Kate eats slowly, trying not to notice how long and often Castle is staring at her. She takes her time, small bites, and tries to sit up straight in her seat; the dress leaves little room for forgiveness. Honestly, if she knew she was was going to be eating such amazing food, she'd have insisted on wearing something from her own closet. Something with a little give. Why has she let him talk her into this?

"You're going to have to take me back here when I'm wearing a tent," she mutters, giving him a glare.

Castle sputters on his sip of wine and raises an eyebrow at her.

She rewinds her last comment and blushes. Okay, fine, so she just basically admitted she planned on being with Castle sometime in the future. "Seriously, Castle. A girl can't eat when she's wrapped in cling wrap."

The carefully blank look that wipes over his face lets her know she's stepped past his boundaries, put pictures in his head he's got little control over. She smiles. Now who's blushing?

"I'll make a reservation tonight," he says, carefully watching her face.

Fine. She's not a coward. She meant it. "How long of a wait?"

His eyes shift to hers. "Six months."

"Six months?" She does some calculations. "You made us reservations six months ago?" What case was that? The magic shop? Oh.

He must see the fruit of her mental detective work on her face because he nods slightly. "The day after Gina and I broke up."

"Such confidence."

Castle shakes his head, pushing the food around on his plate. "Just hope." He raises his eyes to give her a self-deprecating grin. "And I figured if I couldn't wear you down after six months, maybe I didn't deserve you."

"What makes you think you deserve me now?"

He winces. "Touche, Detective." Immediately she wants to take it back, smooth the line that starts suddenly in his forehead, connects to nothing else. That line of hurt. The table is too wide between them; she has no way to bridge the distance. If she reaches out her hand, he can decide not to take it.

But she has other ways. Better ways.

She flicks her heel off, uncrosses her legs, and straightens one long leg. Kate slides her foot forward before she can change her mind, feels the cool fibers of the carpet, then the hard leather of his shoe, then the silk of his sock over the bone of his ankle. Castle looks shocked. She smiles again and lets her foot hook around the back of his leg, his achilles tendon tense across the top of her toes.

He blinks, hands flat on the table but twitching. She leaves her foot where it is; the table isn't that big after all, and her knee could practically brush his if she scooted forward. Kate goes back to her food, carefully keeping her head down, but watching him from the corner of her eye.

He takes a too-large swallow of wine and his face pinkens, but he doesn't go back to his food.

The last course, beef wellington, follows their lobster. She can't even touch it, though it looks good. She's never been a big beef person, and Castle is looking like he's got other things on his mind. She wonders if it would be wrong to abandon dinner now and head back to-

Is she seriously thinking about taking him home? No. Absolutely not.

"Don't like it?" he asks softly.

"Honestly, I don't know that I could eat anything else."

"What about dessert?"

She bites her lip and surveys the restaurant. "What is it?"

He grins. "Chocolate pistachio brownie with vanilla rum Bavarian cream."

"Can we skip straight to dessert?"

"Oh yeah," he replies, signaling their waiter. "Got room for it?"

"Just don't judge me if I'm busting out of this dress."

"That would be the last thing on my mind."

"Feel like walking off that dessert?" he asks, his fingers just brushing her elbow as they leave the restaurant. The night air is humid and sits comfortably close; she leaves her wrap over one arm and allows him to steer her down the sidewalk.

"Sure. Where are we going?"

"Nowhere?" He gives her a gentle smile, and she wonders how this evening went from being a challenge, a point of honor between them, to being a tenderness, a point of connection they can't or won't give up.

"Nowhere. All right."

She's feeling generous, touched actually. When Castle was settling the bill, Kate went back to the front doors to wait on him, curious about the peculiar pattern of patrons seated in the restaurant. The tables closest to them, five or so, were empty and reserved, but the place was packed with people otherwise. She found it strange that no one had come through their entire meal, so she asked the hostess.

Apparently all of those tables are reserved under the name Richard Castle. She can't imagine how he arranged that, but it's sweet. Sort of. He ensured their privacy throughout dinner.

