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. In addition, for this chapter and the preceding, there'll be text from the Cops & Robbers episode, used directly or with slight modifications.
The door to the trailer opens several minutes later, admitting Lynch. He looks slightly sweaty and is fingering his hair back into place, but his demeanor is unaffected. Shipton is nowhere to be seen, presumably overseeing the man who was rolled out of the bank. Or what's left of him.
"Is your detainee alright?" Beckett asks, testing a theory.
"He's fine," Lynch replies. "May I?" he asks, gesturing to her seat.
Beckett rises, but not before taking her shot at clarifying Lynch's role here. "Sorry – were you talking about the detainee in the ESU van," she asks while lowering her voice to avoid detection by Peterson or Monfriez, "or Sands or Bader?"
Rather than answer, Lynch turns his head and cocks an eyebrow before smiling and tipping his head to her. "Officer Monfriez," he calls out as he settles into the seat. "Please step outside and ensure that no one enters the trailer."
Monfriez looks to Peterson for a quick nod of assent before he leaves without a word. He doesn't look upset to be excluded from what's going to follow.
"I assume you secured more time for us?" Lynch asks of Beckett. When she nods, he looks satisfied. "Carrot or stick?"
"Stick," Peterson answers on Beckett's behalf. "Biggest damn stick in the room," he assesses, still marveling at her threat.
"So I've heard," Lynch replies before pushing a few buttons to call into the bank on speakerphone, this time prompting raised brows from Beckett.
"Kate," Trapper John answers. "You're calling but I don't see a bus. Now's not the time for socializing."
"Your conversations with Detective Beckett are at an end, Trapper John," Lynch begins before pausing for the inevitable interruption.
"I told you people…" Trapper John starts to reply before Lynch overrides him.
"Or should I say Talbot, William T, from Davenport, Iowa?" Lynch continues smoothly.
When Lynch's use of what must be Trapper John's real name prompts silence, he continues. "You're SOL, Gunny. I've got Brandt. He rolled on all four of you."
"Bullshit," Trapper John/William Talbot replies. Even Beckett can hear the absence of the calm sense of confidence that's been a hallmark of their conversations.
"You've got a nice little Charlie Foxtrot here," Lynch expounds. "There's no escape through the abandoned subway tunnel beneath the bank," Lynch says easily as Beckett and Peterson trade looks of surprise. "The tunnel is sealed. Brandt also tampered with your detonators, so you'd never reach the tunnel. Not in one piece, anyway," he offers with a grim chuckle.
"Even if that's true, I've still got…"
"Stand down, soldier!" Lynch commands, earning immediate silence. "Listen up. Your op is done. Even though it was well-executed it was compromised from the start. Your boss planned to kill you but sold you out when he didn't have stones to answer some pointed questions. And now I've got him. So, where does that leave you?" Lynch asks.
"Well and truly f…," Trapper John starts to reply before Lynch interjects again.
"Listen, son. There's a market for your skills," Lynch observes, switching into recruiting mode. "We end this now and we've got options. You've heard of work release, right?"
"You've got to be fucking kidding me," Peterson mutters in disbelief, hoping this is just a ploy to lure the perpetrators out of the bank.
"I wasn't going to walk out the door for that bus and I'm not going to walk out for some guy I've never heard of," Trapper John replies. But his comment lacks the usual sardonic wit. He's clearly scrambling, looking for any out.
"You don't know me," Lynch agrees. "But think back to when you were in Iraq. You remember what happened in Tuweitha, at the 'research facility'?" Something about the way he says those last two words makes clear there's a story lurking here.
"Yeah," Trapper John allows. "We heard about that."
"That's who I work for," Lynch replies easily.
"Bullshit."
"Son, I'm too damned smart to claim that affiliation if it doesn't actually exist," Lynch chuckles into the phone line. "I've gotten used to breathing and waking up every morning."
"And we could work for him?" Trapper John asks.
"Not domestically, obviously," Lynch replies. "And not if you're not up to scratch. He'll have no problem tossing your asses in prison if he's not satisfied, assuming he'd even expend the marginal effort over lodging a knife in your occipital joint," he offers casually with the predatory grin back in place. "But it's a far better deal than you're going to get for trusting Brandt. So, what's it going to be, Gunny?"
"I need to think about it," Trapper John answers. "Talk to the others."
