The morning rush has just wound down and a lone customer sits in a corner of the store, engrossed in a laptop. I'm giving the floors a quick mop and am already dreading the lunch crowd when Rick walks in.
His shoulders are slumped, his brow creased, and his jaw is tight. He takes the mop from my hand without even a glance and takes over the chore, waves me absently over to a chair and quietly continues swabbing the rough stone tiles. I eye him curiously but bite my tongue, figuring that I'll give him a minute or two. I'm sure that he'll spill whatever is bothering him when he's ready.
However, the minutes tick by, and nothing but the soft swish of the mop against the tiles can be heard. I'm imagining crickets chirping, hearing elevator music in my head, waiting; at any minute I fear tumbleweeds might go careening across the store.
When he's not forthcoming, and as the bell tinkles with the laptop customer's departure, I simply cannot take the silence any longer. Walking over to a chair directly in his line of vision, I take a seat and look at him with an expectant glare.
Nothing. He continues mopping and completely ignores my proximity.
"Morning Rick," I say, trying for nonchalance in my greeting.
"Morning Jess," he finally mumbles, throwing me the briefest glimpse of eye contact before continuing with what should be my cleaning duties.
He's looking good this morning; he has consistently for the last few months if I think about it. He's wearing a deep crimson shirt that somehow brings out the blue of his eyes, a dark brown sport coat and a red cashmere scarf. Black pants, perhaps a hair too tight, hug his rounded rear end; it's a pleasing view that I can't help but admire. No doubt about it, his relationship with the detective has its perks. Never has he made such an effort to look so consistently good. Public events and a night on the town, sure, but never all the time. I haven't seen a worn and saggy pair of jeans or a ratty t-shirt in months. The scruffy, keeper of irregular hours, writing-coma Rick seems to be a thing of the past.
I may have to make an effort to pull a few more morning shifts. The eye-candy is a delightful start to my day.
He dips the mop in the bucket and swirls it around a bit to remove the dirty water. As he's wringing it out and flopping it back on the floor, he splashes water down his pant leg, leaving an unfortunate looking stain. He lets out an obscenity and I chuckle quietly to myself as I continue my observations.
He looks ridiculous mopping my floors while wearing that outfit and I simply can't help the smug grin that plasters itself on my face. I lean back into the comfortable lounge chair, watching, enjoying the show. Waiting. I'm not going to stop him.
I'm not an imbecile, after-all. He's doing rather a good job, and besides that, my feet ache. If he wants to work out his frustrations by cleaning my coffee shop, who am I to argue? I smother another laugh as I consider laying out the Windex and a cleaning rag.
I wander over to the counter and grab myself a muffin, wondering if he's upset enough to squeegee my storefront windows. They are well past due for a cleaning. New York City has a way of layering a never-ending sheen of dirt, construction dust and car exhaust on everything. Keeping it at bay is an unceasing battle. I pick at the muffin as he continues scrubbing my floors.
His eyes had held a flicker of... something when he had muttered his hushed greeting. To the outside world, I'm sure he is still his usual, jaunty self; easy with his smile and quick with a joke. Dapper and dashing to the extreme, he'll be sure to project the Rick Castle that everybody knows and loves. His eyes though, in the brief moment that he had allowed contact, were clouded and an icy hue of blue. Rick, the man and not the persona, had shown through for just a second; the facade had dropped. The usual flecks of deep steel and cobalt blue had been absent, and the amused spark that normally accompanies his gaze had been lacking.
He is a million miles away. He looks pensive, nervous, like he's contemplating the mysteries of the universe in the swirls and specks of the slate tile.
I've finished the muffin and he's still mopping. Moping too. I stroll back to the seating area and find a chair, prop my feet up on a coffee table and scrutinize him, wondering what on earth has him so on edge, what has brought him here so early in the morning? What has distracted him so much that he has forgone the now routine order for himself and the detective?
He's definitely here to talk; he's looking for my own special brand of pseudo-therapy and ass-kicking. That much is clear. That he's not going to his mother or daughter gives me a pretty good idea that the problem is female-related. The question is, which one? And what's taking him so long to tell me about it?
I'm fairly certain it's not the detective. He's a veritable fountain of information when it comes to her. Gushing wouldn't be an overstatement. I haven't seen him this contemplative, this messed up, since...
Oh. Crap. No, it couldn't be. It's been almost twenty years.
"Out with it," I finally say, not willing to wait him out any longer, the suspense killing me.
He jolts into awareness and for a moment I almost feel bad for him. He rests the mop against the counter and gives me a wary look.
