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Chapter 5

Beckett unwraps the takeout and finds that it includes two dinners: one clearly being for Rick. She dives into hers, disposing of it in short order, but in the few moments she took to eat the whole lot, Rick hasn't moved, still staring at the board.

"Do you want your burger?" she asks. It seems to knock him out of his mesmerised fascination for an instant. He flips his gaze to her, and then back to the board.

"What's this?" he queries, mechanically eating his own dinner without removing his eyes from the story of homicide. Beckett could almost be jealous of the board, if she weren't so fascinated and mildly amused by his evident absorption.

"It's my murder board."

"Murder board?"

"Yeah. Easiest to pin everything on the case in one place, so we can all see it."

"All?"

"The team." She looks around. "Let's introduce you. Ryan, Espo, got a moment?"

Two mismatched men wander up, surveying Castle piercingly.

"Guys, this is Rick." She doesn't say anything else about him.

"Rick," the burly Hispanic says flatly. Then he smiles evilly. "Anything you wanna tell us, Beckett?"

Beckett? They call her Beckett? Not Kate? Dammit, now he needs to change that. Thank God for search-and-replace.

Kate matches Espo's (is that his full name, Castle wonders) evil smile with a sardonic grin of her own. "No. You could tell me about that pretty transit cop you went out with last week, though."

"How'd you – Ryan!"

Kate snickers. "Wasn't Ryan. I have my ways… and you were tagged on Facebook." Espo splutters.

In the interim, a slim, blue-eyed and rather boyish man in a sweater-vest (ugh) has watched. "So who's this Rick, Beckett? And why's he bringing you takeout?"

This time Kate squirms slightly. "We were supposed to have dinner," she begins.

"Dinner?" the two cops say together.

"Like a date dinner?" Ryan says with amazement. "You?"

Castle is equally amazed. A woman who looks like Kate doesn't date?

"Not a date," she grumps.

"No," he agrees quickly. "Just dinner."

The cops' attention is drawn back to him, and Castle experiences an uncomfortably slow, intensive examination. Approval is not the dominant flavour. He examines them right back, critically. In fact, he's fixing small details in his mind, a mental photograph album of expressions and appearance, stance, accent, movement, speech. He can't decide if he wants to rush home and write them up or stay here and cross-examine them about every aspect of their lives and personalities.

"Why're you here?"

"Kate" – there is a slight bogglement – "said she couldn't make dinner so I offered to bring takeout." He smiles, an edge of nervousness to it. "I didn't think it would be good for her to be hungry."

"More dangerous if she doesn't get her coffee," Ryan smirks.

"Not eating, not so much."

"Wanna see around?"

"Sure," Castle says enthusiastically. "I'd love to. I've never seen a working precinct before."

The two men sweep him off. "Isn't Kate coming too?"

"Beckett? Naw. She's thinking about the case."

Castle is swept into a kitchen-sitting area, which contains – he's still taking mental notes and photos – a commercial coffee machine, a microwave, a sink and a battered, stained couch. It's not prepossessing at all.

It becomes downright frightening when the door shuts behind them and he's the recipient of two full-scale Force Twelve intimidatory glares.

"We want a chat with you."

Castle bristles immediately. "Do you? Why? What's it got to do with you?"

"Beckett's our team. We look out for her."

"Does she know that? Do you do this to everyone she meets, or is it reserved for me?"

"You're here."

"Kate" – he emphasises her name – "said she couldn't come to dinner. So I brought it. She was cool with that. Nothing else."

"When did you meet her?"

"Where did you meet her?"

"Did you hit on her?"

Castle's temper explodes. "No, I didn't. I don't go round hitting on uninterested women." He just manages to shut his lips on I don't need to, women hit on me. "This conversation is done. Kate's a friend. That's it." He turns on his heel, walks out of the break room and, incandescently furious while totally inspired, walks straight into the elevator and out of the precinct.

A short taxi ride later, he's home, ignoring his mother even though she's draining his best red, and, fired up by fury, is hammering words into his keyboard with pinpoint precision, creating two aggressively protective detectives who interfere with his heroine's tentative meetings with a sexy reporter.

