Disclaimer: I do not own Castle or the recognizable characters who appear in this story. Any other names, for characters or businesses, are fictional, uncompensated, or are in the public domain.

A/N: I didn't make it. I was hoping to finish this story tonight, but there will be at least one more chapter after tonight's quick bit. The problem is that I leave early tomorrow for a business trip down to Miami. With luck, I'll have time on the flight there or back to finish this story.


"He's in the office," the Haunt's bartender offers when he sees Beckett, pointing his thumb over his shoulder and nodding toward the stairs. "Drink for the road?" he asks with a flirty smile.

"I'm good," she replies, though a good belt of whiskey sounds perfect.

"I'd say you're fine," he replies with a wanton stare and hopeful look but getting only rolled eyes in return. She suspects Tony from McGreedy's would get a call from Castle if he caught wind of that line, but she'll let it slide. There's already enough tension with her partner without borrowing more.

She nearly slips on her way down the stairs, barely catching herself on the handrail while wondering how this isn't a safety violation. Castle's probably got a historical exception to the building code, she thinks as she rights herself and heads towards the office door that's slightly ajar. Either that or he's buddies with the inspector, she considers with an indulgent smile.

She's just knocked on the door when she hears his voice. "… samedi à huit heures," he says with a laugh. "Au revoir."

Then, following the rattle of his cell phone being placed on the desk, Beckett hears him step to the door, which opens promptly.

"Hey, Castle," she greets him with a smile that smothers her thoughts about why he was speaking French and making note of what she heard.

"Hey, Beckett," he replies, looking a little confused as he holds the door open for her. "Another body drop already?"

"No," she answers with a chuckle. "Just a social visit."

"Oh," he answers with a slow nod, stepping back to his desk and fooling neither of them as he settles behind its protective bulk. "Since you're already here, can I offer you a drink? I'm definitely gonna have one," he admits, reaching down into the lower drawer of his desk and withdrawing a bottle of Beau James whiskey and two tumblers.

"Please," Beckett answers, her earlier wish for a fortifying drink granted.

"It'll have to be neat," Castle explains with a nod at the glasses. "I'd go upstairs for some ice, but I'm tired of Bill hitting on me," he teases with a knowing look.

Beckett huffs, unsurprised that Castle's already recognized the proclivities of his employees. And since it's unlikely that Bill's actually put the moves on his boss, Castle's comment was meant to tease and maybe put her at ease. It's a welcome start and an opening she'll gladly take.

"I wanted to talk," she prefaces, getting an unsurprised look and a dry chuckle in reply.

"That's why I wanted to drink. What would you like to know, detective?"

"Please don't do that," Beckett asks plaintively. At his confused look, she explains her request. "Don't call me 'detective.' It's putting more distance between us."

It's clear from his nod that Castle was using her title for exactly that reason, but he assents to her request without comment or explanation. "Okay, Beckett," he says while handing her a tumbler with a generous portion of amber liquid a few moments later. "Sorry for starting us off so uncomfortably. What did you want to talk about?"

"This, actually," she says, gesturing between them with her free hand. "Everything's so weird between us right now and I'm trying to find the line."

"The line?" he asks, peering into his drink as if it was a magic eight ball. 'Reply hazy, try again,' he thinks to himself with a sardonic grin.

"The line," Beckett repeats herself. "You know, what's okay and what's not, how we can talk to each other without getting all tied up."

"It's pretty simple," Castle replies with a shrug. "I'm not sure what we need to change that isn't obvious."

A little irritated that he's not engaging more in this conversation, Beckett calms herself by remembering his quiet words from their impromptu picnic lunch earlier today. He's not hiding from her. In fact, he actually opened up a bit about Meredith yesterday, which she didn't expect. Maybe that's the place to start.

"I owe you an apology," she says, disappointed anew by how surprised he looks at this opening.

"About?" he stretches out, wondering where she's going with this and still more guarded than she'd like.

"About Meredith," she says, watching him take a large gulp of his drink in response. "I don't want to talk about her," she quickly assures him, remembering his earlier comments. "But I made some assumptions about why you were divorced and I'm not sure I ever reevaluated after getting to know you better."