"No, you don't. There's nothing to think about. You know how this ends," Lynch says matter-of-factly. "You're fond of breathing, too. I'll be in to collect you in two minutes." This time, the line is summarily closed from the trailer, rather than the bank.
Lynch leans back in his chair, lacing his fingers and stretching them over his head, cracking his knuckles and stretching in place. Then, he glances at his watch as he lowers his arms. The casual check of the time reminds her of Castle and makes her wonder if he learned that trick from Lynch.
"You're not really going to use those people, are you?" Peterson asks, still not convinced the 'work release' idea wasn't a ruse.
"Of course I am," Lynch replies easily. "The four perpetrators in that building represent nearly sixty years of military training. They're organized, efficient, and work well as a team. They made some poor calls on whom to trust," Lynch offers with a shrug, "but we can take care of that on my end. Why throw that away?"
"Because they're criminals!" Peterson rails.
"Oh," Lynch replies, "I see. So, you think their debt to society would be better paid by locking them in a cell and letting them waste away rather than using their skills to defend the country? You said you've got your twenty – that means you were here for 9/11, right? Would you rather have those four rotting in prison or hunting down people like that?"
"They're mercenaries," Peterson argues, mostly for form's sake. "You think you can control them?"
"They know the alternative," Lynch vows with another small smile. "Now, it's approaching two minutes. Time to go meet my new team," he says lightly as he rises from his seat.
"You're actually going in?!" Peterson asks, flabbergasted.
"Of course," Lynch offers. "Job interviews are best held face-to-face. Now, details. Brandt has already been remanded into Detective Ryan's custody. As soon as I enter the bank, I cede operational command back to you, Captain Peterson. The hostages will exit first. They will undoubtedly require medical attention, particularly the pregnant bank teller. The perpetrators leave with me." Waiting a moment in case of question or dissent, Lynch gives a satisfied nod when neither arrives. "Detective Beckett, walk with me."
Peterson swings into action, thankful to be restored to his usual position. He calls for Monfriez as Beckett and Lynch exit the trailer, heading toward the ESU van
"We need to wrap this up quickly," Lynch says as they walk. "There are too many of us here, too many people who could see us all together. Especially with the attention Rick's presence commands," he explains as he slows them down. "So, I need you gone before he comes out of the bank."
"No way," Beckett answers flatly. "I wasn't there after his last abduction. I'm not repeating that mistake."
Lynch casts her a quick look, then nods as if she just passed a test. "Then talk to Shipton," he offers, just as she approaches them. Shipton hands him a duffle bag, then slows to a stop with Beckett beside her as Lynch continues his approach to the bank. Pausing only briefly to knock on the door, he steps inside the bank with the same air of authority he brought to the command center.
"Come on," Shipton says quietly in a posh British accent, nodding toward a nondescript sedan with tinted windows. "We need to get under cover while everyone's distracted."
Shipton's not wrong – absolutely everyone is riveted on the door to the bank. None of the officers, paramedics, first responders, or onlookers on the scene know what happened with the 'hostage' who was removed from the bank or the subsequent call with Trapper John. All they know is a lone figure casually walked into the center of an armed standoff. What a perfect diversion, Beckett realizes. For everyone except Lynch, anyway.
Shipton unlocks the sedan, slipping into the driver's seat and unlocking the doors for Beckett. Once she's inside, Shipton holds out her hand. "Give me your car key," she says. "I'll arrange to get your cruiser back to the precinct. Rick will get this car where it needs to go."
Beckett unwinds her cruiser's key from her keyring, smirking to herself as she tries to imagine how she'd explain to Gates her decision to entrust her official vehicle to a stranger. Still, given everything that's happened so far, she's not going to hit the brakes now. She drops her key into Shipton's palm, then turns her hand over to receive a key in return.
"I'm afraid not," Shipton answers with a smile, refusing to turn over her key. "Rick will want to drive."
Hearing this woman call him by his given name was bad enough, but now Beckett's worried about how much Castle's confided if Shipton knows about their long-running debate about driving. But she's well used to not volunteering personal information.
"Hi, I'm Kate Beckett," she says instead in exaggerated friendliness, rotating her wrist and offering to shake hands. "And you are…"
"A friend," Shipton replies with another smile.
"To me or to Castle?" Beckett presses.
"To Rick," she replies pointedly. "And the people who matter to him."
Well, that was clear, Beckett thinks. She's about to push for information when her companion starts to leave the car.
