Close Encounters 4: Diamonds Are Forever

(let's be honest here) story by: cartographical

written by: chezchuckles

When he stepped off the bus at the Palace of Versailles, Beckett was with him. As a couple on a European whirlwind tour, they looked the part - casual clothes, backpacks, Kate in her Ray Bans and her hair pulled back into a bun.

He'd realized early on in this first mission that Beckett was a hard person to hide. She was naturally alluring, and she almost invited a stranger's gaze. Castle had to keep reminding himself that no, that man wasn't from a rival agency - he was just stunned by the way the light hit Kate's dark hair and shimmered. And no, that woman wasn't following them; she was just struck by the flawless skin and perfect combination of stylish and shabby in Kate's wardrobe.

He'd had to adjust to the way the world watched her, wanted her.

"Mm, fascinating," she said in his ear, her lips a breath away from his skin. Castle turned and smiled at her, gathered her hand.

"What is?"

"Don't know. Aren't I supposed to make small talk? Provide your cover?" she murmured with a lift of her lips.

"You do a terrible job of providing me cover," he said - a joke he'd often repeated. Because it was true and it wasn't. Everyone was so busy looking at her, entranced by her, that Castle could get away with murder.

And he might have to. Despite this assignment supposedly being an easy one.

"Stop whining, you big bully," she said back. "You can't bring me down. I feel great. And I'm in Versailles. With you. Working - this is work. Versailles is work. Gorgeous."

"Yes, you are," he said softly, too softly, because she then heard how much he meant it, how utterly besotted with her he was.

She raised an eyebrow and shrugged her shoulders under her messenger bag - her one concession to being shot in May of this year. It was only November, and she was amazingly well recovered; she still couldn't carry much, so Castle had most of their possessions in his backpack.

"My contact's somewhere on the grounds of the garden," he said, trying to change the subject. He didn't want her to know what he had planned for this weekend when they went to Rome - couldn't let her know - and she might figure it out just by the stupid infatuation in his voice.

"Let's go then, super - ah. . ." She flushed under his gaze, shook her head. "Slipped out. You need a new nickname. One I can actually use."

He laughed at that and pushed his thumb up under the strap at her shoulder, checking again to be sure she really had it. Beckett was silent but reproachful as she watched him; he withdrew his hand and instead turned for the gardens at the Palace. He led them roundabout to the Orangerie - mostly because he wanted her to see everything and not just to keep it looking casual.

"All right, I'll stop whining," he promised. "You be thinking of a pet name."

"Did I say pet name? No. I did not. I said nickname. I do not do pet names."

"Yeah, baby, you do."

"Shut the hell up."

"Aw, sweetheart-"

"I hate you," she glared, bumping hips with him - hard. He had to take a few steps to right himself and she was still scowling, but there was just so much joy behind it.

The spy stuff would be different for her - he'd known it would be hard to adjust to, difficult to get a handle on. But she was actually very good; she said her stint in Vice helped. But not having the 12th at her back was the real problem.

He'd wanted to ease her into his world, have her come slowly. Black only had contact with Castle - not with Beckett - and this mission was a cake walk.

Should be, anyway. If his contact would just show up-

And right at that moment, he spotted the man from a yard away - red umbrella, navy winter coat, briefcase-

Face drawn up in a rictus of agony.

Castle's heart pounded and he clutched Beckett's hand tighter, walked smoothly past the man he was supposed to be sitting down to meet on that very same park bench where the man was now dying.

"Rick," she murmured, her eyes darting to his. She could tell; she'd spotted him too.

He shook his head, kept his face clear, effortless, mindless really. She followed his lead but he felt the slick sweat of anticipation in her grip.

From behind them, a woman in the crowd gasped and called out for help, her French stilted and not-native - probably a tourist.

Kate gripped his hand harder.

"Turn to look," he murmured, glancing back over his shoulder just like everyone else had around them. "Kate. Turn to-"

She did, and he saw the grim understanding in her eyes.

"That was our contact," she muttered under her breath.

He sighed. He thought for sure this would be an easy mission - meet the informant, get the information, move on.

Nothing was ever easy with Kate Beckett.

"Superman?" he said.

Beckett caressed the edge of her buttery soft leather satchel as she settled it in her lap, hummed in pleasure as she finally lifted her face to his. His brief kiss wasn't entirely for show, and she felt the way he adored her, the nuzzle of his nose into hers. It helped ease the ragged edge of her need to do, solve - investigate.