Back in the break room, Esposito and Ryan stare at each other.

"That…wasn't cool."

"Maybe you shouldn't have accused him of hitting on her."

Esposito colours, which is as good as a confession.

"What're you gonna tell Beckett?"

"Nothing. That Rick guy'll probably be tattling already."

Their confidence starts to leave when they exit the break room and find that there is no Rick-guy in evidence. Confidence runs for the hills when Beckett looks up at them and clearly expected there to be three men not two. Her face darkens.

"Where's Rick?"

Answer comes there none.

"What did you do?"

Still answer comes there none.

"Get your over-protective asses over here and explain!" she hisses. "What did you do and where is Rick?"

"Dunno," Ryan mumbles.

"Did you pair of" – an expletive is audibly not vocalised in the space – "dumbasses put the hard word on him?"

There is a horrible silence.

"Wanna tell me why?" she asks cuttingly. "Something one of you wants to tell me that you haven't in the last six months? Because I wouldn't date a co-worker if you paid me."

"No! It wasn't like that!"

"Ewww," Ryan emits.

"So what was it like?" Silence. "Right. So you decided you'd do a little intimidating of my friend and you've scared him off?"

"Don't think he was scared," Ryan mumbles. "Pissed, more like."

"The important words there were my friend," Beckett bites. "Thanks to you two, likely I'll never see him again. Get out of my sight."

Ryan and Esposito make it a full three steps before they work out that Beckett's shoulders have slumped and she appears to be utterly miserable. They reconvene out of her earshot.

"I think we messed up."

"I know we messed up."

"How're we gonna fix it?"

There is a pause.

"I got it!" Ryan exclaims. "Soon's she goes to the restroom, get her phone and find the number."

"Keypad lock."

Ryan droops. "We don't even know his name."

"We could ask Beckett for his number."

"We could get shot. Less likely to be fatal."

Inspiration fails to strike them. Guilt, on the other hand, has scored a knockout.

Beckett stares miserably at her desk, searching for a way to fix the boys' complete fuck-up. She wants to call Rick, but she doesn't know how to explain, and anyway, he'd clearly stormed out so obviously he doesn't want to talk to her.

She buries her head in her case file and refuses to talk to anyone, downing the filth the precinct machine claims to be espresso without pause. After an hour or so, she stands up, favours the entire bullpen with a rock-melting glare, collects her phone, and walks out.

She takes herself off to her favourite close-by coffee bar, orders some coffee which deserves the name, adds a chocolate pastry because chocolate soothes all ills, and contemplates Rick's phone number. Surely knowing the truth has got to be better than wondering?

She dials.

"Rick?" But only the voicemail picks up. She leaves a brief message of apology for her co-workers, doesn't dare suggest another meeting, and disconnects. Back to the grind. For the first time ever, she doesn't want to return: she wants to go home and bury her melancholy in her soft pillows and cool sheets. However, it's a hot case and the victim deserves justice – and if she's working, she won't have time to mourn. She stalks back into the bullpen, puts her head down, and works. She doesn't emit a single word to anyone.

"She don't look good," Espo whispers.

"Nope."

"We fucked up."

"Bigtime."

"She's really upset."

"But she said they weren't dating."

"So? She said he was her friend. How many friends has Beckett got?"

"Us? Lanie? O'Leary?"

"Haven't heard about anyone else, have we?"

"No."

"So we've fucked up."

"Bigtime."

"If you two don't want to solve this murder, go home." Beckett's jagged tones rip through the air, and Ryan and Espo hastily start to work.

Eventually, long after the others have left, Beckett drives home. Her phone hasn't made a single sound all evening. She doesn't shed a single tear, or sniff a single sniff. She's too busy planning the extended, excruciating demise of the rest of her team. It's enough to carry her through to sleep, and to an early start in the morning.

Castle's fury carries him through hours of sustained writing, after which he falls into bed, wakes briefly to have breakfast with Alexis, and then returns to sleep. Searing rage always converts into a tsunami of creativity, and he's always wrung out and emotionally exhausted afterward.

