He brought her food.
A week previous, she would not have been surprised at flowers, jewelery or a silly bobble-head doll. Sincere trinkets buried beneath a veneer of the juvenile.
A week previous, she would have bought the veneer and missed the depth behind it.
However seven days can change a lifetime, or at the very least a hard-grained impression, and she realized that frivolous as he may choose to appear, Rick Castle understood her. And not just the idea of her, the nebulous Nikki Heat pressed into the novel of his mind. That was more smoke and mirrors and carefully planned fiction. No, he understood her.
So he brough her food, her favorites, and lined them out on her desk as humble peace offerings and apologies in varying take-out boxes.
A picnic in the precinct he'd said, their hands brushing as they both reached for the sushi at the same time. He blinked, she faltered, and their fingertips collided again, this time with more purpose.
For all his bluster, it was usually Beckett who called the bluff and she grinned, pulling the sushi out of his grasp.
***
She forgave him, though he felt he didn't deserve it. She did not ask much of him, not really. Be quiet, stay in the car, don't touch my stuff...help me. Don't get yourself killed.
Don't make me do this alone.
He'd very nearly done just that, all of the above.
And he would also have to remember the look in her eyes as she weighed the importance of her history against his future, know her determination to save them both.
And so he'd brought her food.
That's what people did in the wake of tragedy; feed the sorrow. His guilt was genuine, his grief incredibly raw.
And somewhere in the mix was his desire to take care of her, in one of the few ways she would allow.
Hot dogs and thai and sushi. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.
The press of her palm against his arm as the rode the elevator to the parking deck was warm, steadying.
She wouldn't allow him to run.
The heady scent of her perfume with undertones of something metallic. Blood, gunpowder, the last vetiges of her resolve. She rocked forward on her toes, her lips curled into a tenuous smile, only the vaguest of tremor revealing the cracks of the day.
"Drive you home?" She tilted her head in the directon of her car, the gray-gold flecks in her eyes promising...something. Asking, as well.
She wouldn't allow him to run.
And he was OK with that.
Besides, there was cheesecake for dessert.