It took eleven hours, give or take.

He hastily packed his bags and checked out via iPhone.

Ah, the wonders of modern technology.

Haphazardly, he threw his dirties in with his cleans and groaned inwardly at the tongue lashing his daughter would be sure to give him. She'd spent an inordinate amount of time packing and repacking his baggage, clucking and chiding as she went, like a mother hen. It amused him and endeared her to him even more. He threw his toiletries in on top, not caring that the shampoo would undoubtedly explode and all those expensive garments would be ruined.

She's at the hotel, she never has to know. Bless Mother's cooking.

He glanced at the clock as he took one last sweeping look over the room, hoped he'd left nothing behind. He smiled to himself and stole the bathrobe he'd been wearing, balled it up and stuffed it in his suitcase. He needed a token. They'd add it to his bill.

Twenty minutes. Not bad.

The cab right was short, thirty-six minutes with light traffic. Smooth sailing to Charles de Gaulle. He took in the scenery and promised himself he'd one day take her there. He thought that Paris would suit her.

Less than an hour and I'm on my way. Back home. To Kate. That infuriating.. that perfect... Oh. We're here.

Arriving in the departures terminal brought him up short, grinding to a ungraceful halt in front of the rows of identical (spare the brightly colored logos) counters. He stumbled a little over his own feet and his eyes darted to the departure board. Four flights in the next two hours. The first leaving in just forty minutes.

Perfect! I'll be home in time for breakfast.

Methodically he made his way from counter to counter. Laid the charm on thick and flirted unabashedly. He was greeted with flurries of "I'm sorry, Sir", and "There's always standby, if you'd like to wait." Empty apologies, memorized and standard procedure. He felt a sick rumbling of panic bubbling in his stomach as each counter offered less and less hope.

Shit. Twenty minutes wasted. Now what?

He slammed his fist down in frustration on an unattended desk, hit the surface unevenly and hissed at the pain searing through his fingers. As he slumped heavily on a nearby bench, wallowing in self-pity and stroking at his burning appendages, it hit him.

"I'm a best-selling author, for Christ's sake! I'm rich!"

Heads turned. Stunned little Os formed on their mouths. Shocked expressions of recognition and hands quickly raised to cover smirks, leveled themselves at his from all directions.

Oops!

He pulled out out his cell phone and called Paula, she'd know who to call and where he needed to go. She was brash and curt, she was abrasive and loud but she got things done and had his best interests at heart. It didn't hurt that he made her an obscene amount of money for her troubles.

"Paula."

"Ricky boy, hi. What can I do for you? Europe treating you well?"

"That's what I'm calling about actually, I need to get back to New York. As soon as you can. Sooner would be better. I need a jet."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa! Rick, you just started this tour. You can't just leave."

"Paula, you work for me and if you need any other incentive, hear this. I promise you, if there is not a plane with my name on it at CDG in one hour, I will come down with a case of writer's block. The likes of which have never been seen before. You'll be hard pressed to get a grocery list out of me. Are we perfectly clear on this?"

The line was silent for a beat. He wasn't particularly worried. He was her employer after all but it was low to use it against her, she was also one of his most trusted friends. She'd give him as he asked, she always did. He made a note to send her a little something from that absurdly expensive store she liked so much.

"Crystal," he heard her sigh. "You wanna talk about it, lover boy?"

"I wouldn't know where to begin." He let out a long exhale, his misplaced anger draining away with the compassionate note detected in her voice.

"Hey, how did you know it was 'lover boy' related?" he continued.

Am I this transparent?

"Far be it for me to pry, my dear, but if we are talking about who I think we are talking about, don't you think it's time you made your move? Fours years you've beaten around this bush. In days gone by you wouldn't have wasted four hours. I know you, Rick. She must be pretty special."

"Yeah. She is."

"Then for God's sake man. Make a move!"

He chuffed out a sound of amused laughter.

"Thanks Paula, I owe you one."

"You owe me more than that. I'll text you the details."

And with that the line disconnected.

Fifty-five minutes later he was gratefully sinking into an overstuffed armchair and strapping on his seat-belt. As the aircraft took off he felt some of the tension ease away.

It didn't last long.

The flight took seven hours and fourteen minutes. He counted it out with impatient taps of his foot, three shots of whiskey and enough trips up and down the small aisle that he was afraid he'd wear a hole right through the Gulfstream's fuselage. He napped fitfully, with dreams of serial killers and Kate's cold, lifeless body bleeding deep crimson onto fresh mowed green. He downed another shot and continued pacing the aisle.

The taxi ride from JFK took almost two hours with mid-morning traffic and by the time he arrived at the precinct he was wound up tighter than 'Fat Elvis' at an all-you-can-eat buffet.

As he exited the elevator, strode purposefully down the hall and made his way to the desk, he saw her and stopped in his tracks.

He saw her, chewing on a pencil and angrily swatting at a stray lock of hair that stubbornly refused to stay behind her ear. He saw the worry lines etched in her face, he saw her eyes darting back and forth from the murder board to her phone. He saw the mugshot of Tyson, stuck front and center of the board. He saw the relative lack of evidence surrounding it. He saw red behind the still slightly lingering haze of alcohol and the all consuming buzz of fear.

He felt a pang, primal and instinctive. A deep seated need to protect her and drag her by those luscious amber curls, hurriedly away to safety.

She's going to kill me.

Fuck it.


A/N: I was going to reunite them in this chapter. But this little nugget of Castle doing something completely ADD, showing up at the airport all gung-ho! and then thinking, "Fuck, now what?", wouldn't leave me alone until I wrote it down.

I kind of wanted to frustrate him a little more as well. You'll see why in the next chapter.