He doesn't rouse until almost noon, and then showers and shaves. It's not until he's almost finished the second cup of coffee from his top-class machine that, in a blinding flash of horror, he realises that he'd stormed out of the precinct without a single word to Kate. By now she'll have decided that she doesn't want to speak to him ever again. He can't believe he's done that. Just because her team are A-grade jackasses doesn't mean he had to be. Oh God. How is he going to fix this? He has to fix this.

He frantically finds his phone, and only then realises, dropping further into the abyss, that Kate had called. Hours ago. Last night. Oh God. No Kate, no Casino Royale. No hope. She'll never want to talk to him now, because he missed her call and she'll think he's ignoring her or ditched her and how is he ever going to fix it?

Trepidatiously, he listens to her message. It doesn't give a single clue to whether she's upset or not – which Castle, well used to female histrionics, cannot interpret at all. Cool, clear and above all calm voices are not common in his loud, emotional, celebrity world. When someone is upset, he certainly knows about it. His suspicion that she doesn't want to speak to him hardens.

Even so, he… he has to see her. Has to speak to her. Has to know the details, the story. He can't write without her. He's not going to lose her. Bad enough to lose his book, he can't bear to lose her too. Desperately, he dials.

There is no answer, only a few rings and then a cool voice inviting him to leave a message. He stammers out a few words, short apology for walking out, and hangs up: a moment later redialling.

"Kate… Remy's? Seven? Tonight?"

He entirely fails to do anything productive for the whole of the afternoon: totally blocked, totally miserable. By six, he's convinced himself that the two cops were scaring him off on her instructions, by six-thirty, he can barely force his feet to take him out of the door. At six fifty-five, he's staring at the empty space in Kate's usual booth in utter misery, perfectly certain that she won't appear. At seven oh-five, he knows it, and only the beer in front of him is keeping him there.

At seven-ten the beer is gone and Castle reaches for his coat. His ignored phone falls from the pocket, and as he picks it up he notices the message icon. He taps. What does it matter if he takes a few seconds longer? He's fucked, any way up. He'll just have to try to decipher that signature, or maybe Jenna would have a guest list – surely there was a guest list. He'll try that in the morning.

It's not as if he'd have anywhere else to be.

Can't make it till seven thirty – case broke open. Wait for me? K.

Case broke open? Uh?

And then light dawns. She didn't pick up because she was on the trail; she got the voicemails and somewhere she's found a moment to message him. It's not broken. It's okay. They're okay.

He lays his coat back down, orders another beer – and still makes a note to himself to call Jenna Cournat about the guest list for the fundraiser in the morning. If he made a donation, maybe there would be some minion who'd check off all the legible names and thereby reduce the number of possibles to something manageable. If Castle were really lucky, there might even be few enough to call.

He sips his beer and, for the first time in many months, amuses himself by making up stories about the other customers and the passers by.

"Hey," comes uncertainly, as Kate slides in opposite him. She looks – uh? Worried? Upset? Unhappy? All of the above and more? He doesn't like her unhappy, he realises with shock. Her hands are cradled within his before he's finished the thought: cold and still against his palms.

"I didn't expect you," he blurts.

Kate winces. "I didn't expect you. After those two idiots behaved like jackasses." There's a snap in her voice that Castle associates with their first meeting. "They had no right. I never expected they'd try that trick." She takes a breath. "I'm sorry they were such pains."

"Not your fault."

She shrugs, wearily.

"Anyway, I'm sorry I didn't stop to say. I should've…"

"It's okay."

"Would you guys like to order?" a server asks.

"Plain burger, medium rare, fries, strawberry milkshake, thanks," Beckett says brusquely.

"Cheeseburger, fries. Thanks."

The server takes the hint and disappears.

"It's not okay. I upset you and that's not okay." His clasp tightens. "I thought I'd screwed it all up." Her eyes are wide. He rapidly changes the next sentence. "I'd just found a new friend, and" –

"And my old friends decided to screw with you," she says bluntly. "Well, they've been told. They don't get to pull that trick." She smiles, sardonically. "Just as well you didn't tell them your name, or they'd have been running you."

