He can hear her in the kitchen, messing around in the cupboards and pulling the mugs from their home. (Cabinet right above the stove. The one with the door that sometimes sticks if you don't pull it from the right angle.) He can't see her, but he knows her coffee making process well enough to estimate that he has a few minutes left before she comes back. Of course, she knows exactly what he's doing. She's perfectly aware that he's scanning her bookshelves, scrutinizing her taste in literature and at looking at every photo on display.
It's an unspoken agreement between them that he's allowed to snoop through anything that's in plain sight. She pretends not to notice, and he doesn't bring up any conclusions he might reach for a respectable amount of time. Usually she sends a snarky comment his way as she leaves the room, telling him to stay away from her stuff. She never means it. They both know that. But she always does, just to keep up appearances. Only this time she left in silence, no warnings or threats left her lips, the corners of which had been curiously making their way north.
"Here." He startles at the sound of her voice, a coffee mug suddenly thrust in his face. He puts down the magazine he'd been flipping through, taking a grateful sip of his coffee.
"Thanks. I have a feeling someone is going to keep me up all night if that's what it takes." He smirks and she reaches out to smack his chest, narrowing her eyes at him as his smirk only gets bigger.
"Yeah, well, you don't need to be here, Castle." He finds a finger in his face. "Come to think of it, how much time have you actually spent with your daughter lately? She leaves for college in a few weeks."
"Oh no," he reaches out and grasps her accusing finger with his own, lowering it and grinning at her raised eyebrow, "you're not going get rid of me, Katherine Beckett. Partners, remember?" She nods, not even trying to take her finger back.
"Partners." He thinks he sees something flicker behind her eyes, but it's gone before he can study it too closely. Something deeper. Something that's been buried so long it looks foreign. "I'll go get the case file. We can work on the couch." She turns and walks back to the kitchen where she left her bag, grumbling about how her so-called partner doesn't stick around when she is stuck with paperwork.
Setting his mug down on the coffee table, he swivels around and sets his sights on discovering something new about her before she returns. He looks at it like a game, a race against the clock to peel back another one of her layers before she catches him. He has a hunch that she wouldn't mind but it makes it more fun if he pretends that she would.
Instead of locating a quirky little figurine or an unconventional book, his eyes settle on something much darker. Heavier. He finds himself staring at her mother's murder board, still taking up too much space on her shutters and window. He's suddenly hit with how appropriate it is, the placing of the one case that refuses to leave her alone. Blocking off the window, preventing the light from shining through. How very, very appropriate.
Only now he notices more light leaking into the apartment, bare spots that were once covered by theories and clues and evidence and anything that could possibly have a connection to that night. Some of his own notes are gone, the ones he added after they started working it again. Together. Partners. That had been their compromise that night, the night he told her about all he'd been hiding.
She wanted him to stop; he wanted to keep her safe. He knew she'd keep investigating it on her own, he knew there was no way she'd leave it alone. Not when he could see the look in her eyes, however dim it was in the room. She looked hungry. The embers of her need to know crackling as they ignited after so long, a need that could only be sated by answers. And so they compromised. They were in this together up until the end.
The meat of the case is still hanging on the wall, but the little notes they'd made, all of those new yet small advances they'd discovered, the knowledge they'd strived for in the past few months – all of it was gone. He thinks that maybe she's moving it. She's hanging it up in a less conspicuous place where guests can't possibly find it. Where people she doesn't trust can't accidently come upon it. Yeah, maybe that's it.
"So I was thinking, who directly benefits from Andrea's death? Her husband. If they got divorced, then he got nothing. But if he kills her, he suddenly comes into a whole bunch of money. Certainly enough to get himself out of trouble." He turns around and sees her setting stuff down on the coffee table, pushing his mug out of the way to make room for a stack of papers. He backtracks, tries to replay what she just said in his head. He was too busy prying into her personal life. Too busy putting her in the line of fire by helping her solve something that almost got her killed.
"But everyone said that they were happy, completely in love. What about Wolfsheim? He could've killed her to send a message to Charlie, to show that nobody messes around with him and dodges consequences. He certainly has the means, and everyone knows he has nothing against a little collateral damage where money is involved." He feels the rush taking over, the excitement of building theory consuming him.
He plops down next to her on the couch, maybe a little closer than he should be but she doesn't seem to notice. Or if she does, it doesn't look like she cares. She's just as far gone as he is, surrendering to the pull of new information and theories to dissect.
