[ To Dine For ]

[mmkaternater]

[ Timed to the day after this. ]

It hadn't been that bad.

Nero had fiddled, but Rome hadn't burned beyond recognition and by the time Castle got back to his apartment, the party was waning. No busted chandeliers; no farm animals in the living room. The baby grand showed signs of being shifted, but a bouquet of half-emptied champagne glasses on the lid suggested that the movers must have given up shortly into the endeavor.

Overall, Martha Castle had considered it a successful evening.

Castle had sulked for a while and then dragged himself to his daughter's bedroom to see how she'd weathered the storm. He found her with a physics textbook propped open on her stomach, a Maglite shining the way for protons, electrons and whatever else Castle guessed you found in a physics textbook that his Liberal Arts education did not provide for.

He dropped a kiss to the top of her head.

"You know, I used to read other things by flashlight after I thought Gram had gone to bed."

"The New York Times Book Review, right?"

"Something like that." He deposited himself in a chair. "Sorry about tonight. I should have been here to stop the floor show."

Alexis Castle made a bookmark of her index finger and shut the textbook on her lap. "It's okay," she said. Drew her legs up to her chest. "I'm sorry I pulled you away from Detective Beckett. I know what it's like, when..." She trailed off.

Castle pitched forward. "You 'know what it's like when' what?"

"Come on, dad. I'm in high school."

"Oh god. Please don't tell me --"

His daughter held up her hand, sliding off the edge of the mattress. She crossed to her father and hung off his neck in a warm, happy loop. "Relax." She patted his chest. "I meant that I know what it's like when you like someone and you're not sure if they like you back, so things get weird and --"

"Do you like someone? Who do you like?"

"Daa-aad." She squeezed her arms around his neck until Castle laughed and relented, swinging his arm around her middle to reel her in for a fierce bear hug. "You know, it is dis-gus-ting how much I love you," Castle told her. His daughter smiled. "Love you, too." She kissed his cheek and got back into bed. Castle clicked on her bedside light and, off her look, said, "You'll ruin your eyes the other way." He could trade in parentisms when he wanted.

Castle didn't see Beckett at all the next day. He'd gotten caught in a late lunch with Gina, who had wanted to see the first three chapters of the Heat Wave sequel, and Castle had broken breadsticks into tiny pieces and groused about 'genius' and 'deadlines' and how neither of them made good bedfellows. In the end, he had promised two firm chapters and an outline for the rest of the novel, thus securing his ex-wife/publicist's temporary pardon. He was still checking his body for ants when he left the restaurant.

He had left a message for Beckett at about five thirty and she'd confirmed that they were still on for dinner. He thought about shoehorning in a meal at Le Cirque, but even his star power wasn't enough to get an eight o'clock table. On the other hand, Atelier was reasonably quiet midweek, and its proximity to Central Park meant that Castle didn't have to splurge for a cab. Plus, the decor and menu -- French provincial -- wasn't too overwhelming to the uninitiated. Even so, Castle was looking forward to translating some of the more consonant-heavy menu items for Beckett's benefit.

He's in good spirits when he winds up on her doorstep. No tuxedo, but definitely some thorough polishing going on. A nice tie has even found its way around his neck.

He pushes her buzzer with his thumb.

Comments

[fanofthegenre]

If there was one thing Beckett was indecisive about, one part of her life that she never knew exactly how to figure out for herself, one time when she felt completely and totally helpless and way in over her head -

- it was now, standing in front of her closet, trying to figure out what she was going to wear tonight. Sure, she'd dressed up before - book signings, book premieres, the occasional charity benefit - but the decisions had usually been made well in advance and with considerable guidance from Lanie. Now there was only a day to figure things out, and Lanie wasn't going to be around to tell her what to do. The morgue was overflowing with recently dead, and she wasn't available to free herself for a night of consulting.

("But - " Beckett had started.

"Girl, you'll be fine. Call me later, I want all the juicy details."

"Lanie - "

Click.)

Hours of paperwork, minutes of staring hopelessly into the depths of her wardrobe, careful application of what had literally been all of the make-up in her possession, and a series of messy attempts to curl her hair later, Beckett stands in front of the full-length, smoothing her hands over the dark blue dress that clings in some place and leaves others up to the imagination. The buzz catches her right as she's securing her second earring, and she practically hops toward the front door, slipping on one high-heeled shoe at a time.