Now on the sidewalk outside, Castle lets his hand skim down her arm to lace through her fingers. She swings his arm close to her side so that the back of his hand brushes her thigh, smiles at him. The eagerness has left his face, the need to please, and a kind of strange contentment veils his face. Or joy. It could be joy. She's not sure, but maybe it's what she feels too.

She steps beside him as they walk down the street, their hands heavy, arms touching, shoulders and hips brushing, but silent. She wants to not speak, just carry this around inside her for awhile, and he seems to understand. If she has to say anything right now, it will be self-conscious and hyper-aware, and she wants only to stretch out cautiously inside this place he's built for them. Making reservations six months ago. Reserving five tables so that they're alone. Buying her a dress. Creepy, a tad bit manipulative, so how come she likes it so much?

His thumb makes careful patterns on the back of her hand. The city isn't dark, but a darkness has shrouded them. A familiar darkness, a comforting darkness, 'the darkness of enfolding arms,' as the novel says. He's at her left side, warm and solid, a wall of Castle. She knows where this is headed, and even though she can't see the end, she's not sure that's such a bad thing anymore. She remembers her father, stoic and flinty at her mother's funeral. She remembers him saying, "I never thought I'd be here when it was over." As if he couldn't believe there was a place on the other side of their marriage.

She wonders if her father had this same feeling with her mom. Of things being both so carefully crafted, so delicate, but also so strong, so untouchable, that there's no way to fathom an end. Is this what it feels like? Panicked and certain at the same time, not wanting a single thing to change but desperate for it to be different somehow.

"Kate," he says hesitantly, turning his head to look at her.

She raises an eyebrow, inviting him to continue even though she wants the silence, the certainty, to last. She's afraid, sometimes, that the more he talks, the less she can imagine doing this. But his face is so earnest again, so eager to please. She likes it better when he's confident, but she can't say no to his desperation.

"Kate, I want to take you places," he says. She can feel his hand in hers, damp with nervousness. "I want to share things with you. When I get home, I want to call you and tell you everything that's happened in the thirty minutes I haven't seen you. I want. . .I want. . ."

She lets him struggle with the words, her head down, trying to quell the furious pace of her heart.

"I want to take you to the Greek islands and climb those steps up to the wide blue door with the potted red flowers so you can look out over the Mediterranean. I want to stand in the Coliseum with you after dark when you're not supposed to and break the curse. I want. . .I want to come back to this restaurant with you in six months, a year. I want to get you a puppy that will fall asleep in your lap, and-"

She clutches his arm with both hands, willing him to stop. "Castle."

"I know. I know it's too much. I'm sorry. But I don't think I can stop."

She can't say anything. There's nothing to say. She just. . .she's not ready for a decision, but saying no to any of it would be the same as saying no to him. And she can't say no to him.

"I don't do toilet-training," she says, holding her breath, lifting her head to see how he takes this.

"A full-grown dog then." He won't take maybe for answer, at least, not for long; he did warn her. "Something that will lick your face when you get home."

It's out of her mouth before she can stop it. "I've got you, don't I?"

Did she really say that?

Rick gives her a quick glance and sees she's both flustered and aroused at the same time.

"You've definitely got me," he agrees, but he doesn't add anything else to it; his brain too late checking his mouth.

She doesn't say anything this time, and he tries to be content with the night, with her warm and slight at his side, but it's like something's gotten into him, something's infected him: a sense of wasting time, losing time. He doesn't want this to end, and yet it's close to eight o'clock and his plans didn't go much past dinner because he honestly always expected her to say no. They were supposed to dance, but when he saw that no one stood up to enjoy the light piano, he didn't force her. They've already had dessert; he's got no logical excuse to keep her with him.

"So what would Nikki Heat and Jameson Rook do now?" Kate says unexpectedly, her thumb brushing across his.

"Probably get in a cab, go back to her place," he says, talking before he can think.

Her gait stutters a second, but she says nothing to that, and Rick mentally berates himself for the lack of filter.

"But that's them," he adds.

She squeezes his hand. "You did say Nikki was kinda slutty."

