Her dress issues were the last thing on Beckett's mind when she walked into the precinct the next morning.

The Vice bullpen looked surprisingly empty at first glance, but as she took a closer look Kate realized that almost everyone, detectives and uniforms alike, was pressing up against the window of the largest conference room, like vultures hanging on an hypothetical scrap of food.

She stepped closer, intrigued, saw Johnson and a few others standing back at her right, clearly refusing to join the crowd. She went to them instead.

"What's up?" she asked, nodding at the gathering.

"Girl walks in this morning," Johnson said, his eyes on the conference room. "Can't be more than fourteen, make-up smeared all over her face like she's been crying. Some nasty bruises on her arms. Says she needs to talk to a cop, that she needs protection. That they're after her."

Kate's brow knitted. That scenario wasn't unheard of.

"Who's they?" she asked.

"She wouldn't say. Until Summers told her we couldn't protect her if we didn't know who was threatening her. She said one word then. Pavlov."

Pavlov?

"As in, the Pavlov that we never could bust for trafficking immigrant girls, because all the witnesses we had over the years mysteriously vanished into thin air?"

"Yup," Johnson confirmed, his brown eyes meeting hers. "That one. You can see why Osborne is all over this."

Holy crap. Yeah, that was - shit, most cops her age thought that Pavlov was an urban legend, because it'd been so long since the last time they'd found any hard evidence against him.

"Osborne's with her right now?"

"Yeah. He didn't want any one else with them - one on one is the best way to build the girl's trust. Get the most out of her. And then we'll have to verify all the information she can give us. Triple-check, probably."

Beckett heard what he wasn't saying, how Johnson refused to believe that it would that easy. Most cops would probably share his skepticism, but still, if the girl really was a part of Pavlov's prostitution ring-

The operation to take him down would be the largest that the Vice department had organized ever since Beckett had come to work with them.

Made sense that everybody was hanging onto that girl's every word. They couldn't let her out of their sight-

"Uh-oh," said the woman who was standing at Johnson's right - Cameron, a detective Beckett didn't know very well.

She was looking at the bullpen's entrance, not at the conference room; Kate followed her eyes, found the familiar figure of Roy Montgomery standing there.

Someone in Osborne's spontaneous audience must have either heard Cameron's soft warning, or felt the captain's presence; the information was quickly passed on, rushed murmurs that caused the flock to scatter, everybody going back to their previous occupation.

Montgomery watched in silence, a hint of a satisfied smile floating on his lips, and then looked around until his eyes found Beckett.

"Officer," he called, beckoning her over.

She glanced at Johnson, got a light shrug in response, and worried her bottom lip as she made her way to the captain.

"Sir?"

"I'm moving you to Homicide for the day, Beckett. Next couple days, more likely. Two of their uniforms are down with the flu, and I got detectives complaining that they need more bodies."

Kate stayed silent for a second, processing the information, and briefly cut her eyes back to the Vice conference room. Today of all days.

"Sir-" she said, hesitated, torn between a strange sense of loyalty to the Vice squad and the excitement that bubbled in her stomach.

"I'm not asking your opinion, officer," he said tersely, turning and starting back to the elevator. "You're going up to Homicide. Now."

Beckett pressed her lips together, gave a stiff little nod. And she followed him.


Of course, Homicide was nothing like she'd hoped. That first day, she didn't even get to see the victim for herself; her role was to guard the crime scene and make sure no civilian interfered with the police's work.

And once the body had been taken to the morgue, and the crime scene had yielded all the evidence that it would, Beckett and her fellow uniforms were asked to canvas the neighborhood for possible eyewitnesses.

"Lucas, you take Beckett with you," the lead detective commanded before he and his partner got back into their car - probably riding back to the precinct to meet the family of the victim.

Beckett bristled at the words - she wasn't some child who needed to be watched over - but she forced herself to placidity, remembering Johnson's words. No one wanted to work with a touchy, irritable person.

And she was new to Homicide; she knew the theory, the procedures, but it wouldn't hurt to learn from someone who had the experience. As it quickly turned out, however, Officer Lucas wasn't exactly in the mood to share.

Tall with a long, narrow face, and eyes that squinted at her, Lucas didn't speak to Beckett except to tell her which side of the street he wanted her to work. She almost remarked aloud that take Beckett with you most likely meant they were supposed to stick together, but since the guy was such poor company, she refrained.

It didn't matter.

She would learn on her own.


Two hours of Were you home between the hours of 4 and 7 last night and Do you remember noticing anything unusual had her lips numb and her fingers stiff over the pen and notepad. The day was a surreptitious sort of cold, the mist seeping into her uniform and down to her bones when she wasn't looking; Beckett regretted forgetting her scarf at home that morning.

This was drudge work, of course, and most people would swear that nothing that seemed out of the ordinary when they'd come home from the office, but still - she found herself getting into it.

