Entirely Polly Lynn's fault.

Chapter 58: 2x18, Boom

He cares about you, Kate. You may not see it.
You may not be ready to. But he does.

The brass bell above the door jingles merrily as Castle hurries inside, out of the misty rain. The jeweler's shop is tiny and crowded, a disjointed mix of mechanics and whimsy. Watches, clocks, necklaces, bracelets, and assorted tools are strewn everywhere, a small stack of polishing cloths on the worn but spotless counter. A massive cuckoo clock is tucked back in one corner. A smaller one sits beside it.

"Be with you in a minute!" calls a disembodied voice from somewhere behind the counter.

Castle unbuttons his coat, brushing water droplets off his lapels, when a grey-haired man in a crisp white shirt and dark jeweler's apron appears from what must be the workroom.

"What can I do for you?"

"I need to get this watch fixed." He pauses, fishing it out of his pocket. "And cleaned, probably."

He hands over the handkerchief-wrapped watch, and the jeweler - Gerald, according to the sign outside the shop - unwraps it with careful hands.

Castle holds his breath. The leather band is singed and broken, the glass cracked, and he has no idea what kind of internal damage there is.

"Can you fix it?"

"Mmm," is Gerald's reply as he fishes a pair of glasses from his breast pocket. "Fire damage," he comments absently. He looks it over carefully, turning it in his hands, before pulling a tiny screwdriver out of his apron. Castle's surprised at the dexterity of his worn hands; his fingers look thick and clumsy, but he takes the watch apart with nimble ease, delicate as a bird, until finally it's a neat little row of cogs and gears and bits on one of his cloths.

Gerald pulls off his glasses, beaming at him. "I think we can save it, Mr. -"

"Castle. Rick Castle."

The jeweler shakes his hand firmly. "Gerald Molnari. Nice to meet you. So what's the story?"

"What do you mean?"

"This -" he gestures to the pieces of Jim's watch - "is a fairly nice watch. Not one of your fancy designers, but it's a good, solid piece. It's maybe fifteen, sixteen years old. Now, a man who buys this watch brand-new could afford to replace it. The fact that it's this old tells me there's more than just timekeeping value in it. And it's clearly not yours. You're wearing your own. And yours cost, oh, I'd say three times as much as this one did."

Castle blinks. "That was great. Very Sherlock Holmes."

Gerald chuckles. "There's a story in every watch. You just have to pay attention. So what happened to it?"

"An explosion."

"A what now?" Gerald eyes him suspiciously. "You blew up a watch?"

In Gerald's defense, it sounds insane. "Technically, it's not mine."

"So who does it belong to?"

"A - friend." It feels like the wrong word, but he's not sure what else to call her. "It was her dad's."

"You said there was an explosion?"

"You heard about that apartment that blew up yesterday?"

Gerald's eyes go wide. "That was your friend?"

Castle nods. "Some psycho tried to kill her. She survived. But I found this in the rubble."

"Oh." The old man nods knowingly. "And the watch is important to her, and she's important to you, so ergo, you're getting it fixed for her?"

"Yes." He won't quibble over the phrase important to you, because, well, she is, but it's possible Gerald's taking it to mean something it doesn't. But he's discovered that trying to explain whatever it is he and Beckett have only ends up muddying the waters further.

Gerald fishes an old-fashioned notebook out of one of the numerous pockets of his apron and starts jotting. "All right. I'm going to have to replace the band, you can see, and the glass. It looks like the gears survived pretty much intact. I might find one or two little cogs or springs that need replacing, but that should be about it."

"Whatever it takes. I don't care what it costs."

The old jeweler nods absently. "Not to worry, Mr. Castle. This little guy will tick again."

Jordan Shaw leaves the precinct with smiles and handshakes, and then it's just the two of them. Beckett and Castle. The dream team.

He sets down the little paper bag as casually as he can muster. Beckett looks surprised, and he's struck, for the hundredth time, just how well she's managing to process the fact that her home was blown up around her. "Wow. What's this?"

He's giddy inside, like a schoolboy, but he just shrugs. "Open it."

She stares at the bag for a moment, her face unreadable, before slowly reaching inside to pull out -

"My father's watch." She looks up at him with the warmest smile he's seen from her since this whole mess began. "Thank you."

"You're welcome." He can't stop staring at her. Her smile is dazzling. "I found it in the wreckage, had it fixed."

She looks over the watch in her hands, tracing the contours she knows so well along with the newly-replaced band and the shine of a few new parts, and it's perfect, this quiet moment.

He sometimes thinks their whole partnership lives in these little moments, the quiet spaces between the words and the warmth of her soft hazel eyes, and there are a hundred things he could say but he suddenly doesn't know where to start.

He's usually good with words.

She surprises him, though. Her fingers curl around the watch, her eyes very bright, and she leans forward, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek.

"Thank you, Rick."