By the time she opens it, straightening her posture, she's a little breathless in her greeting.

"Hi," is what she finally settles on, with a soft sigh that regulates both her breathing and desperately tries to hide the fact that, up until the door opened, she'd been all over the place.

[bestsellingego.livejournal.com]

Castle gets a peek at the plunge but he's conscious enough of his manners (and of the fact that leopards can't change their spots; she might have a gun on underneath that gown) not to let his attention linger too long. Besides, she's got her Confidence Heels on and as she straightens, all the wit and one-liners fly out of his brain. For a moment, he's about as articulate as a Ferrigno dialogue.

"Hi," he says and, because he realizes that this might not be enough: "You look fantastic."

Nice recovery, old boy.

Used to her street clothes (and, recently, her pajamas), Castle has to admit that seeing Beckett in formal wear is an experience that he appreciates. She may say it's "not her world," but he's certain that, if she wanted to, Beckett could cross that divide with relative ease. The light from her apartment catches the cabochons at her earlobes; her make-up is tasteful but glamorous. Even that look -- the slightly skittish, winded bloom of mouth and cheeks -- has its charm.

He hooks a thumb over his shoulder.

"You ready to go?"

[fanofthegenre]

It's safe to assume that there are very few places Beckett could be hiding a gun on her person, especially given the way the dress falls on her. That being said, she's stashed her off-duty piece in her tiny clutch, which is just about the only thing it can hold on its own - besides a tube of lipstick. She's almost ready, needing to grab a few more things, but she does pause to offer Castle a smile of sincerity.

"Thank you," she murmurs, because she knows he means every word.

"Almost ready," Beckett adds. It's her coat she goes for first, shrugging it on over her shoulders with every intent on putting her arms through the sleeves when they actually get out of the apartment, grabbing the tiny gun-carrying clutch that rests on the hallway side table. Her mind is checking off its mental list, making sure she's remembered everything for every possible scenario, and then she finally slips out the door, checking the handle after locking it with her key.

"Okay. Now I'm ready." She slides her arms into her coatsleeves and sets off walking, readjusting to the heels on her feet that rarely see much wear.

"You look nice too, by the way."

[bestsellingego.livejournal.com]

"This old thing? Well, you know, I just kind of throw it together." Castle pats his tie and accompanies her onto the elevator that will take them the three short flights down to the lobby. He considers suggesting the stairs, knowing Beckett's proficiency at walking in a pair of heels, but they're in the lift before he can do anything about it.

Out on the street, Castle hails a cab and slides into the back seat beside her. The heat's chugging and the driver speaks broken English, but he manages to articulate their destination and soon the city is rolling by them in a haze of light and colour.

"I met with Gina today," he says, fronting a grimace that might actually have some legitimacy. "She's really pushing for a sequel to Heat Wave. I told her about the ants, but she said I couldn't possibly do a whole book about entomology. I told her to come by the precinct sometime. You've got a whole crew of officers who could show her how."

He feeds her a smile.

"What did you do today?"

[fanofthegenre]

"Have you started writing anything yet, or is it all up there?" Beckett points an index finger to Castle's temple.

"Whatever I always wind up doing whenever there isn't a murder to solve - catch up on the less thrilling aspects of detective work. And speaking of the ants, I had to make sure the Cavendish case was all squared away, so that took most of the afternoon: organizing statements, getting copies of the ex-wife's confession, and making sure some of the items we entered into evidence were given back to the family. You know, that evidence room of ours hasn't looked nearly as good as it did when Alexis got ahold of it. We might need her back in a little while," she adds, returning his smile.

Adjusting the skirt of her dress over her knees, she casts a glance out the window on her side as the cab trickles through the sluggish evening traffic and, eventually, starts to circle around Central Park. Beckett turns back towards Castle.

"Where did you make a reservation?"

[bestsellingego.livejournal.com]

Castle grimaces visibly when she asks him about the progress of his book. "It's in the ether," is all he says, knowing that's the default answer almost all writers give when they're pushed for a literary prognosis. He buffs the heel of his palm on his kneecap. "Anyway, I've got ideas. It's just a matter of organizing them. Nouns. Verbs. The occasional grandiose adjective." He definitely hasn't been short on inspiration since they started their ride-alongs. Now it's just a matter of finding time between bodies to sit down and write.

