As before, Beckett is taking a moment to herself before going inside. Martha and John have preceded her. She'd caught a brief glimpse of Anton Richter through the screen door—5'8" and lean, brown hair with a waning hairline parted neatly to the right. He was dressed in gray slacks and a white long-sleeved shirt tucked neatly at the waist. She wonders if that's normal attire or if he's trying to present himself. He might be going through his own internal processes right now; anticipating, building carefully planned emotional responses and inflections.

Either way her skin is crawling. I don't talk to murderers, damn it. I hunt them.

The front yard is thick with snow. She imagines the ground beneath it is more dirt and stone than grass. It's probably well-tended to, like the resident of the abode, but the expansive oak has been hogging the revitalizing sunlight for who knows how many years. Anything trying to grow in its shadow would be marked for a difficult life. The thought draws her lips into a firm line of displeasure.

Everything in the world is a grim parallel tonight.

The detective slips a hand into her coat and retrieves her cell. Her fiancé is on speed-dial, but she dallies with the prevaricating task of finding him among a long list of contacts instead. The picture attached to him there is one of them together. Sneaky Alexis discovered them snoozing on the couch together during one of those rare lazy Sundays and snapped a quick image. Rick is on his back, barefoot, in jeans and a t-shirt with one arm curled possessively around the small of Kate's back. Her long form is in shorts and a halter top. She's half beside him, half splayed across him. Dark waves of her hair obscure most of her face where it lay against his chest, but there's enough visible to see that she looks…peaceful, as does her 'pillow'.

An infinitely better kind of parallel, she muses with a small, wavering smile.

A single, indecisive digit hovers over his mobile number among the available list. She dithers, questions, and rather suddenly sees her thumb touch it without her mind's permission. Oopsy-daisy.

He answers on the first ring. "Kate?"

Amazing how a single utterance can correct a world that's tilted off its axis. "Jeez," she says, grins broadly, "do you have that thing glued to your hand?"

"I didn't mean to answer," he says and sniffs with nonchalance. She doesn't buy it for a second. "I was trying for a triple Tetris and the call got in my way. I dropped a five-long where it doesn't belong."

"My record remains safely out of your reach," she purrs, playing along. "Operation Distraction is a success."

"Better than you could've hoped it would seem. I unwittingly rhymed."

"You did," she confirms with a brief, throaty chuckle. "I was gonna let it slide."

"Ah. Taking it easy on me tonight, hmm?"

There's what he just said, and what he really means—and the difference between them is one more example of how they've always communicated. It's an invitation to discuss what she's learned about him so far. But she didn't call for that. It's too fresh. Talking about it would be alcohol upon the open wound.

"I just wanted to hear your voice," Beckett reveals.

"I'm glad." The words are a warm, deep bath for her nerves to soak in. "The truth is I've been sitting here not dialing your number for at least half an hour."

"Just half an hour?" She smiles again and slips an escaped lock of hair behind her ear. "You really oughta be doing something more useful with your time."

"Uh-oh. I'm hearing something," he reports grimly. "I'm hearing what can only be the approach of an impending honey-do…"

Kate's upper body quivers with mute humor. "You'll like it."

"Oh? Go on then—wow me."

"Don't be dubious. Actually, I was just thinking about your bed."

"Our bed."

"Our bed," she corrects with a swift eye-roll, but smirks.

"Mm," he receives with pleasure. "Thank you. Please continue."

"I was thinking about our bed," Kate obliges, "and how it's so big and inviting; how it's this insanely good medium between soft and firm."

"Uh-huh," he agrees.

"Great for sinking in and sleeping. But supportive enough for…other indulgences."

"Other," Castle blurts. "I like other. I adore other."

"Mmhmm, me too. So I'm thinking," she smiles, "about…other…and it makes me wonder…"

There's a rough edge in his voice when he prompts, "Yeah?"

"Have you changed our bedding yet?"

"Ugh," he growls in her ear. "I knew that was going to happen, but I allowed myself to hope."

"We live in hope," she quotes. "But we sneeze in sheets that haven't been changed since the last time we were here. Switch 'em, buster, or you'll be burrowing into that nest of dust bunnies all by your lonesome."

"Shows what you know—I already have."

"Fibber!"

"I am," he admits. "But so are you. You said I'd like your honey-do. I honey-do-not care for it one bit."

Beckett shrugged though he couldn't see it. "I can't help it if your ideas of fun are warped by the proclivities that come with too many years of being a man-child. To a normal person changing sheets is a flippin' hoot. We practically live for it."

"You said 'proclivities'. I honey-do like that."

"If you use some of the letters from it you can spell the word clit," she comments, grinning again.

He huffs through the line at her teasing, but plays along. "And lips."

"Tie."

"And civil."

"And sexy."

"Huh? There's no 'x' in proclivities."

"Yeah, well, there's nothing especially sexy about being civil. I thought we'd switched games."

"Oh," he hums, drawing out the word into multiple syllables, and she imagines he's grinning. "You're being rude, huh? I didn't realize. That's my mistake." Feigning indignant draws a brief, soft laugh out of her. "We could play a math game. Solve this equation for me: three equals capital 'd'."

Kate's surprised, full-bodied laugh escapes and spirals up into the canopy of the night. 3=D is an old joke from when they were still sneaking around about their relationship. She'd occasionally text him those symbols to indicate when she was done at the precinct and ready for some…company.

Rick falls quiet for a time, and Kate's content to do the same. She revels in how good it feels to enjoy this side of her fiancé—the man that scarred and healed around the ugly wounds she's discovering tonight. The rest of the world slowly comes back into focus as it stretches out between them: the snow falling, the towering oak, and the lights in the curtained windows of the house waiting before her.

"I should go," Beckett offers to the accompaniment of a quiet sigh. "They're waiting for me inside."

"At Henry's?"

"Been and gone," she replies, pushing the words out quickly. She takes a steadying breath before adding, "We're at your old house now."

"Anton," Castle says, and that's all.

"Yeah."

"He's…an odd one."

"How so?"

"No," Castle issues slowly. "I don't want to risk coloring your impressions. Judge for yourself, Kate."

"I can hear your opinion and still think for myself," she chides lightly.

"No, I know, but…"

Kate sighs again, in a girding manner rather than an expression of exasperation. "It's okay."

There's another, briefer span of quiet. "One more stop after this," he reminds her at length. "Then you'll be home."

"On clean sheets," she slips in, though her smile is less pronounced now.

"They'll be waiting. And Kate…I honey-do miss you."

Beckett feels a better kind of ache replace the ones that have manifested over the course of the evening. She brushes her fingers back over her hair and clasps her ponytail. "Me too."

"I'll see you soon."

"Not soon enough." Touching the end button is no easy feat.