She leaves him with one of the uniforms, giving his statement. He didn't actually have to come in right now, in the middle of the night. He could've gone home, rested, come in the next day. He knows that, and she knows he knows. He also didn't say goodbye to anyone at the fundraiser, didn't have a date who had to be told what was going on. He probably noticed her noticing that too. She's the detective, the one with the observation skills, the one who knows how to put the pieces of the puzzle together. But he knows her. He observes her. That's always been their dance, their moves, his counterpoint to her.
One of the worst parts of her job is waiting for her on her desk. Espo and Ryan are setting up the murderboard, the timeline, the pictures. She has a contact number for the wife in Rome. The worst way to wake up in the world. She handles the call as she always does, with empathy tinging her professionalism. The woman is genuinely distraught and straight away looking to take the next flight back home. She jots down the contact details for more family, then wishes her a safe flight. She'll need to do a longer interview with Karpinski when she's back, but only in person can other questions be asked, not over the phone.
"Espo. Anything on the call?"
"Came from a payphone about a block away. Ended about five minutes before time of death, approximately- we're pulling all the footage from CCTV cameras in the vicinity. We'll have it in the morning. It was the second call to her cell from that phone, the first one was about a half-hour earlier."
He's wandered up after giving his statement, back to familiar haunting grounds, ones that haven't changed much since he left. He comes up just as Espo finishes talking, and the boys give him a sharp look.
She interrupts before either can say anything, can ruin the fragile chemistry of the night.
"Alright, nothing more we can do tonight. Go home you two."
He nods at them goodbye as they file out, the pair of them with speculative looks on their faces, but still protective of her. They nod back, friendly but not overtly so. Whatever happens between them has to be the first step, the first move to fixing the other friendships that grew around them like ivy growing on an oak tree.
She moves back towards him, towards her desk. He's perched against edge, fiddling with one of her elephants.
"I actually miss this place." His voice is rich and smoky. It makes something flare inside her, a heat that has been banked for three years now.
"What, the coffee or Gates yelling at you or Ryan and Esposito twitting you?" She carefully avoids any mention of herself. They've been remarkably open and remarkably honest tonight, the connection between them snapping back into place like it'd been three days since they'd seen each other, not three years. But she's loathe to test that connection, a bridge of spun glass, on purpose.
"All of the above." He raises an eyebrow at the filing cabinet that sits next to her desk where his chair used to be. "I guess it doesn't miss me though."
"Sorry. Without a partner to sit there creepily watching me do paperwork, it made more sense to just have the paperwork next to my desk."
"No partner, still?"
"Flying solo, Castle."
"Who watches your back?"
No one. The unspoken answer sits between them, and she watches his eyes tighten in response, in guilt and pain.
She has to break the mood.
"C'mon Castle, I'll give you a ride home."
There's less traffic on the ride home, and conversation is more inconsequential. She asks about Alexis and Martha (both with new boyfriends, neither of whom he particularly likes. She's always liked that protective side of him towards his family). He asks about her dad, about Espo and Ryan and Lanie, laughs genuinely as she recounts some of MJ's recent antics.
For a moment the clock is wound all the way back, to better days before they hurt each other, scarred each other, to where she can pretend that she hadn't made one of the biggest mistakes in her life in walking away from this.
And then, all of a sudden, they're there, at the building for his loft. He slides out of the passenger seat then turns to look at her. Is this it? Goodbye? A final parting on better terms than they had left on previously? Her traitorous breath catches again, words failing her. For a moment a heated look crosses his face, and she allows herself to dream, to fantasise he might ask her up for coffee. But then the mask settles again, holding her at a distance, holding her at bay.
"G'night Beckett." He backs away from the door.
"Rick…wait."
He does.
She chokes up again, but she fights it this time, fights it because she'll be damned if she's going to let him walk away out of her life like this. Not after tonight, not after the last week, the last month, the last three years.
"Do you…do you want to get dinner tomorrow?"
He closes his eyelids, rocking back slightly at the question. The world collapses to just the two of them, all traffic, all lights and sounds and everything else too much to be processed while he's thinking about this question.
He opens them, and blinks slowly, beautiful big blue orbs that scream to her don't hurt me, don't hurt me again.
"Dinner tomorrow. You can tell me about the case."
She'll take it. She'll take any inch he'll give and scramble for the rest, scratch and claw for it if she has to. He's already walking away, walking towards his door, and she drives off back towards her apartment once he's inside.
There is a gravity, a magnetic pull between them, no matter how hard she fights it or how long it has been. And she is tired now. Tired of fighting it, tired of him flickering on the edges of her conscious, now that she's had t a taste of the real thing again, in her car, next to her desk, at her side.
But she knows it isn't enough to stop fighting the pull. She also needs to start fighting…for him. But she doesn't know how.
Them beautiful reviews are beautiful, keep them rolling in and I'll keep rolling out the chapters.
We're hitting our stride into the meat of the story now.