"Don't apologize," Castle says, looking down. "Adultery is often the symptom, not the cause, of marital discord," he says quietly, sounding like someone who's thought about this too much. She's about to interject when he cuts her off. "And that's absolutely the last thing I'm going to say about it."

Great, she thinks to herself. She'd meant to ease into a conversation and miss-stepped badly. From the set of his jaw and the alcohol he's already downed, this conversation is unlikely to get any better. Perhaps it's time for a tactical retreat. Or maybe a different approach, she decides.

"You know why we get disqualified from cases where we have a personal interest?" she asks, watching Castle's firm expression melt to one of confusion. Not surprisingly, the connection they usually share that helps them understand each other's thoughts seems to be malfunctioning lately and he's bewildered by another conversational course-correction.

"Uh, sure," he answers, deciding to follow her new direction by answering the question. "If you've got a personal stake, your motives may be jeopardized. Too easy for personal agendas to interfere."

"Exactly," Beckett agrees, nodding to Castle while taking another sip. "We're compromised. Our personal narratives get in the way, make it difficult to see the facts objectively. It's too easy to misinterpret or color the facts with background knowledge that's not actually relevant."

Castle looks pensive, nodding slowly while trying to figure out what Beckett's talking about. Finally, his visage clears as he thinks he figures it out. "It's just temporary, Beckett," he says, transferring the confusion to her. "We're working your mother's case because no one else will. When we find something to pursue, we'll bring in help."

"I'm not talking about mom's case," Beckett replies immediately, finally understanding the root of their miscommunication. "I'm talking about you."

"I'm not a case," Castle answers, rolling his eyes and sitting back in his chair, increasing the distance between them.

"You kind of are," she explains, voice growing gently, "to me, at least. You've left evidence for me to find, and I'm starting to realize I let my personal narrative affect how I interpreted or even missed it."

"I think I've been pretty clear," Castle replies, clutching his tumbler, "but that's another change we can make," he says, returning to their jumping-off point for this conversation.

The reminder seems to jar Beckett, making her look sad. "I didn't want things to change," she admits, knowing that she sounds a little naïve.

"No, I imagine you didn't," her partner answers, a bit of pique clearly inflecting his words. "But I did. Everything changes. Life is dynamic, Beckett, teeming with currents and flows that push and pull us to new experiences and, if we're lucky, growth. Spend too much time treading water in a futile bid to stay in place and you just get exhausted," he admits, sounding tired himself.

And there it is, Beckett thinks to herself, remembering her thoughts from before lunch. Nervous about how he's thinking about going forward, she decides to just ask.

"You're not happy at the precinct?" she asks, disturbed by this thought. "You wanted things to change?"

"Of course I did," he does his best not to growl in reply, draining his tumbler. Then, slowly, he rises from his chair while casting a quick glance on the desktop. From his posture, he's apparently drawing their conversation to a close.

As he's stepping around the desk, Beckett lets the bits she's learned from the last two days wash over her, everything she's learned since asking him about flirting. Looking at their conversations objectively while casting aside their personal histories and reputations makes the root cause of all this strife shockingly obvious. Intent, he'd told her. It's all about the intent.

She feels dizzy, thoughts and revelations spinning through her head and stealing her balance as she rises. Perhaps it's best that Castle's calling an end to this discussion – she needs to take some serious time to follow these thoughts, to take ownership of how they got here and where they might go. She also needs some space to make sure she's not imagining things. She'd hardened herself against this possibility, using last summer's heartbreak to reinforce her thoughts about the possibility of them.

Even as that thought flits through her mind, she remembers that there's an easy way to check. If she finally understands what he meant by 'flirting with intent' and why he won't do it, then he won't confess any feelings to her for the same reason he won't flirt. And if the reasons are the same, then perhaps the answer will be the same, too.

"These changes you wanted, Castle," she begins as she walks toward him. "Will you tell me what they were?"

"Just let it go, Kate," he answers with a sigh. "It's not appropriate."


A/N: I hope I got the French translation right, but please go easy on me if not. My son's just started learning the language and he helped me with that line after his ninth day of class.