"I need to go," Shipton explains, nodding toward the bank where hostages are starting to emerge, being herded toward a receiving area where they'll be treated, examined, and have their identities confirmed. Paramedics orbit around the thankful bank patrons and employees, the first ones to arrive whisking Simone away for a consultation with a waiting OB/GYN someone had the presence of mind to contact. "Call your teammates, get them out of here," she says. "Keep out of sight until you're away from here."
With that cryptic bit of advice, Shipton departs, slipping from the car and through the security cordon. Beckett tracks her progress even as she lifts her phone and dials Esposito, confirming that the boys are already nearly back to the precinct with their prisoner.
Beckett feels a cascade of emotions as the hostages continue to file out. They huddle together, circumstances forging new friendships as mutual support provides the strength necessary to overcome their ordeal. She's humbled by the sight, thankful for the role she was able to play. But it's also a reminder of what must've happened earlier this summer, when Castle endured something far worse while utterly alone.
Speaking of Castle, her anxiety ratchets up as the flow of hostages slows and he hasn't yet appeared. She nearly leaves the car when a wall of officers move in to separate the hostages and create a path through which the would-be robbers must exit. The ESU van Esposito obtained earlier in the day makes another appearance, now apparently converted to prisoner transport. Shipton's at the wheel, backing toward the bank so that the prisoners can step directly into the vehicle. When it stops, the rear door opens and Peterson and Monfriez emerge, each taking position on either side of the door.
The bank door opens once more, allowing a five-person procession. The shackled robbers lead, with who Beckett guesses is Trapper John in the point position. The prisoners move easily and with pride. There's no cowering or hiding their faces, just four people striding toward whatever fate has in store for them.
Bringing up the rear of the procession is Lynch, walking easily despite carrying a duffle bag that's now stuffed with confiscated weapons. As the prisoners file into the van and Lynch approaches the vehicle, Peterson reaches out for the bag, but Lynch ignores him. They exchange words, Lynch saying something with a smile and Peterson flinching, but they appear to depart under relatively amicable circumstances. Lynch waits while Monfriez and three helmeted members of ESU pile into the van, after which Peterson closes the door. Lynch makes his departure after finally shaking hands, coming around to the van's passenger seat and leaving the clean-up to Peterson.
Beckett's just thrown her car door open to track down her partner when the driver's door opens and he slips inside the car, tossing a bag into the back seat. No wonder she couldn't find him – he's dressed as a paramedic, wearing even an FDNY ballcap pulled low. Of course – Lynch must've carried the uniform in the duffle bag when entering the bank. Castle changed and slipped out while everyone was distracted (probably by Simone), then blended in with the other emergency personnel. The perp walk and departure of the ESU van would've provided the cover necessary for him to slip into the car now. She's impressed, and a little daunted, at how neatly the whole scenario played out.
Castle pulls the cap off his head and tosses it onto the car's dashboard before running his hands through his hair and releasing a long sigh. "Hey partner," he offers casually as he turns in his seat to face her. "Miss me?"
Beckett stares at him incredulously for several long moments. He should be terrified. Or quaking. Or, she thinks ruefully, fighting off a panic attack in the wake of his second round of forced captivity in the last five months. But he's not. He's a little shaken, but he's still Castle. Still making jokes. She doesn't know whether to laugh or cry.
So, she does neither. Or both, she can't quite tell. But she can tell she launched across the car's console fast enough to completely surprise her partner, knocking him sideways into the car's door. Her left arm's behind his neck and her right on his chest, where it rises and falls while trying to decide whether to pet him or hit him.
"Never, never, never again, Castle," she whispers her promise and plea into his neck. "Promise me. Never again."
"I swear," he intones seriously as he lets his arms close around her. "From now on, I'll only use the ATM."
She huffs a laugh into him as his joke helps her hand make up its mind, delivering a light poke to his stomach in return for teasing her.
"Hey, careful," he urges as he catches her right and with his left before she can take another shot. "I kept this watch safe through a bank robbery, Beckett. It'd be a shame to dent it now."
"Is that what you used for the Morse code?" she asks, already knowing the answer but enjoying the opportunity to talk about one of the symbols that connects them.
"You saw that?" he asks, impressed. "Yeah, that was your dad's watch. Next best thing to the bat signal."
