FIC * Rules * Castle * Castle/Beckett
Sep. 29th, 2011 11:58 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
renrenren3Uhm, so I suppose I should explain and also apologize for botching the cut on the first try. You see, Ren has a problem with deadlines. Ren sees them and they're far away and Ren thinks tomorrow is a great time to do stuff. And then tomorrow comes and the deadline is still far away and lol tumblr and kittens and distractions. So Ren had to write this thing for this prompt and I thought yeaaah, plenty of time, I can whip out 3,000 words on Thursday. Then on Thursday there was very important stuff for Ren to do like taking pics and cutting rectangles of plastic to stick on glass doors and quidditch and tumblr. And then it was 9pm. And Ren was like OHSHIT. And then Ren went to make tea and then started writing like a madwoman. And Ren, being stupid, took the prompt a long way and started from something only vaguely related to the prompt, and then wrote like 1,000 words about another prompt. And then it was 11:55pm and it was due on midnight and Ren only barely managed to touch the prompt and then submitted it to the wrong journal and botched the cut and now it's too late to fix it and I can't delete it for the time being. And it's not even 3,000 words because Ren is full of fail. Also Ren likes to talk in third person and writing a lot in little time gives me a case of verbal diarrhea.
SO THIS IS LIKE, CASTLE/BECKETT FIC BECAUSE THEY BELONG IN EACH OTHER'S PANTS. NO RATING/WARNING/WHATEVS BECAUSE I DIDN'T INTEND FOR PEOPLE TO READ IT, IT'S LIKE THE UNBETAED DRAFT OF CHAPTER 1.
Over the years, as her (professional) relationship with Castle evolved, detective Beckett set down a few ground rules. She feels that rules are important, especially when dealing with Castle. Otherwise it's just too easy to get sucked into the writer's fantasy world, and then all hell would break loose.
---
Rule Number One: it's Castle's fault. No matter what, everything can be traced back to Castle. Cold coffee in the morning? It's because Castle distracted her by talking about the changes that are being made to adapt Nikki Heat into a movie. (Stupid changes, of course, the book was better, but then again the book is almost always better. Not that she told Castle.) The new Chief hates her? It's because Chief Gates doesn't like how Castle is always shadowing her around. (Never mind that Chief Gates hates almost everyone, Castle makes the situation even worse, so it's Castle's fault.) A stain on her favorite shirt? It was a rather elaborate incident involving a defective fountain pen, an overexcited pair of teenaged fans, a book to sign and (of course) Richard Castle.
So when Beckett finds herself stuck in the closet of a murder suspect with Castle and with no bra, it's obvious that the fault of this whole situation lies with Castle. But let's not get ahead of ourselves.
It starts, as most of Beckett's days start, with a murder. Rita Giuliani, 32, shot on the steps in front of her home. There is nothing remarkable about this murder, not to a detective who has seen victims covered in flower petals and katana-wielding superhero killers, but a murder is a murder and Beckett is determined to bring the culprit to justice. The problem is that the victim's uncle is Ettore Giuliani, a guy who's rumored to have ties with the Italian mafia, and Mr Giuliani doesn't want the police to come snooping around his place. So he instructs his lawyers to deal with the police and refuses to answer any questions, on the grounds that he knows nothing about his niece's murder.
The maddening part is that Chief Gates is backing Mr Giuliani, she insists that there's no way to get a search permit with what they have, and she urges Beckett to investigate elsewhere. Beckett has no clue of what to do, not without the critical pieces of evidence that she's sure Giuliani is hiding somewhere in his mansion, but without evidence she can't get the search warrant that she needs to search for evidence. It's so frustrating that she's this close to actually banging her head against the wall, and she hasn't done it yet only because Castle is perched on her desk and would doubtlessly comment on the theatricality of the gesture.
This is the point where Castle leans forward, takes an envelope from his jacket and gives it to her with a flourish. "Detective Beckett, how would you like to meet with Mr Giuliani tonight in his Upper East Side residence?" he says, without quite being able to suppress a boyish grin.