As she explains her day, Castle clucks his tongue sympathetically. "Kind of glad I missed all that. Not that I don't appreciate that it's part of the job." The really boring, watching-paint-dry part. "I'm just not going to include it in the next book. 'Less I can find a way to get Nikki Heat to do naked paperwork but, then," he spreads his hands in mock surrender, "I'm already ahead of myself."

The cab skims over a low hill, running alongside the empty trees of Central Park. Castle leans over her side and looks for the spotlight-crowned edifice of the Ritz-Carlton, its windows like a million blank eyes looking out over the city.

"Reservation?" he asks, feigning incredulity. "I didn't make a reservation. 'Figured you could just flash your badge and we'd get a fireside table."

[fanofthegenre]

Beckett knows better than to continue pressing him for any kind of status update about the sequel. Unlike his agent, or his publisher, or anyone who took a willing part in making sure Castle churned out his ideas onto paper, she has a feeling he'll be able to finish on his own terms, and nothing anyone says - or threatens - will make him go any faster. He'll plug his heels into the dirt, metaphorically speaking, until he stops getting nudged about it. She gets that. She hates feeling rushed in any way, but sometimes she performs best under a small amount of pressure.

"Naked paperwork. You'd just sidestep the whole fact that indecent exposure is sort of a crime, huh?" she murmurs, nudging his arm with hers. She shifts her clutch from one hand to the other when he mentions her making the use of her badge.

"How do you know I even managed to fit it anywhere?"

One eyebrow arches, and she settles back against the cab's leather with a smug expression.

[bestsellingego.livejournal.com]

"That, Detective, is exactly what my overactive imagination is for."

The cab cozies up to the curb outside the Ritz, the famous green awning slouching perceptibly under a layer of fresh winter snow. It's the kind of place that makes New York City unlike any other city Castle's been to -- and he's not just saying that because he's a New Yorker at heart. Everything about the place, from the gold filigree florets buckling above the sign, to the gas lamps, to the tiny potted firs on either side of the doors all bespeak an elegance that's unique to the city.

Castle gives the cabbie his fare and slides out behind Beckett, trading a nod with the straight-as-a-right-angle doorman. "You ever been here before?" he asks her, sliding into a spot just behind her left shoulder. His hand floats in the air above her lower back.

[fanofthegenre]

"Sorry I asked."

Early evening brings about a colder chill, the brief breeze of winter wind stirring up against the length of Beckett's bare legs that her coat doesn't cover and making her that much more anxious to get inside - but not without taking in the impressive scene outside as they duck in past the doorman. It's easier to get the warmth back into her hands and feet when she's not standing on a recently plowed New York City sidewalk.

"Once," she admits, glancing back over that same shoulder at him so her words don't miss his ear. "But I was making an arrest, so I don't think that counts. Does that count?"

[bestsellingego.livejournal.com]

"Not unless you stopped for the herbes de Provence palmiers before you cuffed the guy," he says with a grin, stepping into the warm, fragrant portico. "They try to keep the photogs to a minimum. It's a nice place to go if you want a little privacy."

And apparently privacy sells, because the tables in Atelier are studded with local and national celebrities. Castle recognizes two senators and a Hollywood starlet who, reportedly, has just finished a turn in rehab. He gives his name and the maître d smiles warmly in reception, leading them to a quiet table in the middle of the vast dining room.

The decor here is all Old World impinging on New: lots of leather, dark wood and brass fittings. The smell of buckram and old money hangs in the air like a cloying perfume. Framed hunting scenes hang on the walls. Castle pulls Beckett's chair away from the table and then sits down himself, lifting his elbows away from the tablecloth as the steward drapes a napkin across his lap.

He has a chance to observe Beckett under the benefit of candlelight and he finds that he likes the effect. The shadows do interesting things with the shape of her collarbone.

"I know how you feel about beer," he says, "but how about a bottle of wine?"

[fanofthegenre]

"Unfortunately, I was a little more concerned about catching a murderer than sampling any of their hors d'oeuvres," she responds, shedding her coat once her body's temperature finds a more comfortable medium - and upon request of the young blonde at the coat check table.

She's not ignorant of how much money Castle's making, nor is she immune to his celebrity status, but even Beckett can't help but peer curiously at some of the guests already seated as they make their way to the reserved table. The lighting is dim, faces illuminated by candlelight, but she can make out a good number she's only seen on her television, and she tries not to stare too obviously.