"I did," he grins.

"She has casual sex with her sparring partner."

"Yeah." He wonders if this is the part of their relationship where she gets to criticize his books. He's good with that; this has been the turning point for a lot of his more serious relationships. He wonders if being able to complain about a book character or a plot somehow indicates how much that other person feels comfortable and safe with him. Familiar.

"She has casual sex with Rook."

"No," he says, tugging on her arm to stop her, only a few blocks down from the restaurant. "It's not casual."

"In the first book, it-"

"Nothing about them is casual, Kate."

"But the night they have sex, she drinks-"

"Nothing about them is casual." He stares her down, willing her to get it, to see.

Kate looks up at him, some kind of debate going on in her eyes, and then she leans in and presses a kiss to his jaw, brushes his ear with her lips. "Get us a cab, Castle."

She's seriously regretting getting in this cab with him. Bad idea, Kate. She can't keep her hands to herself, and goodness knows, asking Castle to be the mature one is the stupidest idea in the history of the world, but even as she thinks, bad idea, she's still kissing him. She can't understand why suddenly, she's all over him, but the best she can figure is that she has harbored some hang-up about Rick that has to do with Jameson Rook.

It's fiction, she reminds herself. But still. Nothing about them is casual.

His hand feathers along her side, skimming until he reaches her shoulder, wraps his fingers around her to pull her in tighter. She tries to keep her hands at his waist, hovering at his belt, tries to ignore the fluttering in her belly and the sweet heat rising under her skin.

Castle nibbles at the side of her jaw, uses his fingertips to caress the upsweep of her neck, his thumb against her throat, angling her exactly where he wants her. She's never been passive about this, but suddenly, she wants only to feel, to let him do as he wishes, to melt into the floor as he sets her ablaze.

She's got both hands pressed against his back now, inexorable force, ever closer. He bites down on her earlobe, sucks the mark gently, moves to her cheekbone, then the corner of her mouth, then she is letting him push her back a little in the cab, feeling his weight settle against her side, the sharp jut of his elbow at her ribs as he caresses her neck. She barely breathes, lets only shallow gasps in and out, brings a hand up to press her palm to the side of his face, bewildered and aroused.

The intense vibrations of her phone make them both jump, the device going off between them, and she reaches for it, tugs it out of the clutch, holding it against her chest as her heart pounds. Castle chuckles, throaty and gruff, and she leans her forehead against his shoulder to catch her breath before she answers it.

With trembling fingers, with Castle still hovering over her in the backseat of a cab, his hands at her neck, fingers brushing her cheeks as if that's supposed to be soothing, she unlocks her phone and sees Esposito is calling. "Beckett."

"We got a body."

"*We* don't," she snaps. Castle's fingers at the nape of her neck are mesmerizing, delicious.

"Beckett, I think you're gonna want this one."

"We're not on call, Esposito. Why are you th-there?" She has to suck in a deep breath to keep from getting light-headed, Castle's silent assault breaking her down.

"Lanie called me."

"*Lanie's* not on call tonight either." She gasps at the end of that one, pushes at Castle's shoulder to leave her alone, but his grip is tight, insistent.

"She got a call. Beckett, I'm serious, you're gonna want this one."

"What is it?"

"Familiar ligature marks. Lanie's found familiar rope fibers. Nothing concrete yet."

Kate's body goes cold. She shoves hard on Castle and he jerks back, the look on his face a little wounded, but she closes her eyes to concentrate.

"Who else is there?"

"We got Detective Stanton out here, and me and Ryan. Lanie's got the body. She's pretty certain."

"Damn. Okay. Give me the address." She grabs Castle's hand, fishes a pen out of the inside pocket of Castle's suit jacket where she's seen him keep them. Still does. On his palm, she jots down the address as Esposito relays it to her, caps the pen, and tells Espo she'll be there in thirty minutes.

"Good. And, Beckett? Bring Castle with you."

She sighs. So of course, everyone in the precinct knows. She ends the call, Castle's hand still splayed across her lap, warm and heavy, stained with the address of a crime scene.