She graces this with a raised eyebrow. "I would like that very much," she replies. "Unfortunately he's made it very clear that he wouldn't like to meet with me."
Castle tut-tuts. "He wouldn't meet with detective Beckett, paladin of law and order," he says. "I'm sure he'd be delighted to meet the lovely Kate, my date for the evening. Aren't you going to open it?"
He looks like a kid about to open his Christmas presents, only in reverse. Beckett probably looks the same while she reads the letter inside the envelope. "This is an invite to Giuliani's cocktail party!" she exclaims, rather unnecessarily. But, really, Castle has got an invite to Giuliani's cocktail party. Is there someone that Castle doesn't know?
Esposito and Ryan, attracted by the commotion, wander close and peer at the letter from above Beckett's shoulder. "A black tie event, that's fancy," Ryan says. "Can we come too?"
"It's only for me and my date," Castle says apologetically, "and I'd rather have a prettier date. No offense."
"How did you get this?" Beckett asks Castle, waving the invite around.
Castle shrugs. "I've had it for ages. We play tennis together sometimes. To be honest I was hoping I wouldn't have to go, he's a decent tennis player but his conversation is so boring, last year he..."
Beckett tunes him out at this point. The only thing that's important to her is that she now has a legitimate reason to enter Giuliani's home. If she's to "accidentally" wander around and see something that can be linked to the case, then it won't matter if she doesn't have a search warrant. It's a long shot to hope that Giuliani left a smoking gun lying around for her to find, but she's pretty much desperate at this point and anything is better than staring at the whiteboard all day.
Later, when everything goes wrong, she'll remember that this was Castle's idea to begin with and then the incident with the closet and the bra won't seem so unexpected.
---
Rule Number Two: never let Castle talk you into anything. This is more of a guideline than a rule, because sometimes Castle does have good ideas, and sometimes there's just no saying no to Castle. But if it sounds like a bad idea, and if your stomach does a funny twist when Castle mentions it, then it's probably a bad idea and you should never let Castle talk you into it.
Of course Beckett has never been that good at following rules. That's why she lets Castle drag her across half the town, and ends up in front of a nondescript blue door and a shop window that's almost empty save for a lone mannequin in a weird electric blue dress. Inside there's a thousand more mannequins and dresses and scrap of fabrics, and (according to Castle) the best tailor in all of New York.
"Richard, old friend," says the owner of the shop, the alleged best tailor in New York, an older man with a foreign accent that Beckett can't quite place. Then the tailor proceeds to scold Castle for not wearing a tie and fixes his crooked lapels, which Beckett finds amusing. She's less amused when the tailor turns towards her and tilts his head sideways. "And I assume this is the friend of yours who is in dire need of a new dress, hmm?"
"I wouldn't say dire need," Beckett begins, but to no avail.
The tailor is already circling her like an hawk, tut-tutting to himself and taking notes on a small pad. "Yes, I can see why you'd be worried," he says.
"She needs something for tonight," Castle says. "If anyone can do it, it's you."
"Hey, it's not like I don't have anything to wear," she puts in. "I've got that nice blue dress that I only wore once last year."
Both Castle and the tailor look mildly scandalized at the idea that she'd wear a dress from last year to Giuliani's soiree. Apparently Giuliani was in this shop only last week to be fitted for a new suit. It's like everyone talks to the guy on a daily basis but her. Beckett stops trying to argue that she doesn't need a new dress, even though she knows it's a bad idea and it can't possibly end well.
"I'd love to make a dress that really complements your character and your coloring," the tailor tells her. "Unfortunately, due to time constraints, that won't be possible. Maybe next time, hmm?"
Then he brings out a dozen dresses that he can adapt to fit her. Beckett's first reaction when she sees them is to run away. Instead, she stays and tries on a few of them, which in hindsight was a mistake.
