Chapter Text
It finally seems to be over. It's been weeks. Long weeks with some definite downsides. Every day he's been in a little extra fear for his life. Every day he's taken a little extra care to keep her caffeinated and keep his head down. But now things are winding down for sure.
Her desk is pretty much clear these days, and when a gift bag or wrapped box mysteriously appears, it's almost become its own thing. One-upmanship when somebody finds a baby thing that's spectacularly ugly or useless or inappropriate, and the name Heliotrope has all but faded from memory. It's for the best. Even if he's a little wistful, it's almost certainly for the best.
And she took the flowers home. It's a good bet that she has, anyway, and the idea of a like-it-or-not daily reminder tickles him. The fact that he's wormed his way into that part of her life in some small way. And just the fact of it. That she accepted something from him at all. It makes him smile.
He doesn't know about the other thing. The tiny sweater and hat. The sentimental note he dashed off on a whim and half expected her to hunt him down and kill him for. He doesn't know what became of that, and he can't exactly ask. In quiet moments when it feels like they've turned some kind of strange corner in the midst of all this, he has to remind himself that he definitely cannot ask. He has to remind himself it's a good thing it's finally over.
He's doing just that, first thing one morning. He's taking a second by the elevator, tamping down the out-of-place disappointment at the sight of her empty desk, when all of a sudden, out of nowhere, she's there. She's jerking him by the collar into a hallway he swears he's never seen before.
He's struggling to remind himself that it's over—that it was a spur-of-the-moment piece of nonsense in the first place—when she's shoving him against the wall hard. She's putting her body into it. Her whole body, and a tiny, stupid part of his brain thinks she's finally seen the light. And if a previously undiscovered stealth hallway isn't where envisioned launching Operation Heliotrope, he can work with it. He can definitely work with it.
"Have you seen this?"
She shoves something in his face. It rustles. Smells familiar, but off somehow.
"No?" He proceeds cautiously. He doesn't mention the fact that she's literally holding it under his nose, so there's no possible way he could actually see it, even now. "May . . . um . . . may I?"
He's worried for a second that reaching for the thing—newspaper?—is going to lose him a finger. At least a finger, but she abruptly turns away, pacing the short hallway and obviously looking for something to do violence to. Determined not to be that something, he turns his attention to the item she's just pushed into his hands.
It is a newspaper. Page six of The Ledger, in fact, and at first he thinks it's old. He coughs and shifts on his feet, like he's looking for better light, but he's really hiding a smile. A tiny, stupid smile. It's the picture of them from the charity event—the Delgado case.
He loves it. The two of them, dressed to the nines, their heads bent together as they walk the red carpet. That would have been the way to start Operation Heliotrope. Not that there was an Operation Heliotrope then.
Not that there is one now, he reminds himself sternly, returning to the page. He's at a loss. She definitely doesn't love the photo. She didn't love anything about that whole scenario (except the dress, whispers the tiny, stupid part of his brain that fixates on it hanging in her closet, another successful incursion), but it's old news, right? He can't think why it would have her manhandling him and stalking from wall to wall like something caged.
He's about to ask. He's working up the courage when she slaps the paper with the back of her hand on one of her circuits.
"Read, Castle," she snaps, and then she's off again.
Read.
It's a pointless order at first. He can't. He has a sudden, sinking feeling and everything goes kind of fuzzy around the edges. The blurb—the caption hugging the picture—is wrong. Too long, and it's all above the fold. It's not old. It's new. It's bad. He reads out loud. He can't help himself.
"Three's Company? Author and only just recently eligible bachelor Richard Castle and brand new gal pal Katherine Beckett have let slip the news they're expecting their first child. Inside sources say it's a girl—and hint that the couple have already chosen a name and a tony Upper West Side nursery school. No word on whether the parents to be plan to make their own relationship official before the new — " He breaks off, crushing the paper in his fist. "This is outrageous!"
"Can you believe it?" She spins on her heel, twin blotches of rage on her cheeks and her eyes sparking green.
"It's . . . that snotty dig at the end!" He smoothes the offending paper out again. "Make it official . . .as if we wouldn't . . . as if I'm some sort of . . ."
"What?"
She stops pacing as abruptly as she started. He tastes danger in the air. There's a slow, sudden, grinding noise that might be imaginary. It might be his brain—the not tiny stupid part—trying to tell him something important. About his outrage and hers and the fact that they might be focusing on very different things. About the fact that that there was no announcement, because there is no little Heliotrope on the way, and he has to fight past the same nonsensical let down he's felt every morning as the gifts have tapered off.
"It's fake!" He hears himself say it before he's even caught up, his mouth running well ahead of both parts of his brain, and that can't be good. He snaps the paper taut, holding it up between them. The effect is a little too much like toreador's cape, especially when her nostrils flare, but he blunders on, talking fast and praying she forgets his previous outburst. "Look!" He stabs at the header. "April 31st. No such date. And everything repeats except the announcement. Nonsense filler." He lifts the whole thing to his nose. "It's a fake paper. That's why the newsprint smells wrong!"
She folds her arms, looking at him like he's a moron. "Of course it's fake."
"Well thanks for the heart attack! You couldn't have told me that from the start?" he snaps.
It's the wrong move. Absolutely wrong, because she's still furious. She's advances on him, misstep away from doing violence, but it's fake and she knew and she could have just told him, and what is even her problem anyway if she knows it's fake? Why is she . . .
"Ryan and Esposito," he blurts. "This is them." He rattles the paper. "This is payback for the save-the-date cards. And the shower decorations. And the multiple wedding registries . . ."
"Not payback," she cuts him off before he's even half done. It's been an . . . active couple of weeks at the twelfth. "War, Castle." She looks him up and down, blazing. Terrifying. "You in?"
He's in. Oh, is he ever in.