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"Ugh," he rolls his neck and hears a satisfying crack, "maybe we should take a break." He looks over at her as she raises her arms above her head, bending backwards a little in order to stretch. They've both been in the same hunched over position for far too long. Plus, he's starving.
"Time to find some dinner?" She asks just as her own stomach growls, voicing its approval of that idea. He laughs and stands, holding out a hand for her before he can think about it. To his surprise, she takes it. She let him help her up. Wow.
"It's decided then. Let's get some food in your stomach before there's a mutiny." He turns and heads for her kitchen, slowing for a moment when he realizes he's tugging her along behind himself. He's still holding her hand. They've been holding hands and he didn't even notice? He's really got to straighten out his priorities. She must feel him slow and realize just after he does because she quickly snatches her hand from his grasp. But he knows it happened. He can feel the lingering warmth from her fingers curled around his own and sees the blush creeping up her neck and onto her cheeks. He'll let it slide. For now. "So what are we eating?"
"And by that do you mean 'Beckett, what pathetic mish mash of questionably edible things do you have in your fridge?'" She crosses her arms and lifts an eyebrow but he sees the smile in her eyes, the way the sides crinkle as she suppresses a betrayal from her lips.
"Yeah, that pretty much sums it up." He nods and smiles at her, moving past her to open her fridge. When he sees the inside, he gasps. "Beckett, you actually have food!"
"Castle," she rolls her eyes at him before pushing him out of the way to start gathering ingredients, "I know you like to cling to the false belief that I live out of a takeout bag but I do actually cook when I have the time."
"So I'm assuming that miracle occurs about once a year?" He teases and expects an eye roll or a shake of her head as a reward for his efforts, but instead she does something completely un-Beckett, so unlike the detective he's come to know over the years. She sticks her tongue out at him. And, even more than that, she does it like it's nothing, going back to piling ingredients in a bowl as if nothing had happened. "Di–did you just stick your tongue out at me?"
"Yeah." She looks over at him and shrugs, seemingly not understanding why he's staring at her with what is probably a dumbfounded look on his face. After a few moments of her sneaking slightly concerned glances at him, his face breaks into a grin that he has absolutely no hope of controlling. Kate Beckett just acted like a carefree child. How often does that happen?
"You stuck your tongue out at me. Never thought I'd see the day." For that, he does get an eye roll before she resumes cutting up what looks to be chicken. "What are you making? And will it actually be edible?"
"I'm making stir fry. And yes, it will be edible, you jackass." She reaches across the kitchen island and punches his arm. He pouts for a moment, rubbing his injured arm.
"Wiseass not jackass. It's an important distinction." It is. He doesn't need her associating the word jackass with him. Not if he plans to get by those walls. Especially not if he plans to help break them down.
"Oh, yes. Forgive me, Master Wordsmith." She's being sarcastic. He knows that. Doesn't make the fact that she called him a wordsmith any less awesome.
"I'm going to ignore that and instead tell you that whatever you're making certainly smells edible." He reaches into the pan and plucks a piece of chicken from the mixture, popping it into his mouth before frantically waving his hand in front of it. Hot. Hot. Crap, that's hot.
"I'm going to take that as a compliment. But you still deserve what is probably going to be a burnt tongue." He frowns at her as he chews, feeling his tongue start to tingle. Damn. "Done. Can you get me some plates?" He grabs the plates from their designated spot and sets them down on the counter, pulling out two glasses as well and filling them with water. She plates their food, rummaging through a drawer before holding two forks up triumphantly. "Dig in, wiseass."
He narrows his eyes at her for a moment before shoveling the food into his mouth. He didn't realize how hungry he was. But judging by the pace Beckett has set, she didn't either. "Wow, this is really good!"
"See?" She stops eating for a moment to shoot him a saucy grin. "I can actually cook."
"You've been holding out on me, Detective." He raises his fork and points it at her, waving it around as food dangles from it.
"Had to make sure you were gonna stick around before I gave up my well-kept secrets, Castle." She says it like a joke, like she's just teasing him. But he can feel the undercurrent.
"Well, I'm glad you've figured it out then." She furrows her brow and he elaborates. "That I'm definitely sticking around." He sees realization dawn on her face as she grins, an expression that probably matches his own.
"Me too."