"I think this dress is more like red carpet movie star than NYPD homicide detective," she says while trying to get into a gown that's tight in all the wrong places and is so long that almost makes her trip with each step. When she steps out from behind the lacquered screen, Castle's jaw almost drops to the floor. "It's kind of... tight in... here," she tells the tailor, making a vague gesture towards her boobs, which are threatening to burst out of the top of the dress.
The tailor starts fussing around her. "Maybe we'll need to adjust the fit, hmm," he says. "And you'll wear it with no bra."
Castle, already red in the face, is now positively purple. Beckett is so not going to be talked into this. Fashion or not, she's not going to a party at a suspect's house wearing no bra and a silk gown that covers just about nothing worth covering.
Which, of course, means that Castle and the tailor end up talking her into it. She spends the afternoon having her measurements taken and trying on about a hundred different variations of the gown. The tailor hums and curses in Slovak and fills the gown with pins and summons a little army of assistants to cut a new bodice. The reason of his discontent is, she learns later, that he doesn't like to design dresses for women with boobs. Or indeed any women that are not a size zero like his mannequins.
He might just be the best tailor in New York, though, because just a few hours later Beckett emerges from the back of the shop wearing the most gorgeous black dress ever. "Can I go to the ball now, fairy godmother?" she asks Castle, doing a little twirl in front of the mirrors to admire the draping.
She's still iffy on the back, because there's really nothing on the back, the dress is held together by sartorial magic and Slovak prayers, but the tailor won't be swayed. It's fashion. On the plus side, she might just have found out how to make Castle shut up.
She ends up not paying for the dress, which is in equal parts annoying and relieving because she's even more in Castle's debt but she's not sure she could have afforded it.
"Please," the tailor says, waving away her protests. "It was my pleasure, you're Richard's good friend. Have fun at Mr Giuliani's party. Maybe you'll come back one day and I'll make you another, better dress, hmm?"
She goes to the party in the black dress. For a while she has to pretend that she's annoyed that Castle made her go to the trouble of having a dress made just for the occasion, but she's secretly pleased because, let's be honest, the dress really is gorgeous. When she gets stuck in a closet with Castle and the top of the dress threatens to fall apart and she's wearing no bra, well, then she really gets annoyed.
---
Rule Number Three: don't get sucked into Castle's world. The party is dazzling, the outfits of the guests almost make her feel underdressed, and one of the bottle of champagne probably costs more than what she made in a week. Still, what Beckett has to keep in mind is that she is there to look for evidence, not to have a good time.
Castle has no such compunctions and drags her around to meet all of his various acquaintances. "Have you met my friend, Kate Beckett?" he says, and there are handshakes and introductions and even more names and faces for her to remember.
"I'm here to work, remember?" she hisses, pulling him aside after Mr and Mrs Whatever wander off towards the buffet.
The writer shrugs. "I thought you might like to see which kind of people Giuliani hangs out with. Besides, he's likely to get suspicious if you run off right away to search his underwear drawer. He's big on privacy, in case you didn't notice."
"I did notice," Beckett says, annoyed because Castle is right.
"Wait until he's had a few glasses," Castle suggests. "Then we'll sneak out and investigate. By the way, would you care for a drink?" he says, taking two champagne flutes from the tray of a passing waiter.
She takes one but doesn't drink it. "Castle, I'm on service," she complains.
Castle pouts. "You're terrible at being undercover," he says. "Do you want to check out the buffet? I think they have little things on a stick. Or maybe you'd like to dance?"
Beckett glances over to the far corner of the salon, where the orchestra has just started playing a Viennese waltz. There's only three other couples dancing, while the other guests are milling around and maybe waiting for the orchestra to switch to something less challenging.
She shrugs. "Sure, why not?" she says, trying not to grin when Castle looks over the moon.
Castle downs his glass and offers her his arm. "That's much better already," he says. "Don't worry, I promise I won't complain when you step on my toes."
Then he proceeds to be suitably impressed when Beckett proves to be a much better dancer than he is.