"They might've noticed that," Beckett replies flatly before tugging her hand free so she can wrap it around him. "Oh, shit," she erupts as she tries to sit up, restrained by Castle's arms. "Your back – I just shoved you into the car door!"
"It's fine," he assures her, though she's not sure she believes him. "Besides, you slamming me up against the door is something I dreamed about during many stakeouts, I assure you," he rumbles as he tempts her to poke him again. "I'm still kind of riding an adrenaline high. Not sure I'm going to feel anything for a bit. Tomorrow's gonna hurt, though."
"You need to rest," she offers in sympathy. "Any chance of that tonight?"
"That was the plan," he admits on a long sigh, "but today changed everything. We'll have to regroup, circle up."
"Why?" Beckett asks, wondering how much he'll confide.
"Because Lynch is exposed," he answers, confirming their link. "They connect him to me and they'll realize we're playing for keeps. You think things were violent before? It'll be a whole new game then."
"He seemed capable," Beckett offers, smiling to herself as she uses the same phrase Lynch used to describe Peterson. "But is he really so fearsome?"
"Yes," Castle answers immediately. "But it's not just that. Lynch is… part of a group. If they connect him to me, they'll look into him. Then they'll realize that he doesn't work alone. And then they'll understand."
"Tuweitha?" Beckett asks, taking a guess and knowing she struck a nerve when she feels Castle freeze in her embrace.
"Where did you hear about that?" he whispers.
"Lynch said it to Trapper John," she replies. "To prove his identity."
Castle relaxes by a degree but is still tense. "We need to go," he says as he moves to sit up and end their embrace.
"Castle, I'm sorry," Beckett offers, annoyed that she disrupted their quiet moment of peace. "I shouldn't have pushed…"
"It's not that," he interrupts her, though she doesn't believe him. "Things are breaking up here," he says while nodding at the windshield, through which they can see the slow dispersal of onlookers and extra emergency response vehicles. The bomb squad is still at work and Peterson's still circling, but it's clear that the event is winding down. "We need to get out of here while we've still got some cover."
There's too much wisdom in his comment to ignore, so Beckett slides back over to the passenger seat and buckles herself in.
"If there's any justice in the world," Castle offers as he pulls off a smooth U-turn and has them moving away from the bank, "you're getting poked in the ass right now," he offers with a quick glance at the sedan's passenger seat and thinking about all of his uncomfortable rides in her cruiser.
"Not sure we're quite ready for that Castle," she replies while trying to look prim, "even if it would be a fabulous way to burn away today's stress."
The laughter prompted by her comment does a fair job at mitigating some of that stress, though both know it's a distant second-best to an option for which they're not ready.
As the laughter dies down, though, it's replaced by an uncomfortable silence. Talking about what happened today or what it means for Castle's efforts to protect Alexis is only going to make things tense, but that's where their thoughts inevitably return. And with each passing block, the point at which Castle slips away again draws nearer.
"What would happen," Beckett asks idly, "if I refused to get out of the car?"
Castle huffs a laugh, then strokes his chin in contemplation. "Well, my best guess is that the poor kid working the rental return counter would think he'd hit the lottery," he speculates with a wink. "And you'd add another admirer to your vast collection."
Beckett snorts at this comment, though she doesn't let it go. "I suppose there's no point in tracking the rental information?"
"Not really," he agrees. "Besides, you'd be annoyed if that worked. It'd be too easy."
Beckett nods in agreement. It would be too easy.
"If you can't rest, what about an early dinner? You must be starving," she entices, noting that she's feeling a gnawing hunger herself. "What did you say when you brought me coffee before charming my new boss – once more for old time's sake? I bet the thought of a cheeseburger from Remy's with fries and a milkshake sounds pretty tempting, doesn't it?"
She laughs as she watches him swallow convulsively, fighting back another Pavlovian response. He surrenders with grace, signaling a turn that resets their destination. "I really shouldn't," Castle says with a sound of longing Beckett hopes applies to her as well as a cheeseburger, "but I really want to," he admits with a quick look at her.
"You're already in disguise. We'll get a table in the back," Beckett offers, letting her voice drop. "And I'll leave from there without giving you any trouble or trying to follow."
"You've a very effective temptress," Castle admits, using his forearm to wipe his brow. "Please only use your powers for good."
He's given her a perfect opening for more teasing, more banter. But Beckett's realized that with their limited interactions, the tenor of their conversations needs to grow. The banter will always be a foundation, but it's not enough for the dark, lonely nights when dangers – past and future – prowl their dreams and erode their strength and hope. They need more.