She settles in her seat, adjusting her dress under her thighs, and watches him across the table while his eyes scan over the wine list. She won't pretend to know more about fine dining than she already does, and something tells her that deferring in this instance will ultimately be for the best.

"You decide," Beckett replies, smiling demurely. "I'm sure your tastes are honed a little better."

[bestsellingego.livejournal.com]

Wine is wine in Castle's opinion, but he appreciates the fact that she's allowing him to show his cosmopolitan colours. He drags his thumb over the gilt listing -- everything here is at least fifteen years old, both to appeal to customers' palates and their wallets -- and decides on a full-bodied red. A waiter comes by, dressed in white tails, and Castle tenders the request, glancing back to Beckett as they're left alone again.

It's difficult not to be aware of the situation: grabbing a coffee and a scone on the way to a morning crime scene is one thing, but they're playing in an entirely different league now that there's no case between them. He's eager to show her his world, 'treat her a little, but he's also painfully aware that she's uncomfortable with artifice. He is, too, if he's being honest.

"Order whatever you want," he tells her. "It's on Black Pawn Publishing."

[fanofthegenre]

It's a little thing, that concession, letting him decide here and there for her. It's rare, and it makes her feel even more akin to a fish out of water in a place like this and a situation like the one they're in, because normally, she's only too happy to order him around and to tell him exactly what to do. Beckett shifts in her seat again, that subtle sign of discomfort, but when her eyes meet Castle's over the table again, she does manage a small, albeit sincere smile.

More obvious than her discomfort, she likes being around him. More obvious than the unfamiliar situation, she's glad that he's here with her.

"Oh, I don't know if you should've told me that," she teases, her gaze descending to the menu in front of her as she reads over words both familiar and foreign.

"Maybe if I knew what any of this meant - "

[bestsellingego.livejournal.com]

"That's a public school education for you," he says, flashing a grin across the candlelight. He snaps the menu erect and runs his thumb over his brow, scanning the menu selections. "That summer house in Provence is what separates the hommes from the..." he trails off, his mouth pinching into an unpretty wrinkle.

"Hnh." His shoulder rocks. He lifts the menu and points at something at random. "This means 'hot dog' in French right?"

All right, so he's a little rusty himself.

[fanofthegenre]

"I'll have you know that I have a very strong grasp of Russian. How else did you think I knew to come in to save you from that nine-fingered mobster, hmm?"

Maybe there's some similar thread she can find in the verbs and nouns to at least sound like she knows what she's talking about.

Though, from the sounds of things, Castle isn't faring much better.

"'Hot dog'?"

[bestsellingego.livejournal.com]

"So I skipped a couple of classes during finishing school. I'll have you know that I had a very vigorous French tutor." Though, judging by his relative lack of parlance in basic French, it sounds like he didn't do as much studying of the language as he did an intensive study of said tutor's bustline.

He puts his menu on the table. "The chef does a great tasting plate. We'll hedge our bets."

The wine steward arrives with a bottle and as he pours, Castle has a moment to reflect back on the undercover operation Beckett was referring to. "M'curious. How did you come to know so much Russian? Did you spend a couple years on Putin's detail?" He crooks a rogue brow. "Were there funny little fur hats? Funny little fur bikinis?"

[fanofthegenre]

"And how much of the language did you actually learn?" She leans forward to take her wine glass in hand, cradling it gently as she swirls the contents underneath her nose and then takes a moderate sip.

"Mmm. Don't push your luck. Remember when I told Alexis I'd spent a semester abroad? Junior year. Of course, I took a few courses in Russian to prepare myself, but it turned out the most I learned was just sitting in small café and pretending to be young Moscovite girl."

The latter half of the sentence takes on the accent she'd affected while sneaking into the Chinatown poker game to save Castle's ass.

[bestsellingego.livejournal.com]

He dodges the vetting of his educational misdemeanors and allows his face to be taken by surprise at her revelation. 'Wild thrill when she lets her voice drop into that sexy 'back in the U.S.S.R.' cant.

"Detective, you're just full of surprises." He clinks his wine glass against hers, the sound resonant and full. "Almost a shame that I'm not going to be able to work all of them into prose."

[fanofthegenre]

"But they signed you on to do how many sequels?" Three, last time she checked, and that's done a good job of solidifying Castle's presence at the precinct a little while longer.

