Season Three


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Close Encounters of the Murderous Kind

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Castle catches her rubbing the side of her neck and he grins.

She slaps the back of her hand to his shoulder and turns her chair towards her computer. "Not aliens," she says.

"Not this time," he admits, and they both know it's not agreement of anything.

She works at her desk and it's maybe thirty seconds before her fingers touch on the mark at her neck, the hickey (it's not a hickey), and he grins. But then he has to smother it fast because she will either hit him again or she'll stalk away.

And she can't stalk away. She has paperwork to finish so they can get out of here.

So Castle stands up, pushing himself off the arms of the chair. She startles and jerks her head towards him, a dawning incredulity and betrayal that he hurries to alleviate.

"Just getting refills, I swear I'm not running away." He raps his knuckles against the desk, snags her mug from in front of the keyboard, and he heads for the break room.

The espresso machine is an elegant work of art which he adores. It's possible that he has an ongoing love affair with the thing. More than possible, it's entirely likely. He caresses the sleek side, the burnished metal that gleams, and he wonders who might be cleaning it so that it shines.

He needs to thank that person, get to know their story. A woman on the cleaning staff with a fondness for brightness, or perhaps an overworked luddite of a janitor who runs a rag over it despite himself. So many things, so many possibilities in this place. The Twelfth Precinct is teeming with stories, inspiration flooding every floor.

All because of Beckett.

The espresso comes out in a neat perfection that makes him happy despite the lateness of the hour.

She's agreed to dinner with him. And he knows he can pry state secrets out of her over dinner.

He knows it.

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Remy's is strangely packed, every table taken up by parties of three or more. The usual waitresses give them harried looks, one waves to the narrow counter with its red plastic stools.

"Are you okay with this?" Castle asks, nodding towards the lunch counter.

"Since our usual has been claimed by a basketball team," she says, rolling her eyes.

Castle pauses at the stool, waiting on her to sit, some vague sense of chivalry or respect as she takes her place at the counter. He sits, a knee banging against the metal band around the counter, the other knocking into her stool. She has some of the same issues, being so tall, but she folds herself into the space without the same trouble.

But her lips are twitching.

He grumbles good-naturedly and she turns her face away, plucks a menu from the ketchup and mustard caddy. She offers it to him, he declines with a gesture, but she lays it down between them, props her elbow on a corner.

He does the same, a secret thrill at sharing, elbows nearly together, heads bent over a worn and grease-stained laminated menu. His guts tighten at her nearness these days, which has always been fun for him, the puzzle of a new attraction, falling into all those cliches so easily and smoothly.

But it's Beckett. And every morning, musing to himself in the mirror as he manscapes, dopily repeating the name Kate feels ridiculously childish. Beckett isn't Kate and sighs with a dreamy look, Beckett is locked and loaded and badass.

What does a secret crush on badass look like?

"Alright so spill," he says abruptly, cutting off his own line of thought.

She lifts the eyebrow nearest him. Doesn't respond.

"No. Come on. He told you something. Cool, national security secrets."

"In confidence," she stresses, lips pursing. Her eyes are resolutely on the menu. "That's why it's national security, Castle."

"But you can tell me."

That eyebrow arches a little higher.

"I'm your partner." His gasp is a little melodramatic as he knows full well, but it's worth the second twitch of her lips. Those little twitches, those almost smiles, he would gladly go out of his way, play the fool, ham it up just for one.

Though. He does want to know what the agent told her.

"Come on, Beckett. Cough it up." He reaches out, against his best judgment, and he strokes a finger along the red mark at her neck. She freezes like a frightened rabbit, and he finds himself stroking a lock of hair behind her shoulder. "I have one of these same as you. I deserve to know."

Her eyes slide to his. She doesn't look away from him, doesn't duck his gaze or shrug off his hand still at her shoulder. Her stare is brilliantly dark, that contradiction in terms that has been Kate Beckett from the beginning. The wound in her eyes behind the steel.

She deserves better than his ill-thought flirtation.

He lightly trails his fingertips along her jacket sleeve as he withdraws.

"The killer has been caught," she shrugs finally. "Justice should be enough for you."

"But it's never enough for me," he murmurs, all too much truth in it.

He's never satisfied with enough when it comes to her.

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