She raps on the clear glass dividing them from the taxi driver, and he slides it back.

"Change of plans."

Castle keeps his hand in her lap during the ride to the crime scene. Now that he has gotten this far, he's not going back. The ink won't run, even if his hand gets damp; the ink won't fade anytime soon.

She doesn't lean away, but she is collecting herself again, building back the professional detective exterior.

"Do you have your gun and badge on you?" he asks.

She doesn't answer the question; instead she turns to look at him with troubled eyes. "Castle."

"Oh no. No way. I am not going home. I am coming with you."

She brushes him off with a wave of her hand. "Not that."

"Then what?"

"The vic. Strangled."

"So?" He's completely bewildered by the haunted look in her eyes, the tenderness she seems to be displaying towards him.

She slides her hand into his, the one on her lap, and cradles it against her belly, blotting the address from view. It's amazing how desire and dread wind through him.

"Esposito said it's familiar. He said to bring you. It-"

"Kate." He says her name softly; he's never seen this kind of quiet compassion directed at him before. At least, not since the poolside- "Oh."

She swallows. "The Triple Killer."

He's pretty sure his face is bleached of color. He drops his head, closes his eyes for a second. Has to breathe, has to face it. "Someone I know?"

He feels her body jerk at his side, and she squeezes his hand, hard, as she says, "No. No, Castle. It's not. At least, I don't think so. I didn't think of that." She sucks in a shaky breath beside him. "Not that the boys knew, or else they'd have told me."

"Why'd he come back? Surely he knows that we're going to be on top of this."

"I don't know. It's just Lanie's prelim anyway. Rope fibers might come back negative."

He leans over, presses his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose. He feels like throwing up, and only ten minutes ago, he was feeling practically giddy.

"Maybe you should go home," she says and leans forward like she's going to knock on the glass again.

Castle catches her fist and draws it to his chest. "No. I'm not going home. You're not doing this without me."

She flexes her fingers under his grip, but he doesn't let go. He's got both of her hands now. "I wouldn't dream of it, Castle. But you don't have to see the crime scene in person."

"Yes I do. I do." Because he has to face the consequences of his own arrogance, sometime or another.

Pride goes before a fall.

She's worried about him. At the back of her mind, she's worried about herself too. Would she be this worried if they hadn't gotten this far? If she had ignored him today and not given in to a dinner date, would she be so worried now?

Well, her feelings, however murky and complicated they are, haven't really changed in just the last few hours. Less murky maybe. No less complicated. She's not a worrier; her brain doesn't think like that. Castle's a big boy; he can take care of himself. Still, she feels the need to bolster him, keep him going as long as possible.

She's trying not to think about the Triple Killer and his manipulative ways, trying not to wonder about what game he's playing and what terrible things he's got in store for them. It might not be him. It still might only be coincidence.

She and Castle have survived a lot. Survived him poking the deepest of her wounds, survived terrorist bombs and cold storage freezers. Triple Killer? They've got this.

The cab turns from 7th onto West 42nd, then jogs over to Amsterdam. Castle gets restless. "Is this in my neighborhood?" he hisses.

She shakes her head. "No. But close."

"Damn."

She sighs. The blocks crawl by; traffic on Amsterdam is always stop and go, no matter what time of day. If she were driving, they'd be using a side street. Still, it gives them a little extra time.

"Castle?"

"Yeah."

She waits until he turns his head to look at her, his eyes dull, darkened by something she names resignation. She's still holding his left hand in her right one, cradled by her lap, and she squeezes it again. He looks distracted, guilty.

Kate leans in, brings her free hand up to his face, and presses her mouth against his, long and hard, her heart pounding. She gives him a thoroughly distracting kiss, breaks free only to rest her forehead against his, stroking his cheek with her thumb. "We're going to be okay, Castle."

He lets a shaky sigh and wraps his arm around her, tugging her close, her head falling to his shoulder. "Thank you."

"Always," she murmurs, her lips against his neck.