It would only take one person remembering a specific detail, a man or woman slightly more observant than their neighbors, to make a difference to the case. That knowledge egged Beckett on, kept her going even when her body threatened to shut down, its siren song for caffeine being left unanswered.

When she was done with the last building of the block - she had only been able to speak with eight of the twelve tenants, and she'd made a careful note of that - she met with Lucas back at the crime scene, recognized the sullen set of his shoulders before he'd even turned and seen her.

"Took you long enough," he muttered when she reached him, his step brisk as he started towards the closest subway station.

Beckett followed in silence, trying not to judge the sort of cop that Lucas would become.

It took time to interview people, put them at ease so that they would share even the little things, the details that they thought would make them sound silly but that could, in the end, prove vital to the case.

If Lucas wasn't willing to put himself through that, if he wasn't going to listen to the stories his witnesses had to tell - then why was he even here?


The most frustrating thing of all, Kate realized at the end of her first day in Homicide, was that she didn't get to see a case through. As a uniform, she'd be needed for canvases, for searching dumpsters and occasionally participating in an arrest; she wasn't there for the best part of it, the thinking process, the long observation of the murder board that would produce connections, theories.

She used any moment she had free to watch from afar as the detectives bounced ideas off each other, rearranged the elements of the case to make them make sense. This was what she longed for, the job she burned to be doing.

She wanted to make a difference.

And that was hard to do when she was up to her knees in old newspapers, crumpled cans and empty pizza boxes, no matter what she told herself. Sure, she'd helped, but it felt like anyone could've found that used wallet under the heap of withered flowers. While solving the case, connecting the dots...

That was something the detectives could really take pride in.

Beckett shook her head at herself and turned her back on the man cleaning up the murder board, glancing down at her watch. Shoot, was it nine already?

Darn. She'd gotten here at six thirty this morning, and if the captain saw her in here, he'd probably admonish her for staying after her shift was over.

Her stomach growled, confirming her decision to get out of the precinct, as soon as she could find the coat she'd thrown over a chair the last time she'd gotten in. She finally spotted it - chair had been moved, probably so someone could use it - and shrugged it on, her hand instinctively digging into her pocket for her phone.

She had a text, she saw as she headed for the elevator.

Castle, of course.

Wanna have dinner with us tonight? I made too much pasta, and Alexis would like to hear some more of your cop stories.

Kate winced and checked when she'd gotten it. Over two hours ago. Yikes.

She rested her shoulder against the wood panels, pondered what to do as the elevator glided down. Alexis would probably be in bed by now, and as much as she wanted to see Castle, she could tell from the exhaustion singing in her bones that what her body really needed was a good night's sleep.

Besides, it wouldn't hurt to take a break from each other. Things had gotten pretty intense between them, and she was surprisingly okay with that, happy for it, even, but it didn't mean she'd be moving in with him any time soon.

Good lord, no.

Beckett went out through her usual security exit, since the main doors were closed after seven, and straightened the collar of her coat against the cool night wind.

She'd take the subway home, make herself dinner, and then she would call him, make up for letting his text go unanswered.

Yeah. That sounded like a plan.


Rick was lounging in front of the TV, watching some reality show that featured couples looking for their dream houses - some of which were really terrible, honestly, who would want that ever - when his phone rang. It was the mysterious-sounding tune he'd associated with Kate, and he nearly jumped off the couch in his haste to get at the device that he'd left on the coffee table.

"Hey," he greeted breathlessly, rubbing his fingers against the knee he'd smashed into the glass table.

"Hi," Kate said, that delicious edge of laughter to her voice. "You running a marathon, Castle?"

"I wish," he answered, grabbing the remote to turn off the screen, where the woman, Brittany, was complaining loudly about the windows not being double-glazed. "Might need that to keep up with you, don't I?"

"I think you keep up just fine," she purred, the words rich and dark and sending a jolt of arousal to his belly.

He swallowed, memories of last night swirling in his mind, tried not to sound smug as he asked, "So, how was your day?"

"Busy," she said, but he could tell she was smiling. At him, maybe - he couldn't be sure. "They needed a few extra bodies in Homicide, so I got re-assigned for today. Probably tomorrow as well."

He'd been leaning back into the couch, but he sat up at the news, his breath hitching in excitement. "You get to work in homicide? Kate, that's awesome-"

"Don't get all worked up," she warned softly, and it was obvious that she'd spent the whole day telling herself that. "It's only a couple days, Castle. Doesn't mean anything."

"But if you're good - and you will be - maybe some detective, some guy in charge will notice you and want to keep you there-"

"Rick," she sighed, and he heard her waning resistance in that breath, how badly she wanted to believe him.

"Okay, okay," he agreed easily, not wanting to get her hopes up for nothing. "I won't say anything more. I'm just - I'm really happy for you, Kate."