"Something tells me you'll find a way to make the most of your word count." She lets her glass resonate against his with a soft chiming sound.

[bestsellingego.livejournal.com]

"I promise I'll leave you with plenty of feminine mystique. 'Layers to the Beckett onion,' remember?"

As much of a details bloodhound as he is, Castle is happy to leave some things about her out in the ether. He'll weave his own impressions into Nikki Heat -- the pole dancing lessons and the harem training, specifically -- but there's a core of Kate Beckett that's hers and, therefore, untouchable.

Not that he's going to try to resist the implacable urge to "peel." It's just who he is.

[fanofthegenre]

"Oh, feminine mystique," Beckett murmurs, in a mock-swooning of a tone. "Just what I always wanted."

Despite her teasing, she does appreciate that not everything about her has made its way into the character of Nikki Heat, though there are some lines and small details that, in her reading, made her wonder just how closely Castle has been paying attention to her these past few months.

"I'd say you've peeled yourself a good amount of layers."

[bestsellingego.livejournal.com]

"Oh, I think I've barely scratched the surface." The radiance of his expression is a not-so-subtle indicator that he's on the hunt for more, and not just out of a need to satisfy his wordcount.

The back-and-forth (along with the wine) is doing a good job of alleviating some of the tension Castle had been feeling earlier. Beckett's more than a good cop and a fount of literary inspiration: she's a great conversationalist, boundless in her ability to surprise and delight. He finds himself wondering if she's always this playful on all of her dates, or if it's a habit from seeing him through the workday all the time.

"You ever end up going out with that fireman again?" It's apropos of nothing, except his curiosity. His date with #3 had not seen a repeat performance. There's a note to his voice that suggests he'd be happy if she'd experienced a similar lull in her social calendar.

[fanofthegenre]

It might be the wine, or the fact that conversation is coming relatively easily, but Beckett's certainly not feeling the pressure to fill any kind of awkward silence with work-related topics, the way she inevitably winds up doing on any kind of date with someone who isn't finding themselves surrounded with murder on a day-to-day basis.

Maybe that's why this works, she thinks to herself. Castle's probably one of the few people she can have dinner with, talk about the job, and know that he won't be disgusted or turned-off by any particularly gory details. If anything, he'd be intrigued.

"No," she says, somewhat quickly. "I don't think he appreciated being on the receiving end of our bank robber dilemma. And, as it turned out, he was only searching to get into my pants by the end of the night."

[bestsellingego.livejournal.com]

"Or maybe he was just eager to show you how fast he could change out of his." Firehouse humour. One step above lawyer jokes. "Anyway, if he can't appreciate the genius behind a plot to smuggle diamonds into the country in the bellies of black-tailed pythons, then," he spreads his palms, "he doesn't deserve a second chance."

The case had been one of the stranger one's they'd worked on together and, honestly, one of the most exciting. Although he's not omitting the designer-knockoff-shoot-'em-up from the list, nor the time he got to wheel her around a dance floor in pursuit of a gang of jewel thieves. If he thought about it, Castle'd seen more action in the last few months of working with her than anything that his wildest imagination could have come up with. Truth is stranger than fiction -- especially when you're combing glass shards out of your hair.

And, as if to supplement her bad luck: "I don't think I'll be seeing 'Mz. Most Eligible' again, either. I think she was pretty put off that I was more interested in solving the case than I was choosing the wine."

[fanofthegenre]

"Either way, it wasn't going to be presented as an option to him, that's for sure. Even if he wasn't bad in the looks department, there's really no point if there's nothing up here." She brushes the pad of her index finger along her own temple and then lets her hand rest casually on top of the fine tablecloth.

It's not just action-filled cases, either. Beckett can list on both hands the number of times she and Castle have saved each other from what would've likely been a grisly fate without the other there; he'd tackled her to the ground to spare her from flying bullets, she'd crushed the wrist of said jewel thief with her boot so Castle wouldn't wind up on the bad end of a gun. For as many times as she's told Captain Montgomery that she couldn't have done it without Castle, there are about twice that number of moments where it's paid to have a second pair of eyes watching her back.

"Don't worry. From what I could tell, you weren't really missing out on that much when you decided to leave the restaurant," Beckett adds, teeth tugging on her lower lip to mask a grin.