Only minutes later, the cab drops them off at their murder scene. Kate steps out in her little black dress, badge already out of her clutch, and flashes it at the police officer standing in front of the crime scene tape. Castle is right behind her; Javier has come down to meet them at the tape line. He raises an eyebrow and gives her the once over.

"Looking mighty fine, Detective Beckett."

She ignores him. "Who's our vic?"

He hands her gloves, she passes them back to Castle, takes another pair from Esposito as they stand just inside the alley. It's not Washington Heights, but there's an odd familiarity about the alley. An upscale bar on her right, a former brownstone turned real estate office on the left. The alley holds two dumpsters, a host of crime scene technicians. She spots Detective Stanton, who caught the call, and Lanie in her blue crime scene gear.

She also smells death. Blood and bowels.

Esposito leads them to the second dumpster; it must service the real estate office. "Victim is Roma Haskins. 31, single. Real estate agent next door." The woman looks inordinately young, even in death. Ligature marks on her neck, nails pale purple, hair the color of dirty wheat. Still in her office suit, a rich navy.

From the corner of her eye, she sees Castle glance to the building to the left and promptly go pale. "Castle. You know her?" she bites out.

Castle glances down then, for the first time, and she watches his face carefully. Nothing. Not a flicker. But he's still stunned. "No. I don't. Don't know her."

"What is it then?" she says, not willing to coddle him, not after so many murder scenes where he's bouncing around like an eager bloodhound.

"I don't know her specifically. But I hired this real estate agency before. When I was looking for-" He cuts off, blushes, and won't look at her.

She raises an eyebrow, shares a look with Esposito. Sometimes Castle is so bad at covering his tracks. "Looking for what, Castle?"

He gives an uncomfortable shrug of his shoulders and raises his head. "Looking for an apartment for you. Earlier. I. . .I never found anything worthwhile, and then you found it on your own, so I didn't need the agent any longer."

Kate's mouth goes dry. "You were looking for an apartment for me."

Esposito shifts into a wide-legged stance, crosses his arms of his chest, glares at Castle. "Bro. Are you telling us that you were trying to buy her an apartment?"

"No! No, not at all. I knew she'd never, I mean, you wouldn't. But I thought if you had someone looking full-time, they might find some hidden gem, some great apartment that you could actually afford. But you found one all by yourself. These guys kept showing me really upscale stuff; no matter how many times I told my price range, they figured I needed more. So I dropped them."

"Okay, all right. I'll deal with you later." She gives him a final glare and turns to Lanie, who has been listening in on their conversation from her spot beside the body. "Lanie, how close is this?"

"My gut tells me dead-on, Detective. But I won't know for sure until I get her to the morgue; get the fibers' test from the lab. Could be weeks before I know."

"Lab backed up?"

"Girl, it is always backed up. And weeks is with me pulling strings."

Kate growls. "What about the vic? Killed here or dumped?"

"Dumped. No signs of the struggle she must've put up. I got fibers under her nails; she must've clawed at the rope. Her nails are bloodied as well."

"That's good enough for now." Kate doesn't want any more conjecture before she knows hard facts. She needs evidence. She needs to do this right.

Lanie glances to Javier, then back to Castle and Kate. "You two look nice."

"Save it," Kate warns. "All right. We're going to proceed like this is our guy. Esposito, tell the crime scene techs to take photographs of the gawkers out there as well. But not obviously. The windows next door. Anything that offers a hiding place to watch. Castle-"

She turns to him and he's still a little pale, but he's bouncing back. "Get out your phone. No, hold it down. At your side. Take photos of the crowd too, every time you turn, snap a shot. I want to see if anyone is watching you. Looking at you specifically. Espo, where's Ryan?"

"Back there. Talking to Stanton."

Kate glances over Esposito's shoulder to the deep shadows. "Let's get some lights in here for the tech guys, all right? Has Stanton worked up a perimeter, chain of evidence, logbook, anything?"

"Naw, we was waiting on you."

She nods once. "All right. Bring Ryan and Stanton over here, get a couple of the unies. We need to do this right. We'll have to canvas both buildings, and across the street. Talk to the crowd, get as many names as you can. Someone, somewhere saw something."