There was a short silence, like she wasn't sure what to say to that, and then her voice came out, a little uncertain, a little raw.

"Thank you," she said.

Oh. She hadn't had someone be happy for her in a while, had she? Hadn't had anyone to share this kind of news with. Her hopes and dreams.

Her friend Lanie, maybe?

"Sorry I didn't answer your text earlier," she offered suddenly, breaking his depressing train of thought. "I left my phone in my coat, didn't get to it until I was on my way out. I hope Alexis-"

"Oh, don't worry, she was fine. Excited, actually, because I said you'd probably gotten a big case, and that was why you didn't have time to text or call. And it was true, wasn't it?"

"I guess, yeah," she agreed, but there was reluctance in the words, regret maybe.

"Kate," he insisted. "Really, it's fine. I'm not asking you to be Alexis's mother. I'm not asking you to show up for dinner every night, cut your hours - I know what your job means to you. I know how hard you've been working for this promotion. We're good."

The only thing he needed was to know that she was in this, that she was in as deep as he was, and she had - she'd more than proved herself last night.

"Kate?" he nudged when his reassurances were greeted with silence.

"Yeah," she answered, some of that breathy quality in her voice still. "I - thanks, Rick. For understanding, for not - pushing. I just..."

"What?" Her broken sentences made him nervous. "You just what?"

He rose from the couch, needing an outlet for all that anxious energy, even if it was just aimless walking.

"I want you to - be able to ask things of me," she said after a moment, slow and determined. "Things I...won't ask of myself. I hope you know that, Castle. You have a right to ask. I might not always say yes, I might get scared, but..."

This time when she paused he kept his mouth shut, waited on her, heart pounding in his chest as he slumped into the doorframe of his study.

"I'm in this, too," she finished, her voice firm and quiet, so beautiful. "I'm in this too, and - when something matters to you, to Alexis, if you really want me over for dinner and you've got your heart set on it, then you should let me know. Okay? Make me listen, Castle."

He remembered to breathe, and the air burned through his deprived lungs.

Holy shit, Kate.

"I will," he promised, had to clear his throat. "I'll let you know, Kate."

"Good," she breathed, and he was almost certain she'd closed her eyes in relief. "Good. I should go to bed," she added after a few seconds; he pictured her with her lip pulled between her teeth, that look she had when she didn't want to leave him.

"I wish you were here," he said without thinking, stupid really, when he'd just convinced her that she didn't need to be.

But she surprised him again. "Yeah?" she said, and there was a smile in there, for sure.

Maybe that lovely pressed-mouth smile, the one that seemed a compromise between shy and knowing, like a secret, gorgeous invitation for him to romance her. His heart stumbled at the thought.

"What would you do if I were there, Rick?" she asked softly, and wow - he'd been right.

He hummed thoughtfully, pushing himself off his office door and sliding into his bedroom. The lights were low and it was easy to imagine her, curled up under the covers, smiling at him in that peculiar way of hers.

"I'd hold you close," he answered, because he'd noticed the tired streak in her voice. "I'd wrap my arms around you, and kiss your neck, and breathe in your hair until you gave that little sigh you do, sometimes, and it feels like everything's so good that you're just giving in."

For a long moment he just listened to her breathing, the faint echo of it over the phone; he wondered if she was lying in bed.

"And then?" she prompted, the words like delicate presents after her silence.

He smiled. "I'd make you brush your teeth, wash your face. You wouldn't want to - you'd beg me to let you stay in bed - but I'd just gather you up in my arms and drop you into the bathroom, and you'd only pretend to fight me. I'd go back in the bedroom and change, and then I'd come to watch you in the mirror, rest my hand at the small of your back. You'd be warm."

Ah, damn - he could see it now, picture it exactly, how her eyes would look, dark wells with only the faintest trace of green to them, her hair mussed around her face, and he wanted it. Badly.

Some other time, Rick.

Just when he was about to resume the story, she spoke.

"I'd let you take me to bed," she murmured, emotion threading her voice. "At first you'd want to cuddle and I'd push you away, tell you to leave me alone. I'd curl up on my side, like I always do, turn off the light. But then, when you'd be asleep and I could hear you breathing, soft and steady, maybe that cute little snoring sound you do sometimes - I'd roll over and curl at your back, slip a hand under your shirt so I could feel your warmth."

He'd closed his eyes, his whole being focused on her voice, its distinctive rise and fall, the lull of her soft intonations.

"And I'd fall asleep like that," she finished quietly. "With my nose at your shoulder blade."

"Sniffing my sweaty armpit, more like," he teased, but the words were slurred - he wasn't sure she could understand them.

She graced him with a laugh. "You're asleep already, Castle."

"No-o-o," he protested, hearing too late how childish he sounded. "Not sleeping, Kate. 'm here."

"Goodnight, Rick," she told him gently, and she hung up the phone.

He'd have complained about it - if he'd been awake.