Rock, Paper, Scissors

By Rachel C. Astrid

Synopsis: A glimpse into the psychology of Caskett's game of Roshambo from episode 4x13. Castle said there are strategies to the game. What were his, and why did they fail him three times? What were Kate's? Each chapter stands alone.

Rated T for mild doses of language, just in case

A/N: Thanks to beladiola's review, I realized that so much of this story as I originally wrote it was concerned with Castle's perspective, so I actually just extracted the few Beckett Thoughts and used them in a whole Beckettized version in Ch. 2. (Same story retold.) Thanks for your input, beladiola!

Disclaimer: Andrew Marlowe created these wonderful characters and Rob Hanning wrote the script of 4x13, "An Embarrassment of Bitches," presumably including the dialogue of this scene. The actions and thoughts as described are in my words but based on the original direction and performance. I just wanted to get into the characters' heads for a bit to explore what may have gone unspoken between them.

Possible spoilers for 4x1 ("Rise"), 4x7 ("Cops and Robbers"), 4x10 ("Cuffed"), and of course 4x13 in this portion.

[ONE: CASTLE'S POV]

"I mean, I don't want you to feel lonely. . . ."

What was she doing? He had already conceded to her, albeit half-heartedly. But he saw his opportunity for a fair fight, and he took it.

"Well, I could flip you for it," he said, digging into a pocket for a coin.

"No Roshambo?"

Was she indignant, or just surprised?

"Well, I mean, that would put you at an unfair disadvantage." He flicked his head to the side with a shrug, like Elvis. "I'm pretty good at that g—"

Beckett was having none of that. "C'mon, Castle. Let's go." She uncrossed her arms and locked her eyes on him as they prepared to duel.

He warned her that there were strategies to the game, preparing her for his inevitable victory so she wouldn't take it too hard.

After all of his bizarre theories and notorious plot twists, surely Beckett would never suspect the writer to be so predictable and so trite as to choose paper.

Besides, Castle knew Beckett well enough to know that she was a rock, and that she made no effort to hide that indomitable part of her.

Unfortunately for Castle, her intuition was equally indomitable. It only dawned on him later how well Beckett knew his twisted logic about predictability. Beckett also knew that Castle knew that Beckett was a rock, so Beckett pulled scissors and beat the writer's trembling paper.

Wait, what?

He pursed his lips, and then he asked, "Two out of three?"

"Mm-hm." She offered him mercy, but only with an expression of utter complacency.

Meanwhile, Castle silently berated himself for having believed that Rock-Beckett would bare herself to him, and then he berated himself for every tantalizing direction in which that single thought led his vivid imagination.

She'll use paper, he thought fiercely. She would use his most famed weapon—aside from the pen and his rapier wit—against him.

As she stared strategically at his face, he focused on her hand. He grimaced when she kept it hardened into a fist and trumped his measly scissors.

He suppressed the instantaneous thought that she proffered this rock to him like a piece of herself, like an unexpected gift. Like she had bared herself to him after all.

He looked up. "Three out of five?"

"Sure," she replied nonchalantly, assuming the position.

Castle recalled that the pseudonymous 'Trapper John' had referred to Beckett as a hellcat. Not for the first time, the phrase rang true to him. In this case, it wasn't for the ferocity in her voice but in her smirk.

All this over who would have temporary custody of Pilar's dog! Castle told himself that really was all that this was about as he steadied his nerves, but his nerves knew the lie just as well as Beckett apparently knew Castle's tells.

Beckett's sheer confidence in her ability to outwit him frightened him, frustrated him, and turned him on. Determined not to dwell on that while under her scrutiny, however, he bore into her eyes in a last-ditch effort to psych her out.

Maybe she was going to follow up with paper, he thought; the only weapon she had not yet wielded. Or would she double back instead? To scissors? To rock?

Ever at the forefront of his mind was Kate's wall. When she described it to him months ago, he had imagined it as cinder block, brick, or stone—firm materials in their own right, yes, but he could never bring his imagination to design the barricade in anything stronger.

It was a thick, high wall with a sturdy foundation and no discernible weak areas; a wall that they would not be able to kick down with the soles of his shoes or her badass high-heeled boots. He had a feeling that there would be another tiger behind it, too. Or a hellcat.

The game, Castle. Focus.

He wished that he could use dynamite—in the game and in her metaphor—but since he couldn't do that, and since he was now too distracted by pheromones to think straight, he resorted to the same thing that he always did. He unleashed paper on her again: paper on which fantasies of her were not written in words, like in his books, but written instead in another subtle tremor of his fingers.

Screw Roshambo. Screw this game that brought her hand so torturously close without touching his. He wanted to reach out and hold her even more than he wanted to win that damned round.

But she had won, and her eyes twinkled in unsuspecting delight. He worried for a moment that she would sense the true reason for his discomfiture.

Beckett's scissor-spread fingers mimed a menacing cut in the air again, and lest she dare touch him in his vulnerable state, he yanked his flat hand away, wiping his face with it in defeat.

Beckett smiled wryly. "You know," she said, her offering of mercy once more deliciously superfluous, "there is another way that we can go about this. . . ."