"I am using them for good," she answers honestly, reaching over to lightly pull his right hand from the steering wheel. Lacing her fingers through his, she rests their hands on the console between them, enjoying the quiet contact and not even teasing about the safety of him driving with only one hand.
One cheeseburger alone proves woefully insufficient to quell Castle's hunger. With their table in the back, the former partners put on a show of gastronomic excess, replacing the calories lost to stress and worry. Beckett hasn't been eating as well as her doctors would prefer and her discerning eye suggests that Castle's slighter frame means he's losing weight, too. So, over small-talk that helps remind them of the friendship they formed over the past three years, Beckett encourages him to eat more by ordering more food herself.
The only sour note of their quiet meal comes near the end, when Castle reaches into a pocket and pulls out several pills, which he knocks back with a larger gulp of water. In reply to Beckett's perched brow, he shrugs, winces, then explains. "Analgesics and antibiotics. Nothing exotic," he assures her, "but not much fun. You, too, right?"
"I'm done with my meds," Beckett answers, her happiness at finally closing the door on her pharmaceutical armamentarium more than apparent. "I've still got sleeping pills," she admits in the name of disclosure and uncomfortable honesty, "but I try not to use them."
"Bad dreams, right?" Castle asks knowingly, nodding at her look of affirmation. "I'm not sure they're worth it. Sleep helps the physical healing, but I wake up feeling terrorized," he admits, looking down as his hands fidget with the tall, silver milkshake cup.
"Lanie had me over, after I got back," Beckett says after a few quiet minutes. "She was trying to cheer me up with wine and stand-up comedy. One of the comedians – Oswald, I think – did a bit about the Ambien sleeping pill. His theory was that you have a hallway in your mind and each night your dream comes out from a room on the hallway. But taking Ambien, he said, was like running down the hallway, throwing open all the doors and getting some strange, terrible mix of all your dreams at once. Lanie was howling with laughter," Beckett recalls while focusing on her hands as she nervously plays with her fork, "but I was terrified. Because that's exactly what it's like."
She's surprised when his hand covers hers. The warm weight calms her, makes her realize that she'd been tensing up and lapsing into short, panting breaths.
"Text me next time your dreams get on top of you," he suggests while using his thumb to draw a circle on the back of her hand. "Maybe I won't give up writing completely – I could still put together a bedtime story or two."
"Nothing raunchy," she admonishes to hide the blush prompted by the manipulations of his hand. "At least not at first."
Castle laughs again and blushes a little, too. Then, with a heavy sigh, he gives her hand a squeeze before releasing it.
"Time to go?" she asks, knowing the answer.
"Lots to do," he answers with a sad nod.
"And you're sure I can't help?" she tries, one more time.
He's already shaking his head, but his answer is gentler than the previous times they've addressed this question. "You already are. Moments like this," he says while quickly looking around, "they help more than you know. My life is dark, Beckett, more than I could've ever imagined. Sometimes a ray of light is exactly what I need."
"Sometimes?" Beckett presses, worried about the qualifier.
"A ray of light also makes it easier to see some of things I've done," he says in a quiet voice, "some of the things I'm going to do. There are things I'd like to forget."
This time it's Beckett who reaches out to grasp a hand. "There are things I'd like to forget, too. Things I'd like to do over. So, get yourself back in one piece and maybe we could do them together."
Castle answers with a small, true smile. Then, forcing himself to move lest he linger her to enjoy Beckett's company, he stands and prepares to depart. "Thank you for today," he says quietly. "I know you've had your own challenges, but you were magnificent," he offers, watching her cheeks redden. "'Put a bullet through your skull'?" he asks with a laugh. "Magnificent," he repeats.
"You heard that?" Beckett asks, embarrassed but also glad he heard her threat.
"He was right next to me with his gun against my throat!" Castle whispers lest he terrify nearby diners, "trust me, I was very attentive."
"That's a little extreme," Beckett offers, "even for me. I think I'll find something a little less dangerous to ensure your attention."
"Trust me, Beckett," Castle nearly purrs, "I'm highly attentive to anything you say in your 'bedroom voice.'"
Groaning, Beckett shakes her head. "I can't believe you heard that, too. I'll never live that down, will I?"
"Don't be shy, Kate," he replies, his use of her given name catching her attention. "You have a beautiful voice. It's one of the things I think about when things get tough."
