He's written hundreds of flowing speeches and yet the first thing out of his mouth is "I'm sorry."
What happened to gravitas? To poignant and tension-filled silence?
"What I did was wrong. I violated your trust. I poked into old wounds and I did not respect your wishes."
He really should have rehearsed this before coming here, but he'd been so sure that this would work that he'd rushed from home without a second thought. His jacket doesn't even really match his pants. Focus.
"And if we're not going to see each other again then you deserve to know."
Maybe she deserved to know, but he wasn't about to lie to himself—he desperately needed her to know.
"I'm very, very sorry."
Oh, Pulitzer worthy stuff there. If he submitted this sort of crap to Gina she would laugh in his face and throw it out.
But it doesn't appear as if she's going to say anything, so he turns and walks away. This is a situation with which he is very familiar; the protagonist walks away, only to stop and turn at heroine's desperate pleas…
He has always, without fail, thought that it was the most contrived part, even more so than extemporaneous yet pitch-perfect monologues on personal responsibility and mortal suffering with a tinge of self-reevaluation. He's never really understood it, never been able to get into Derrick's skin as it happened—
"Castle. See you tomorrow."
And he's turning around, suddenly understanding as a rush of pure, sweet relief washes over him. Beckett is smiling, faintly, and he knows this is as close to a forgiveness as he's going to get.