"Detective Beckett, you're full of surprises," he says. "I wouldn't have pegged you as the waltzing type."
Most of her concentration is spent on not tripping out of her high heels, or into the dress's hem, or over Castle's feet, but she smirks.
"What else are you holding out on me?" Castle continues. "What else can you dance? Rumba?"
Beckett doesn't, but Castle isn't likely to find out. It's just one dance and after it's over (and all couples have received a small round of applause for the bystanders) she finally manages to drag Castle away to search the house.
She's in a good mood, a bit flushed from dancing, and totally off her guard. Really, that closed was an accident waiting to happen.
---
TO BE CONTINUED LOL. HERE!
SO THIS IS LIKE, CASTLE/BECKETT FIC BECAUSE THEY BELONG IN EACH OTHER'S PANTS. NO RATING/WARNING/WHATEVS BECAUSE I DIDN'T INTEND FOR PEOPLE TO READ IT, IT'S LIKE THE UNBETAED DRAFT OF CHAPTER 1.
Over the years, as her (professional) relationship with Castle evolved, detective Beckett set down a few ground rules. She feels that rules are important, especially when dealing with Castle. Otherwise it's just too easy to get sucked into the writer's fantasy world, and then all hell would break loose.
---
Rule Number One: it's Castle's fault. No matter what, everything can be traced back to Castle. Cold coffee in the morning? It's because Castle distracted her by talking about the changes that are being made to adapt Nikki Heat into a movie. (Stupid changes, of course, the book was better, but then again the book is almost always better. Not that she told Castle.) The new Chief hates her? It's because Chief Gates doesn't like how Castle is always shadowing her around. (Never mind that Chief Gates hates almost everyone, Castle makes the situation even worse, so it's Castle's fault.) A stain on her favorite shirt? It was a rather elaborate incident involving a defective fountain pen, an overexcited pair of teenaged fans, a book to sign and (of course) Richard Castle.
So when Beckett finds herself stuck in the closet of a murder suspect with Castle and with no bra, it's obvious that the fault of this whole situation lies with Castle. But let's not get ahead of ourselves.
It starts, as most of Beckett's days start, with a murder. Rita Giuliani, 32, shot on the steps in front of her home. There is nothing remarkable about this murder, not to a detective who has seen victims covered in flower petals and katana-wielding superhero killers, but a murder is a murder and Beckett is determined to bring the culprit to justice. The problem is that the victim's uncle is Ettore Giuliani, a guy who's rumored to have ties with the Italian mafia, and Mr Giuliani doesn't want the police to come snooping around his place. So he instructs his lawyers to deal with the police and refuses to answer any questions, on the grounds that he knows nothing about his niece's murder.
The maddening part is that Chief Gates is backing Mr Giuliani, she insists that there's no way to get a search permit with what they have, and she urges Beckett to investigate elsewhere. Beckett has no clue of what to do, not without the critical pieces of evidence that she's sure Giuliani is hiding somewhere in his mansion, but without evidence she can't get the search warrant that she needs to search for evidence. It's so frustrating that she's this close to actually banging her head against the wall, and she hasn't done it yet only because Castle is perched on her desk and would doubtlessly comment on the theatricality of the gesture.
This is the point where Castle leans forward, takes an envelope from his jacket and gives it to her with a flourish. "Detective Beckett, how would you like to meet with Mr Giuliani tonight in his Upper East Side residence?" he says, without quite being able to suppress a boyish grin.
She graces this with a raised eyebrow. "I would like that very much," she replies. "Unfortunately he's made it very clear that he wouldn't like to meet with me."
Castle tut-tuts. "He wouldn't meet with detective Beckett, paladin of law and order," he says. "I'm sure he'd be delighted to meet the lovely Kate, my date for the evening. Aren't you going to open it?"
He looks like a kid about to open his Christmas presents, only in reverse. Beckett probably looks the same while she reads the letter inside the envelope. "This is an invite to Giuliani's cocktail party!" she exclaims, rather unnecessarily. But, really, Castle has got an invite to Giuliani's cocktail party. Is there someone that Castle doesn't know?