Is that guilt I see marring his expression?
"I saw Kyra last night..."
God. That's what I had suspected. Two weddings and two divorces, two decades, but neither of his marriages had had him brooding like Kyra. She was his first love and it had ended unexpectedly and painfully. For both of them. It was a wound left not quite healed, just waiting to be re-opened, but better left untouched if it could be helped.
He flops himself into the chair beside me and winces, waiting for my onslaught.
I'd nursed many a Kyra-induced hangover after their split; surely he knows what my stance is going to be on the matter. Enjoy the memories, but don't repeat the mistakes. It's written all over his face. He knows. Shame, and a large helping of self-flagellation is etched into his pensive stare.
"And?" I prod.
There is more to this story that he's not sharing.
"We kissed..." he hedges.
It comes out almost as a question. He's still holding back. His eyes carry a flicker of pain, a brief flash of longing; his posture screams guilt.
"And?"
"She's getting married," he sighs.
Oh brother!
Even after his confession, the guilt still lingers on his features. I hope to God he didn't sleep with her. Surely, he's not that stupid.
"And?" I press on, becoming slightly exasperated with the slow trickle of information he's feeding me. He came here for my advice, didn't he? The lunch rush will soon be upon us and I don't want to see him leaving just as upset as he entered. He's running out of time. Though I have an itch to smack some sense into him, compassion wins out and I continue with my soft probing.
"Just spit it out, Rick," I soothe. "Fast like a band-aid. Better that way," I assure him.
He collapses into himself, groaning, rests his head in his hands and offers me a weak sidelong glance. There's a hint of a smile finally and he takes a deep breath before rushing headlong into his admission. It comes out in a jumble of words, on a single faltering breath.
"She's a suspect in a murder Beckett and I are investigating; a murder at her wedding. She didn't do it, Jess, I know it, but Beckett, she's gonna.. she told me to stay away from her."
I give him a moment to collect himself while I bite back the urge to call him a multitude of disparaging names.
Really? How could he?
"I'm an idiot. You can say it," he moans.
And with one doleful look and that earnest tone of voice, he's forgiven.
"You're an idiot," I smile, with a gentle pat to his leg as I rise.
"Thanks Jess," he deadpans.
"Welcome, Ricky." I squeeze his hand on the way past, pick up the mop and place it in the supply closet. I begin making his cappuccino, and gesture towards the stack of empty cups. "So... we gonna need a Beckett this morning?"
"Uh... yeah, please."
"You wanna talk about it? Or are you happy for me to just continue calling you an ass?"
I fiddle with the steamer, turning it to full, being careful to slowly lower the pitcher and not to allow too much air to enter the milk and ruin the texture.
"There's nothing there anymore," he says. "With Kyra, I mean. It was nice though..." He smiles, obviously remembering. "Kind of like the goodbye kiss we never got. Closure, forgiveness, all of it. I'm glad I saw her. Good memories, you know?"
He still looks pensive.
"But?"
"Do I tell Beckett that I saw her? She's gonna kill me."
Ah, his detective. Of course.
"Oh, I don't think she'll kill you... maybe just... maim you a little."
I smirk, enjoying his discomfort as he shoots panicked eyes in my direction.
"You have to tell her, Rick. You're working this case with her, right? Basically her partner? If nothing else, and I don't believe for a second that there's nothing else, not with the way you talk about her... if nothing else though, you have to let her know before she finds out anyway and you get yourself mixed up on the wrong side of this investigation."
He nods slowly, accepting my advice, even though the pained expression is still clearly shadowing his features. I place his beverages in a to-go carrier and slide them towards him.
"Banana chip muffin for the road?" I offer with a grin, picking up the fresh-baked morsel with tongs and waving it in front of his nose.
A soft glint returns to his eyes with a small smile. He nods.
"Thanks, Jess," he says, whipping the muffin out of my grasp and taking a bite. "You're the greatest," he mumbles around the treat.
Crumbs fall out of his mouth as he speaks and I laugh, reaching over the counter to brush them away."I know. Now go take your penance like a big boy."
He rolls his eyes and walks out of the store looking at least marginally better. The guilt is still there, the nervous energy still bubbling around at the surface, but I feel like our chat has at least set him on a path back to normal.
Well, maybe not normal. Rick Castle is anything but normal, I think warmly. That's why I love him.
He's a good man though, and honest. He'll do the right thing.
A big huge thanks to Kellie, who not only read this through for me, but also left me pondering just how awesome NF's "tight, round, rear end" really is. And come on, what better way is there to end the night?