of Victorian Christmases long past.  Beckett feels as if the time she has spent in here – she drops a glance to her watch and realises that it’s been two hours and more – has been spent in a Dickensian setting: a slower, gentler age.  She turns to Castle.

“Thank you,” she says with sincerity. “This was the perfect place to get a present for my dad.”  Castle smiles down at her in return, a little ruefully.

“I suppose now you’re going to insist that I play Sorry with you until you’ve learned to beat me soundly every game, aren’t you?” Beckett grins a little wickedly.

“I hadn’t quite thought of that, but now that you mention it… Or we could take it to the precinct and annoy Esposito and Ryan with it.” She looks down at the box.  “Or not.  They might spoil it.”  For some reason, which she can’t quite put her finger on, she doesn’t want this box damaged, or any of the delicate little wooden men lost.  Maybe she simply wants it to be perfect, to be a perfect aide-memoire of an evening where her burdens have not intruded on her once; where she hasn’t been Beckett and hasn’t been Kate or Katie.  She’s been Katherine: a woman of old-fashioned courtesy and grace in a small, dusty, old-fashioned shop with a proprietor straight out of Dickens.  It’s not being Kat, but it’s had almost the same soothing effect.  And it’s been Castle who’s allowed her to achieve this benefice.

She won’t be taking this game to the precinct, or anywhere else. She can’t take the risk of it being damaged.

Castle has observed Beckett with interest as she played. The fragile air surrounding her had dispersed as she turned her intelligence and a considerable strategic mind on the game, and while naturally she had lost (he and Julian have played relatively frequently before) she’d caught up pretty quickly.  Julian likes her, Castle can tell.  That’s interesting, too.  Julian normally takes a little while to decide about people, with Castle having been a rare exception.  Then again, Castle had been a young teenager when he’d first stumbled upon this shop, and even then he’d understood that this was a place of tranquillity and an earlier age. 

Julian had taught him to shuffle well, and to deal; to play backgammon and other strategic games, and then to play chess, though Castle had never once beaten him. When he’d complained, a little petulantly, about that, Julian had admitted to International Master status, and Castle had resigned himself to the fact that he would never win.  He doesn’t have the patience to learn and analyse the strategies, and occasional instinctive brilliantly brave and creative moves are not sufficient.  He still enjoys playing, though.  At times this shop had been his refuge, and entering its portal still soothes his soul.

However, it’s well after nine, and they ought to be letting Julian close up. Fare-thee-wells are exchanged – it always seems the appropriate phrase for Julian: so much more apposite than a mere goodbye – and Castle ushers Beckett out into the street where he discovers with delight that it’s snowing hard.  He discovers with marginally less delight that it’s clearly been snowing hard for some time, as they continue to fail to find a free cab.  He becomes aware that Beckett is speaking.

“How did I not know about that shop? It’s only a few streets away from my block.  I never knew it existed.”  She peers up at Castle, snow sparkling her dark hair.  “If we just take a right here we’ll be practically at mine.”  She peers a little more uncertainly.  “D’you want a coffee?  Maybe there’ll be more taxis after that.”

“Coffee would be great, and I could call my car service from yours.” He grins.  “We could have another game, Beckett.  I like winning over you.”

“Don’t get used to it, Castle. It’s not gonna happen that often.”  She returns her attention to her footing.  It’s rather slippery on the sidewalk and she really does not want to be planting her backside on the snow.  Goodness only knows what nastiness is hidden under it.

They reach her door without mishap but with a thick frosting of snow on coats and scarves and hair.

Castle, entering politely behind Beckett, whips one comprehensive and unseen glance around her apartment and realises that not only does she not have a Christmas tree up, even the abomination of a plastic one, there isn’t so much as one solitary Christmas card or twinkling piece of tinsel. The contrast with his own festively decorated loft is chilling.  Beckett appears to be fully subscribed to In the Bleak Midwinter, as opposed to his philosophy of God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen.  It’s as bad as her appalling attitude to her own birthday. She doesn’t seem to notice anything wrong or think anything of it.  With considerable self-control, he doesn’t comment.  On the lack of decoration, anyway.

“What will you do for Christmas, Beckett?”

Beckett hadn’t particularly wanted that question raised, though she had been expecting it, but she has in any event a ready, conversation-stopping answer. That answer will not, however, include the significant matter of her voluntary assumption of the Christmas Day shift.

“I’ll go to my dad’s and we’ll spend Christmas together,” she answers. “Christmas with family.”  She smiles, apparently perfectly happily.  She has no intention of describing what that means.  Castle smiles back, apparently perfectly – what?  Reassured?  That’s not an appropriate reaction.  He hardly knows her (even if they have been to bed.  That doesn’t count.)  What’s it to him what she does for Christmas?  Anyway, it doesn’t matter.  If he’s reassured then he won’t be asking further. 

And he doesn’t. But unbeknownst to Beckett, he’s picked up the hint of brittleness in her words.  There’s more to this, he is sure.  But now is very much not the time.  He wants to find softer Beckett-Kat, not spook her.  And asking Beckett questions about her personal life is a very fast way indeed to spook her.

Castle, domestically, offers to shake the snow off the clothes over the bath if Beckett will put the kettle on because, he says plaintively, he is freezing and may never be warm again.

“Or, of course, you could warm me up,” he smirks, and realises that that was a mistake just as soon as he does.

“Really? And how might I do that?”  It’s not that she’s irritated, or angry, or even glaring at him; but suddenly, with the quizzical lift of her eyebrow, Detective Beckett’s coolly amused, sardonic air of slight distance is right back.  He disappears to shake the snow off their coats before he can add his right foot to the left foot sticking out his mouth.

She rapidly concocts a pot of coffee, sets it and two mugs on a tray, and adds two jugs: one containing plain and one containing vanilla flavoured creamer. She regards the tray for an instant, and then picks up and sets on it one jar of powdered cinnamon and one of ground nutmeg.  The complete ensemble arrives on the coffee table and Beckett sits down at one end of the couch. 

When Castle emerges from his sartorial ministrations, Beckett is quite obviously expecting him to sit at the other end of the couch, at a socially acceptable distance from her. He doesn’t like that expectation. His expectation is that he will sit next to Beckett-who-is-being-Beckett and see if he can’t move just a tiny bit closer to Kat-who-he-thinks-Beckett-wants-to-be.  So he does.