Esposito and Ryan, attracted by the commotion, wander close and peer at the letter from above Beckett's shoulder. "A black tie event, that's fancy," Ryan says. "Can we come too?"
"It's only for me and my date," Castle says apologetically, "and I'd rather have a prettier date. No offense."
"How did you get this?" Beckett asks Castle, waving the invite around.
Castle shrugs. "I've had it for ages. We play tennis together sometimes. To be honest I was hoping I wouldn't have to go, he's a decent tennis player but his conversation is so boring, last year he..."
Beckett tunes him out at this point. The only thing that's important to her is that she now has a legitimate reason to enter Giuliani's home. If she's to "accidentally" wander around and see something that can be linked to the case, then it won't matter if she doesn't have a search warrant. It's a long shot to hope that Giuliani left a smoking gun lying around for her to find, but she's pretty much desperate at this point and anything is better than staring at the whiteboard all day.
Later, when everything goes wrong, she'll remember that this was Castle's idea to begin with and then the incident with the closet and the bra won't seem so unexpected.
---
Rule Number Two: never let Castle talk you into anything. This is more of a guideline than a rule, because sometimes Castle does have good ideas, and sometimes there's just no saying no to Castle. But if it sounds like a bad idea, and if your stomach does a funny twist when Castle mentions it, then it's probably a bad idea and you should never let Castle talk you into it.
Of course Beckett has never been that good at following rules. That's why she lets Castle drag her across half the town, and ends up in front of a nondescript blue door and a shop window that's almost empty save for a lone mannequin in a weird electric blue dress. Inside there's a thousand more mannequins and dresses and scrap of fabrics, and (according to Castle) the best tailor in all of New York.
"Richard, old friend," says the owner of the shop, the alleged best tailor in New York, an older man with a foreign accent that Beckett can't quite place. Then the tailor proceeds to scold Castle for not wearing a tie and fixes his crooked lapels, which Beckett finds amusing. She's less amused when the tailor turns towards her and tilts his head sideways. "And I assume this is the friend of yours who is in dire need of a new dress, hmm?"
"I wouldn't say dire need," Beckett begins, but to no avail.
The tailor is already circling her like an hawk, tut-tutting to himself and taking notes on a small pad. "Yes, I can see why you'd be worried," he says.
"She needs something for tonight," Castle says. "If anyone can do it, it's you."
"Hey, it's not like I don't have anything to wear," she puts in. "I've got that nice blue dress that I only wore once last year."
Both Castle and the tailor look mildly scandalized at the idea that she'd wear a dress from last year to Giuliani's soiree. Apparently Giuliani was in this shop only last week to be fitted for a new suit. It's like everyone talks to the guy on a daily basis but her. Beckett stops trying to argue that she doesn't need a new dress, even though she knows it's a bad idea and it can't possibly end well.
"I'd love to make a dress that really complements your character and your coloring," the tailor tells her. "Unfortunately, due to time constraints, that won't be possible. Maybe next time, hmm?"
Then he brings out a dozen dresses that he can adapt to fit her. Beckett's first reaction when she sees them is to run away. Instead, she stays and tries on a few of them, which in hindsight was a mistake.
"I think this dress is more like red carpet movie star than NYPD homicide detective," she says while trying to get into a gown that's tight in all the wrong places and is so long that almost makes her trip with each step. When she steps out from behind the lacquered screen, Castle's jaw almost drops to the floor. "It's kind of... tight in... here," she tells the tailor, making a vague gesture towards her boobs, which are threatening to burst out of the top of the dress.
The tailor starts fussing around her. "Maybe we'll need to adjust the fit, hmm," he says. "And you'll wear it with no bra."
Castle, already red in the face, is now positively purple. Beckett is so not going to be talked into this. Fashion or not, she's not going to a party at a suspect's house wearing no bra and a silk gown that covers just about nothing worth covering.