"Yeah?" she asks, bolstering her courage. "Here's something else you can use to remember me fondly," she says, shortly before her lips connect with his.
Son of a bitch! Beckett thinks as she bolts upright in bed the next morning. The hopeful sense of optimism created by their time together and their first unabashedly-romantic-and-not-buried-under-a-pretense-kiss helped her to a full night of deep, restful sleep. But with the rest came a blinding realization when she awoke.
Rushing through her morning routine, Beckett's already in her cruiser and heading away from the precinct when she dials her phone.
"Detective Beckett?" Gates answers. "Is everything alright?"
"Yes, sir," she answers crisply, "I was calling to let you know that I realized I need to return to the New Amsterdam bank this morning to follow up on something," she offers vaguely. "I know you wanted us to sign out, but I thought I'd head there directly, before coming in to the precinct."
"Fine, fine," Gates offers, sounding surprisingly casual. "But are you sure you're up for coming in today? If you or Mr. Castle need some time after the events of yesterday, you're welcome to take the day."
Unbelievable, Beckett marvels again. What did Castle do to Gates when he met with her?! Any other day and Beckett's sure she'd get the riot act about not having anticipated her foray and signed out the night before. But if 'Mr. Castle' is involved, then Gates gets soft. Good thing Gates is married, Beckett finds herself thinking before she shakes the thought out of her head. But this does provide another reason to hope that he could come back to the precinct sometime in the future. Hell, if her colleagues knew that having Castle around might make Gates more human, he'd have to worry about yet another hostage situation as he'd be whisked back to the precinct and not allowed to leave.
"Castle had to get back to his family," Beckett embellishes, though she supposes it's a true statement, in a way.
"Understandable," Gates replies. "Yesterday must've been terrible for them. But are you up to working today?"
"I'm fine," Beckett replies quickly. "I just wanted to check something at the bank, then I'll be right in."
"Let me know when you've returned," Gates replies, "and your team will call if there's a new case."
"Thank you, sir, I'll be in soon."
'Soon' is a relative term and not one that means 'quickly,' especially during the City's morning rush. Still, Beckett makes good time back to the bank. She'd been surprised to find an envelope with her car key waiting for her when she'd returned from Remy's last night and now it turns out it would've been easier if she'd just left the car there.
The bank's not opened yet when she approaches the door after parking her cruiser, but flashing her badge gets her in the door. After finally getting a look at the inside of the bank, she forgoes the teller counter in favor of the management offices. She's about to ask for the manager when a slightly doughy man notices her and steps over.
"Detective Beckett?"
Surprised he knows her, Beckett changes course to meet him, holding up her badge for inspection. "Yes. And you are?"
"Jack Davenport," he introduces himself, holding out a hand. "I knew you had to be Detective Beckett. Mr. Castle described you perfectly."
"He did?" Beckett asks, surprised.
"I'll tell you, Detective, I used to think it would be interesting to be around for a robbery, kind of a rite of passage," he says, shaking his head in disbelief at his folly. "It was horrible. But Mr. Castle assured us all you'd get us out. He kept us calm and promised us all his partner would take care of everything. And he was right," Davenport says gratefully. "Thank you," he says as he pumps her hand again.
"Mr. Davenport," Beckett replies while managing not to blush. "I was a minor player in yesterday's drama."
But Davenport is already shaking his head. "We could hear you on the phone, when that man was nearby. We know who kept things together. Mr. Castle said you'd be modest," Davenport praises while blushing slightly. "He also said you were beautiful."
"Thank you, Mr. Davenport," Beckett replies, filing Castle's comments away for later thought. "Did you speak with Mr. Castle before the robbers arrived? I wondered if he'd finished his business before they showed up or…"
Beckett trails off as she sees Davenport's smile. He looks so happy to help that he just can't wait for her to finish her question. Instead, he's reaching into the breast pocket of his jacket from which he extracts a dove gray envelope bearing her name.
Son of a bitch, she thinks as she shakes her head in consternation and fights a smile.
A/N: I still don't feel great about having rewritten my favorite episode, but it was fun to play with some of the questions that arose there.
Many, many thanks for the reviews and comments on the story. I always try to reply and will continue to do so. I need to check out for a few days, but I'm hoping to be back in action by the weekend. This story will continue, starting with the contents of yet another letter to Beckett.