He had brought her coffee hundreds of times. But this time was different.
Typically, he had handed her a cup while standing at her desk in the 12th precinct, where she wore a badge and a gun. Here, she only had on his bathrobe. His head was still spinning. He thought he had known everything there is to know about her. But now he knew so much more. Where her tattoo was. What her scar looks like in the moonlight. How she looks in the morning without makeup.
She was a homicide detective. He was a writer. Four years ago, she had brought him in for questioning on a murder that resembled something he had written in a book. His alibi quickly checked out, but he was fascinated by her. He had volunteered his services to consult with the police department to be around her more. There turned out to be two more killings straight out of the pages of his books, and he had been instrumental in cracking the cases.
Their meeting came at a good time for him, as he was looking for new inspiration. He became her tag-along, doing research for the gritty crime novels that he was so famous for.
Their first meeting came at a bad time for her. At first, she didn't like the idea of a civilian riding shotgun as she broke down doors looking for New York City's murderers. Especially one as annoying as him. But as the years went on, she began to enjoy his company, trust his hunches, and wonder what it would be like if she was more than just his muse. Now, she didn't have to wonder.
They had stayed up late that night. Sometimes talking. Other times… not. She had only felt relaxed enough to fall asleep enveloped in his arms. He took longer to fall asleep, replaying the events of the day in his head as he inhaled the scent of her damp hair. He knew their lives wouldn't be the same again, and he was excited about that.
She slept in, her body still recovering from the exhaustion of the last few days. She had nearly been killed, for the second time in a year, by a mysterious former soldier trying to silence her.
Apparently, she had dug too deep into the mystery of the case that gave her the drive to be a detective, the 1999 homicide of her mother. It was a case she swore she'd never open again, before he came into her life. Wanting to help her find closure, he had poked around enough to find new leads.
During their time together, they had chased those new leads. Every time they felt they were getting closer, they just discovered another level of a vast conspiracy.
So many people involved with the case had already been killed. She almost became its latest casualty less than 24 hours previous. But in those emotional moments, the decision to stop pursuing the case became evident to her. Difficult as it was, she had to come to terms with the idea that she wasn't betraying her mother's memory, but instead shifting her focus to the future. A future that now included a much more of him.
He had been too excited to sleep late. He had been wondering how this moment would feel like for four years. With his daughter sleeping over at a friend's, following her high school graduation, and his Mother off in the Hamptons celebrating… whatever, he had the entire apartment to himself. And he was determined to make the most of it.
As a single father, he had developed culinary talent. Breakfast was his specialty, and he enjoyed showing off for her, especially when the only acknowledgement he got was an eye roll. Every few weeks he had added some cinnamon to her coffee in the morning, and remembered the smile she flashed after recognizing the taste. Cinnamon pancakes may be a good option. Plus, he hadn't eaten anything since the previous morning.
He had hoped to finish everything and bring it to her, but in his excitement, he dropped a pan on the floor halfway through, waking her up. She came to the kitchen in his bathrobe to watch him and talk with him as he finished.
But now breakfast was over. After a shower, she curled up in a chair near the window, staring out into the vast urban landscape of New York City. Her lean calves were exposed to the morning sun, and she played with the ends of her still damp hair as he walked over. His hair was just as wet, eyes making contact with hers. He handed her a fresh mug of coffee. She smiled at him as their fingers touched when she took the mug. He smiled at her as he sat down across from her. They had said so much over the past four years, there wasn't much left to say. In silence they sat, smiling at each other, engaging in back and forth laughter every few minutes. Nothing could shatter the perfect silence.
Except the sound of a sudden pounding on the door.
He looked at her in confusion. Who could that be? He wondered.
She looked at him in panic. It was less than 24 hours ago she had nearly been killed. Could this be the mysterious man set to finish the job?
He spoke first. "Who is it?" he shouted at the door, with a curious inflection, almost asking if that was the right thing to say.
A voice on the other side of the door shouted back. "Castle… open up. It's Javy."
He was relieved, but she was still panicked. She set her mug down on the coffee table and got up. "I can't talk to Esposito just yet." She whispered to him. "I shouldn't… I mean… I… I… You have to get rid of him." With that, she went to go hide.
He composed himself for a moment. "Coming!" he shouted back at the door. As a writer, he was rarely at a loss for words, but this was going to be an interesting conversation.