"In your dreams," she breathed. She was not calling him superman.

"Look at me," he laughed. "My dreams come true."

"Posing in the Palace Gardens as a happily married couple with your girlfriend who isn't allowed to go back to the NYPD because she was shot by a senator is a dream come true?"

"Uh. Parts?"

She rolled her eyes but found her act unconvincing, even to herself.

His contact was dead.

"Are you going to make a play for that briefcase?" she murmured, scraping her teeth at his jaw. They were sitting on the lip of the reflecting pool a few hedges over from the Orangerie where the man in the navy coat and red umbrella had died, the paramedics now gone. Their contact had managed to drop his briefcase at the designated spot before his death had occurred. When he'd been taken to the hospital, most likely dead, the kind-hearted strangers who'd rushed to his aid hadn't noticed the briefcase. It still sat pushed half into a hedge behind the park bench, tantalizing.

Other tourists had gone back to their strolls, a few natives were bundled up and enjoying the gardens as well, but she and Castle had stuck around to see what happened next. It wouldn't be a good idea to go running if the CIA contact's killer was nearby watching.

Beckett wasn't stupid; she was used to the shadowed world of informants and organized crime - spying was't much different.

Castle's fingers came to her knee and played there, stroking, and she knew he was thinking, formulating a plan. Yesterday in Paris when he'd set up this meeting, he'd had the same abstracted look on his face, had played with her hair as she sat in the window. He'd made one phone call, a brief message that she assumed now had been code for Palace Gardens, 12:00 noon, tomorrow.

"I don't think you should get it just yet," she murmured finally, lifted her fingers to his jaw to reclaim a portion of his attention. "At your five is a man who has been particularly out of place for the last hour, and I noticed him near our guy. Just beyond the reflecting pool is a couple who didn't turn to look when it happened, and they've stuck around as well-"

He grunted and she received a hot, fierce kiss that did something to warm up her cold lips, her stinging nose. She curled her hand at his neck and hung on for the ride, sucking on his tongue when he tried to leave.

He shivered hard and she let him go.

"You're right," he growled finally. "Plus two more. A woman who's been circling like a vulture and-"

"And another woman who has actually been following us," she said finally. "Though it's possible she's enchanted by my ruggedly handsome super-"

His eyebrow lifted.

"Superman," she sighed, couldn't help the twitch of her lips as she gave in and said it.

"Uh-huh, that's what I'm talking about, baby."

"You baby me one more time and I'll be your kryptonite."

His smile curled wide, that seductive hint at the edges, and she ignored it. She did. She was ignoring the heat in her belly too, and the still-stroking fingers at her knee, and the way his voice dipped lower to speak her name.

"Kate. Love."

Ignoring it. Totally.

"I won't be able to snag the briefcase. But."

She sucked in a breath and glanced at him, intrigued by the plan hatching in his eyes.

"But?"

"If you create a diversion, I might be able to sneak a look inside - perhaps even steal the contents."

"A diversion?"

"Get to it, sweetheart."

Oh, wow. This woman was good.

Very good.

She was a natural at the spy game.

Castle left her to her little act - the flighty and giggling enchantment of a woman that could not possibly be Detective Kate Beckett - and he slipped towards the park bench at the Palace of Versailles, aiming for that briefcase. Their likely suspects were all back by the reflecting pool, in various stages of amusement and interest as Beckett made something of a fool of herself for an artist sketching her.

Castle would have to find a way to get that sketch when they were through.

Of course, the Orangerie was filled with tourists and visitors, and he quickly took the stairs down. He could feel the cold in his lungs, and he jogged as fast as he dared towards the orange garden, needing to be casual but also pressed for time. When he got to the lower level, the park bench wasn't quite deserted, but Castle sat at the far edge with his coat loose around him, hunched his shoulders as he leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. The briefcase was right there and he took one last look around before snagging it.

It was locked, but he worked the thin blade of his knife into the leather behind the mechanism, as quickly as he dared, until the clasp popped free. Castle did the other side and then opened the briefcase, still at his feet, with a swift hand.

Shit.

File folders.

Surely not. The informant couldn't really have brought him file folders to a meeting like this. Beyond stupid to take actual information out of the consulate. Damn stupid-

Ah, yes. Much better.