Which, of course, means that Castle and the tailor end up talking her into it. She spends the afternoon having her measurements taken and trying on about a hundred different variations of the gown. The tailor hums and curses in Slovak and fills the gown with pins and summons a little army of assistants to cut a new bodice. The reason of his discontent is, she learns later, that he doesn't like to design dresses for women with boobs. Or indeed any women that are not a size zero like his mannequins.
He might just be the best tailor in New York, though, because just a few hours later Beckett emerges from the back of the shop wearing the most gorgeous black dress ever. "Can I go to the ball now, fairy godmother?" she asks Castle, doing a little twirl in front of the mirrors to admire the draping.
She's still iffy on the back, because there's really nothing on the back, the dress is held together by sartorial magic and Slovak prayers, but the tailor won't be swayed. It's fashion. On the plus side, she might just have found out how to make Castle shut up.
She ends up not paying for the dress, which is in equal parts annoying and relieving because she's even more in Castle's debt but she's not sure she could have afforded it.
"Please," the tailor says, waving away her protests. "It was my pleasure, you're Richard's good friend. Have fun at Mr Giuliani's party. Maybe you'll come back one day and I'll make you another, better dress, hmm?"
She goes to the party in the black dress. For a while she has to pretend that she's annoyed that Castle made her go to the trouble of having a dress made just for the occasion, but she's secretly pleased because, let's be honest, the dress really is gorgeous. When she gets stuck in a closet with Castle and the top of the dress threatens to fall apart and she's wearing no bra, well, then she really gets annoyed.
---
Rule Number Three: don't get sucked into Castle's world. The party is dazzling, the outfits of the guests almost make her feel underdressed, and one of the bottle of champagne probably costs more than what she made in a week. Still, what Beckett has to keep in mind is that she is there to look for evidence, not to have a good time.
Castle has no such compunctions and drags her around to meet all of his various acquaintances. "Have you met my friend, Kate Beckett?" he says, and there are handshakes and introductions and even more names and faces for her to remember.
"I'm here to work, remember?" she hisses, pulling him aside after Mr and Mrs Whatever wander off towards the buffet.
The writer shrugs. "I thought you might like to see which kind of people Giuliani hangs out with. Besides, he's likely to get suspicious if you run off right away to search his underwear drawer. He's big on privacy, in case you didn't notice."
"I did notice," Beckett says, annoyed because Castle is right.
"Wait until he's had a few glasses," Castle suggests. "Then we'll sneak out and investigate. By the way, would you care for a drink?" he says, taking two champagne flutes from the tray of a passing waiter.
She takes one but doesn't drink it. "Castle, I'm on service," she complains.
Castle pouts. "You're terrible at being undercover," he says. "Do you want to check out the buffet? I think they have little things on a stick. Or maybe you'd like to dance?"
Beckett glances over to the far corner of the salon, where the orchestra has just started playing a Viennese waltz. There's only three other couples dancing, while the other guests are milling around and maybe waiting for the orchestra to switch to something less challenging.
She shrugs. "Sure, why not?" she says, trying not to grin when Castle looks over the moon.
Castle downs his glass and offers her his arm. "That's much better already," he says. "Don't worry, I promise I won't complain when you step on my toes."
Then he proceeds to be suitably impressed when Beckett proves to be a much better dancer than he is.
"Detective Beckett, you're full of surprises," he says. "I wouldn't have pegged you as the waltzing type."
Most of her concentration is spent on not tripping out of her high heels, or into the dress's hem, or over Castle's feet, but she smirks.
"What else are you holding out on me?" Castle continues. "What else can you dance? Rumba?"
Beckett doesn't, but Castle isn't likely to find out. It's just one dance and after it's over (and all couples have received a small round of applause for the bystanders) she finally manages to drag Castle away to search the house.
She's in a good mood, a bit flushed from dancing, and totally off her guard. Really, that closed was an accident waiting to happen.
---
