John Autry is a goddamn giant. He stands 6'6" and has to weigh in around three hundred pounds. Precious little is wasted on fat. He's dressed in his uniform, tan slacks and a brown shirt with the insignia specific to Suffolk country. Over it, he's straining the limitations of a three-quarter-length black leather jacket. Even Castle's expansive living room feels like too small a space with the deputy in it. His goatee is long and thick—no way in hell that's regulation. It's as black as raven's plumage and stands out all the more against the deeply tanned flesh of his shaved head. According to Castle the guy was on loan until recently to the ATF as an undercover operative in a biker gang. John didn't say which one, or how he'd managed to get involved with a federal agency. He didn't say anything about it apparently, but the operation must have gone very well, because he's supervising the local sheriff substation at thirty-five, a deputy lieutenant.

That's a fast track which rivals Beckett's ascent in the NYPD.

"Nice to meet you," she told him, offering a hand.

There's a tick of unease when he absolutely swallows her appendage with one of his—she half expects to pull back something limp and crushed. He's merely firm though. He knows his strength. "Ma'am."

"You can call me Kate."

"Yes, ma'am."

She frowns lightly into his eyes in reply. They're as close to black as the human iris can get, and hooded by his eyelids to an extent that lends the man a sleepy, almost oafish appearance. But Kate knows people. She sees the unmistakable gleam of intelligence burning hotly within them. It makes her smile, and somehow she feels immediately comfortable with the intimidating man. "Try again."

John shifts where he stands and rocks his jaw side-to-side with mild discomfiture. "Kate then."

Castle beams. "Well. That's a new record to my knowledge."

"What a pushover," Martha accuses as she enters with a tray of mugs of tea. Steam trails from them like wavering banners of gossamer. "We have a few minutes yet. Might as well put something warm in our bellies."

John thanks her as he takes one. He calls her Mrs. Rodgers. The cup looks like a toy in his hands. The detective doesn't mean to stare as he takes a sip, but again her expectations assert themselves and she's waiting for him to chomp the ceramic down too, as if it were part of the unexpected treat. He doesn't.

"You're not coming with us," he says, looking to Castle. She can't tell if it's a question or not.

Rick's seeming enjoyment wavers some, but he keeps it together as he has all day. "No."

"That's best."

Beckett frowns again. "Best?" she parrots. "Maybe it is for you. Not me." Her gaze strays to the author as she says so. "I don't even know these people, Rick. I don't understand what you expect me to get out of visiting them. You're the only means I have of assigning context to whatever they might say. Without you there too…"

"Mrs. Rodgers and I can fill in most of any blanks you might have," John states evenly. "But really, I doubt you'll require help grasping what these people have to tell you." Is that a compliment? Again it's hard to tell. His tone is calm, but assertive, like a man who's confident of his decision by means of careful consideration rather than empty bravado. "It's more a history lesson, remember. There never was a mystery involved."

True. The only mystery presented is Castle himself. That's why she wants to keep him close right now. And—okay, fine—part of the woman simply desires his company. Today of all days Kate finds their separating even for a short span of hours difficult to swallow. She doesn't like it. Not one bit.

"Gonna miss me?" her fiancé teases lightly. But his blue eyes say: God, yes, honey—me too.

Beckett has to rip her eyes away from him, casts them into her slowly cooling tea. "Okay," is all she says.

The room is quiet for a time. Strangely, it's not an awkward hush even with a stranger in the midst. It is the kind which precipitates any act of significant personal difficulty. No one is willing to disturb it. When the phone rings upon the end table next to Martha they all jerk in surprise. The actress lays a hand to her breast, huffs a brief, uneasy laugh as she picks up the cordless receiver.

"Hello?"

"That's probably Henry Calloway," Castle explains quietly, facing Kate. "He's the lighthouse keeper—as he was then. He's most likely the reason mother knew we'd already been there. Before today," he adds slowly and considering of his words, "I hadn't set foot there for over twenty-five years."

Jesus... Beckett can only imagine the way his heart must be clenching around the words. Hers certainly is. It makes replying impossible for a few moments. She nods stiffly instead.

"Forgive me," John submits to them with seeming hesitance, "but…why now, Richard? It's been so long."

They call you Richard here. They would, wouldn't they? Hard to bestow a friendly nickname on someone you can't take anything less than completely seriously. A swift and especially deep ache of sadness assails her, because she knows how much her partner loves to laugh, how lacking in seriousness he habitually prefers to be. No one here plays with him the way people do in The City—the way she does. It probably doesn't even occur to them that he'd welcome it.

Kate knows the answer to the proposed query. She slowly lifts her left hand.

The deputy really is smart. He catches the engagement band. He doesn't say another word.

"That's good," Martha is saying on the phone as silence returns to the others. "Yes. We'll be around shortly. Thank you so much, Henry. Uh-huh. Bye-bye." The actress stands as she returns the handset to its cradle. "Okay. Henry is expecting us whenever we're ready."

John stands as well. He strikes the detective as a good man. But he's also a fittingly daunting specter of the grim places they're aimed towards this afternoon, and he's not even scantly worthy as a temporary stand-in for the one she's being asked to leave behind. Her gaze shifts to Rick as they both rise. By some unspoken signal the deputy and Martha bid Rick a murmured farewell and head to the foyer. Then it's just them. And leaving is simply intolerable.

"I don't want to go," she declares flatly, unrepentant.

The author just stares at her for a time. She shifts her weight from one hip to the other, rattled some by imagining what he's seeing without her being aware of broadcasting it. At length he closes the distance between them to claim her left hand in his. "You know, Kate, I've never for a moment assumed that you not asking about this kind of stuff sooner was due to a lack of interest. I know that it's always been a matter of time, of timing."

Uhn. God. He's killing her today. She sniffs noisily, blinks her eyes a few times quickly to dissuade any notion of moisture. "You know that, huh?" she replies with teasing, cool dubiousness. It makes him smile, which makes her do the same. She lifts her free hand to pinch his cheek. "You're so smart sometimes."

"I'm a good shot too," he says with an arching eyebrow, and lightly pinches her right nipple through her sweater.

"Ow, jeez. Nice," she concedes grudgingly. "Save some of that for later, buster. Save a lot of it." Her amusement wavers. "'Cause you bet your ass I'll be back. Nothing I'll hear out there can stop that from happening."

"I believe you."

She believes him. They kiss, and though it's a merging of comfort more than passion they linger together for long ticks of the clock. Her eyes droop lethargically as his touch ghosts her cheeks and drift back to stroke through the ponytail she's gathered her hair into.

"I love you," he murmurs into the darkness behind her eyelids.

"Hmm. That's not just smart—it's genius."