Castle's fingers had been testing the briefcase's pockets, looking for a hiding place, and then he'd found it. A flash drive in a hidden compartment near the pen holder. Perfect. He palmed the drive, closed the briefcase, shoved it back towards the hedge, and swiftly left the area.

When he made it back to the commotion surrounding Beckett, he made sure to tuck the flash drive into the hidden pocket of his belt - not fancy, not James Bond-worthy, but it would do for now. He stayed at the edges of the crowd, began to slowly, easily work his way up again.

He let the drama go on, Kate goofing off for the sketch artist who was laughing and flirting with her, and he watched as she stood on her tiptoes at the lip of the relfecting pool, her coat open to reveal the deep emerald of her sweater, the narrow hug of her waist. A photographer was calling out to her - tourist or professional, Castle had no idea - and she received instructions in French, clearly understanding only a handful of words.

He waited until she spotted him, impressed by her flawless performance even when she knew the act was no longer necessary, and he stepped up next to the sketch artist as the man finished with a flourish.

"Combien?" he asked, gesturing towards the sketch and then to glancing up to Kate with a smile. She was giving him an elaborate and wide smile, tossing her hair with a hand as she stepped back down to the ground.

"Pour elle, c'est gratuit." The sketch artist bowed and handed him the drawing with a performance of his own, and the little crowd that had gathered to watch were applauding. Castle bowed back and saw the couple they'd been keeping their eyes on had drifted away, either satisfied with the performance or not spies at all.

Hard to say.

Kate joined him before the artist; Castle could see her flushing pink and pretty in the late afternoon light.

"Merci, merci," she was murmuring, allowing the kisses to her cheeks, clasping arms with the artist like they were old friends.

The photographer worried him, but the man had wormed his way into their circle with his camera, showing Kate the images he'd taken. Most were close-ups not of Kate's face, but of the smooth line of her arm blurred by the man's focus on the Palace in the background or the fall of her hair over the reflecting pool.

In fact, as Kate politely admired the man's work, Castle realized not a single photo was of her face. Which was a crime, really, since she was so very gorgeous, but the photographer was an artiste, he was into the postmoderne movement, he said.

Magnifique.

Kate turned back for her bag and slung it over her shoulder, laughing with the artist and the photographer as they all tried to find some common words. Castle kept the sketch in his fingers and Kate lifted the flap of her messenger bag, carefully helped him guide it inside to keep it from getting bent. Her fingers were chilled, her nose and cheeks were red, but she was grinning.

He felt her grip on his elbow in subtle get me out of here, and he gently eased them both away from the crowd, calling back merci and hoping to find their path back to the bus.

When they'd managed to put some distance between themselves and the little show still going on back there - the sketch artist was calling for a new model, teasing a blonde woman in crowd of onlookers - Kate leaned her head against his shoulder and gave a long breath of laughter.

"Wow."

He grinned and kissed her temple. "You most definitely are."

"Did you-?"

"Something. Not sure what it is yet. But thank you. You were perfect."

She lifted her chin and met his eyes as if expecting him to be joking, but he wasn't. At all. She was perfect.

Kate pushed up on her toes and kissed him quickly, reached up to rub chapstick from his lips.

"That was exhilarating."

"You're quite good at it. I've never seen you so. . ."

"Stupid?"

"Free," he said, shrugging his shoulders.

So beautifully uninhibited.

His amusement was no longer endearing. She rolled her eyes at that smirk twisting his lips and elbowed him in the ribs as the bus jolted back to Paris.

He oofed and snagged her elbow, guided her to lean back against him. She wriggled into his side, then finally gave it up and let him manhandle her where he wanted her to go.

He was getting entirely too attached to their cover.

She lifted her lips to his jaw and spoke through the soft kiss she gave him. "When we get home, the touching - this constant touching, Castle - that's the first thing to go."

"I know," he murmured, tripping his fingers along her sweater at her ribs. "That's why I'm getting it in while I still can."

She shook her head softly against him, her nose brushing his ear. "I hate you."

"I know you do, Beckett."

"You gonna show me what you got?"

"When we're back," he murmured, his eyes narrowing as he spoke. She knew there were all these unwritten rules that Castle had, rules he didn't consciously know he had until a situation like this came up. Apparently, no talking about what we just did was one of them. Did he think their bus mates would notice? Did he think they were always being watched?

