"Good evening, Detective. How are things down at the 12th?" Castle said, wincing a bit at both the abundance of formality and the lack of subtlety in his greeting. What's wrong with me? He wondered, shaking his head slightly at the thought.

"Hey, Castle," Beckett said, with a bewildered tone, "Things are about the same as usual—Gates hasn't cleared me for the field, so I'm still stuck behind this godforsaken desk doing paperwork. Weren't you supposed to drop by today?"

"Oh, I had—other things to which I had to attend," Castle said, dispassionately.

The statement was true enough, though it left a few things unspoken, not the least of which was his disdain for one Captain Victoria "Iron" Gates. It was Gates' "by the book" approach to police work that had been the impetus for Castle's greatly diminished presence at the station of late. He still remembered the smug, self-satisfied sneer on her face when she'd said, "Mr. Castle, if you want to work in my precinct, I suggest you attend the academy and earn your stripes. Otherwise, I'll thank you to keep your rich boy entitlement mentality and your oversized ego away from my detectives and out of my sight." She'd reconsidered after a brief conversation with the mayor (instigated by Castle himself, of course), but refused to allow him full access; instead, Castle was allowed only two days a week as a consultant in the precinct. It was just as well; with Beckett confined to a desk, there wasn't much for him to do there, anyway—except watch her begin to come unglued as she pored over the facts of her mother's case time and again, despite all his attempts to redirect her focus.

It was a familiar scene that had been playing far too often these days.

"Castle? You there?" The sharp, inquisitive tone in Beckett's voice jarred him from his thoughts, and he realized that he hadn't heard anything she'd said in the last few minutes.

"Yeah—I'm sorry, yeah." He replied, flatly. "What were you saying?"

"Well, I asked if you were supposed to drop by today. You gave some lame excuse about having 'other things to attend to.' And I said, 'I see. Star Wars marathon?' Then you went all "phone creeper" on me."

Castle smiled, in spite of himself. It was so easy, talking with her like this. As if nothing had happened, as if the last few months were just a wisp of a dream that arose like a summer storm and disappeared just as quickly.

But they weren't a dream. They were very, very real. And Castle felt like Atlas, carrying the weight of those months squarely between his own aching shoulders.

Still-even a man on a mission could permit himself a brief moment of levity, couldn't he?

His smile widening, Castle responded, "Joke all you like, Detective. But we both know that if there were a Star Wars marathon on, you wouldn't be at the precinct today. You'd be cuddled up on your sofa with a bowl of popcorn and sporting a lovely pair of Yoda slippers."

"I'm not the one with an authentic Han Solo ensemble still hanging in my closet," Beckett teased, slyly.

"Hey, that was for Halloween, and you know it. Besides, I only wore it once."

"Really? Because I seem to remember a cold January evening when I had stopped by to drop off a recommendation for Alexis, and you—"

"Ohhh-kay, ok. You got me," he conceded, stifling a chuckle, "just remember—you can be Princess Leia to my Han Solo anytime you want. I think I can still get Leia's "slave" costume shipped overnight—"

"Clock's ticking, Castle," Beckett replied, with the slight lilt to her voice that was always present when she was smiling, "and I still have work to do. You called earlier; did you need something?"

Castle felt his chest tighten as reality burst upon him again. "Yes, actually. I nee—We need to talk. Will you be home later?"

His question was met with a momentary pause that felt as if it stretched into eternity. The writer in Castle knew that a pause like that was laden with subtext, though at the moment, he was unable precisely to name what that subtext was.

It was always so with Kate Beckett.

"Castle, I still have a lot of paperwork to do before I can leave, so it's gonna be a late night here. Can't you just say whatever it is you need to say over the phone?" She sounded nervous, and her voice had a slightly tremulous quality about it. Castle wondered if his was the same.

"Not this time, Kate. "

Beckett sighed and said, "Fine. Ok, I think I can get out of here by 10:00, which will put me back at my place at 10:30. Can you meet me there at 11:00?"

"I'll see you then," Castle said, "'Night, Kate."

"'Night. And Castle?"

"Yes?" he said hesitantly, not quite sure what to expect.

"May the force be with you."

Castle smiled slightly, and lowered his phone, glancing at the screen just in time to see Kate Beckett's picture ever so briefly before it disappeared into blackness. How apropos, he thought, and grimaced as he slid the phone back into the pocket of his jeans. His eyes moved to his desk, upon which he had placed the large mailing envelope that bore his name and address, which he had taken from his safe earlier. He brushed his fingers lightly across its rough surface. Everything was there, neatly packed and organized, just as it was on the day he had first received it-save for a single sheet of paper that read, simply:

Castle—

I'm sending this to you because I know that you care about Kate as much as I

do. You're a good man, Castle. I know you'll do the right thing. Take care of her.

Captain Roy Montgomery

It's not too late, Castle thought to himself, it would be so easy to make a different choice and avoid the pain that's sure to come. But even as he allowed the thought to blow through his mind, he knew that he could never let it settle and take root. He took the single sheet of paper and placed it back in the safe, and checked his watch.

8:00—plenty of time to take care of one more item of business before making his first visit of the evening. Castle grabbed the envelope, and with purposeful, measured steps, made his way across his living room and through the double doors that led to his office. He pulled them closed carefully, so as not to disturb his mother or Alexis, both of whom were occupied with other tasks at the time; it was best, he decided, that they know as little about this affair as possible. Castle sighed deeply, leaned over, and pressed the power button on the paper shredder. It's now or never, he thought, as he reached over to the mailing envelope and pulled out the large file within. His hands trembled as he pulled the first page from the file. A tremor of doubt plowed into his mind, catching his breath in his throat and stopping his body cold: Could he really do this?

Castle heard the voice of doubt in his head (he always imagined it to sound like his own voice after taking a hit from a helium balloon): You've taken precautions, sure, but this—this is final. Do this, Castle, and there's no going back. Do this, and she will never trust you again. Do this, and you WILL lose her. Forever.

It was neither the first time he had heard the voice, nor the first time he had considered its arguments. But he had chosen his course, and tonight, Richard Castle would follow it through to its inevitable conclusion, whatever that might be. He set his jaw, and willed his hand to bear its cargo to the shredder, wincing at the sound as the latter did its work. The first one's always the hardest, he thought, the next will be easier. And he was right.

His work finished after what seemed like hours, Castle tucked the bag of shredded paper into a safe place. He grabbed his jacket and keys, and headed out the door, considering the consequences of the actions he had just taken, and trying desperately to think of what he was going to say to the person he was about to visit.

It was going to be a long night.