Castle gapes. That's a risk he'd never thought of. His names must be linked in some database somewhere. Oh God. He can't – he doesn't want to let that happen.

"Don't look so shocked," she gibes gently. "I'll only run you if you commit a crime."

He manages a feeble smile. "Better not do that, then. Don't want you uncovering my dubious past."

She smirks. Dubious past? He's an office worker. Worst he'll have done is some underage drinking and a couple of traffic tickets. Maybe he went all out and dodged a subway fare when he was fifteen.

"Sure you don't," she grins. He grins back, less feebly. At that point she realises that he's still clasping her hands. A delicate eyebrow rises. "Are you kidnapping my hands, Rick?"

"No," he smirks. The other eyebrow joins the first. "Kidnapping implies without consent. Since I'm sure you could stop me without even touching your gun if you disapproved – though if you disapproved I wouldn't have kept them in the first place," he adds quickly, "– there must have been consent. So no kidnapping."

"Very clever. I don't remember you asking permission, though. Kidnapping is a felony."

"Are you threatening to cuff me? Because if so, my safe word is apples."

"You'd enjoy it far too much," Beckett bats back.

Before the discussion can descend further, the server brings their orders, and Rick releases Beckett's hands – rather reluctantly and slowly. To be fair, she is not in any hurry to be released. As soon as the burgers are done, he repossesses her hand, leaving her one for drinking her milkshake. She raises a sardonic eyebrow (a trait he's already written into the character) but turns her hand under his so they're palm to palm.

It's not until they're long into a second round of coffee, after dessert, and another grilling on every aspect of her current case, the procedure, the order in which matters are investigated, and even what colour pens she uses on the board and why (huh? That's well past anal-retentive and into seriously insane: she uses the pen that works) that Beckett realises that Rick hasn't let go of her hand for an instant and that he's mindlessly stroking with his thumb.

She ought to pull away. They're friends. She ought to…but she already knows that she isn't going to because now that she's noticed it, well, it feels good. Cosy. Warm. Ah, the hell with it. Hot. But he doesn't know he's doing it, and he is still, does the man never stop?, asking questions. So she just won't mention it.

Castle is so interested in Kate's case and all the minor, but crucial for authenticity and colour, details of every aspect he can think of, that he doesn't notice the time pass, the second round of coffee arrive, or, until he finally takes a deep breath and a slug of ughhhhh cold coffee, that he is still holding Kate's hand and petting gently.

As soon as he realises what he's doing (and been doing) he knows that he ought to pull away. But…she's not complaining, so maybe she likes it, or maybe she simply hasn't noticed…so he just won't mention it. He'll try not to think about how good – hot – it feels, either, because they're friends. In a fairly tactile, cuddly, way, to be sure, but friends.

Friends is good. Friends is very good.

"Can I come back to the precinct?" he asks.

"Uh?"

"Can I come back? I wanna look at it again. Get the details."

"You what now?"

"Get the details. Like how the light is and what an interrogation room looks like and how you watch and if you put witnesses in there or just suspects and what about training or sparring or shooting practice and do you have paper files or are they somewhere else" –

"Archives," she bites off.

"– and what's the reception do and how and who's there – he looked sorta old – and I noticed a Captain's office but didn't see him" –

"You don't want to. He's pretty hardass and he won't want outsiders hanging around."

"– and what's in there that couldn't be out in the main space" –

"Bullpen."

"– and do you all have to be really tidy like in attorney's offices" –

"You've never seen my dad's desk" –

Castle stops. "Your dad's an attorney?"

"Yep."

He manages not to ask any questions about that. The expression on Kate's face: pride, as if it were her child, mixed with a hint of old, deep sorrow, stops him. He notices that she hasn't mentioned her mother, and wildly surmises that her mother might be the loss to which she had admitted. He has no evidence whatsoever for that conclusion.

"Or does it not matter?" he finishes.

Kate is regarding him as if he's insane.

Okay, maybe she's not wrong.

Thank you to all readers and reviewers who are persevering through the lack of alerts and the website's woes.

Next chapter 2pm EST on Thursday. All chapters are being advertised on Twitter. Garrae_writes