Or did he not want to jinx things?

She couldn't be sure. But she quit asking about whatever it was he'd found, trusted that he'd tell her, show her, when the time was right.

So she let herself lean into his side and watched the scenery go by the bus window.

It bothered her to not be investigating the man's death. Her mind flipped over the details one by one, establishing the kill zone and time of death and the narrow window of opportunity. She itched to create a timeline, plan it out. Leaving the scene of the crime, not even looking it over let alone interview witnesses - hardest thing she'd ever done.

Not her job though.

In fact, Castle hustled her upstairs to their walk-up before she could even pause to look at the Jardin du Luxembourg right outside.

Sigh.

Being a spy wasn't always that fun. She wanted to roam around Paris and find out-of-the-way places to jump him, her legs around his waist and his back to the brick wall of some crumbling old edifice, an alley with a moped, the helment dangling from the handlebars, a girl selling flowers just around the corner.

Something romantic.

She was a cop though. She understood it wasn't meant to be.

Didn't mean she couldn't jump him in their tiny one-bedroom apartment.

Business first though.

She pulled the bag off her shoulder and dropped it in the entryway, toed off her shoes as she unbuttoned her coat. Castle had already slipped his off and draped it over a kitchen bar stool, and now he came to her with a grin flickering at his lips, his hands to her waist and rucking up her sweater.

"Your skin is warm," he murmured, diving in to kiss her mouth.

She hummed into it, pushing her body closer, glad he'd had the same idea. His fingers stroked up her spine and danced at the scar, light and cool, easing, and she kissed him harder for it, stroked her tongue along his teeth and deeper. He growled and framed her ribs with his hands, pushed her against the wall.

She tucked her fingers at his belt.

Castle jerked at her touch, stepped back with his dark pupils rimmed blue, his breath coming in pants. He groaned and dislodged her fingers from his belt.

Work, first? Really? Damn.

And then he unbuckled his belt himself, worked his fingers at the leather strangely. She hadn't realized it was so complicated, just a damn belt, Castle-

A flash drive popped free of some kind of hidden pocket and she gaped up at him. He gave her a strangled smile, obviously disappointed, and she took over working at his belt, drew it through the loops and off.

"Later," he sighed.

"Or real quick?" she murmured, lifting an eyebrow and going back for his pants.

He swayed, one hand gripping the flash drive, and then he pressed her back against the wall with a muttered curse. Kate grinned and rolled her hips into him, nipped at his jaw, his lip, until he started moving again.

"That was not real quick," he muttered.

She hummed and curled her body around his, sprawled over his chest as his fingers circled up and down her back. He liked playing with her hair, arranging it over her shoulders, hiding the scar from the bullet wound, revealing it, framing it. She seemed content to let him touch, despite what she'd said on the bus, so he did.

But he pulled the flash drive from the night stand with his other hand, held it up to the dim light trickling in through the shutters. Her mouth was suddenly at his collarbone, and her teeth scraping, but she'd drawn a knee up in that position he knew meant she wanted to sleep.

"What do you think is on it?" she murmured.

"Not my place to know," he shrugged, palming it again. He shouldn't leave it lying around.

"Are you kidding me?" she chuckled.

"No. I just send it on to the next man."

"Who gets it?" She was sliding her arm around his waist, shifting over him, so he cupped the back of her knee to keep her there. "I mean. Do we travel to the next place and just. . .hand it over?"

"Yes. There's a man in Rome."

"Seriously?" she laughed, lifting her head to prop her chin on his chest. "Why don't we just take it back to the States with us?"

"Too dangerous."

She raised an eyebrow at him. "Rick Castle."

"What?"

"Are you. . .handling me?"

"What do you mean?"

"Are we skipping things that you'd normally have to do because I'm-"

"No," he assured her. "This is routine. The guy in Rome vetts the information and gets it to where it needs to go. It's not safe to take a flash drive in to CIA headquarters and just upload the contents."

She was still narrowing her eyes at him, so he squeezed her knee and rolled over her. She arched into him, almost involuntarily, and he kissed her softly, painting her lips.

"We should leave soon," he murmured.

She stroked her hands down and he dropped his forehead to her shoulder.

"Soon?" she laughed.

"Ish."