Beckett tries to ignore the fact that Castle isn't with her this time; that he's off solving a case with another detective.

That works for awhile, until it just doesn't anymore, because she can't ignore him when he's bloody and shaking and toting around a damn gun. She wants to tell him that he is so, so stupid for choosing Slaughter out of all the detectives in New York City, but instead it comes out as you're a writer, not a cop.

Something behind his blue eyes snaps shut when she says those words, and he almost spits out his retort.

"I can take care of myself."

Beckett stares back at him, brows knitted together, and she wonders when everything began to go so wrong. (She has some idea of when, but the whycontinues to baffle her.) Frustration catches in the back of her throat, and she suddenly remembers the flash of red and blue lights in a chlorinated pool, and Castle tied to a chair, not dead even though he should have been.

She itches to grab his hand and never let go.

But then Castle starts romanticizing Slaughter, and practically writing a novel about him (and that's not fair, because she is his muse), and something hot and dangerous coils itself in Beckett's chest, and then she really just wants to punch him instead.

There is nothing poetic about how Slaughter works; it's all blunt force and violence, and Beckett hopes that Castle figures that out before he's seriously injured or killed (and she's left behind with the broken pieces of her still healing heart grasped in her hands).

()()()()()()

Castle slumps down in his seat and stares across the table at Jacinda. In this moment, what he wants most is a milkshake and fries from Remy's, not the tiny, overpriced, French appetizer sitting in front of him. He can't bring himself to set foot in that restaurant though, because he hasn't been there since-

"How was your day, Richard? Catch any bad guys?"

(He wishes she'd call him Castle, he wishes she'd build theory with him, and he wishes he could love her half as much as he loves Beckett.)

He watches her for a moment, imagining her with brown hair, and he wants to tell her that he could have died today.

Jacinda smiles at him, waiting, and she's so fake that it makes Castle want to throw up.

"I need to go...over there," he says vaguely, gesturing towards the door, and he practically sprints out of the restaurant without a backward glance.

He's not sure where he's going, but he needs to get away from here, away from the woman who is so definitely notthe woman he wants her to be. The wind stings his cheeks, and it might be raining, but Castle can't tell because he's walking too fast, his jaw set and his hands buried in his coat pockets, fingers clenched around the soft fabric there.

He ends up outside the precinct, and when he stops and looks up at the familiar architecture, he can't help but smile to himself.

"Of course," he mutters, half amused, half frustrated, because why would he end up anywhere else?

His phone starts to ring then, and he wants to ignore it, because it could be Beckett, and he wants to show her that his life doesn't just revolve around murders and her. (He wants to hurt her a little bit too.)

"Hello?"

"Richard! Where on earth did you go?" Jacinda's voice is shrill over the phone, and Castle winces.

"Just out for a walk. I'll be back soon." The lie slips out too easily, and Castle doesn't even feel sorry about it.

"Oh, OK-"

Castle hangs up before she can finish her sentence.

He wishes he could be happy with Jacinda, he really does, but she doesn't smell like Beckett, she doesn't taste like Beckett, and Castle's not sure if that's what he wants anymore.