fanofthegenre | [ late night at the precinct ]

Entry tags:

oom,
rick castle

[ late night at the precinct ]

Long nights of paperwork are nothing new for Beckett.

Spending the dull hours of the evening filing away even duller paperwork is a routine she's grown accustomed to; the life of a detective isn't always preoccupied with chasing down a suspect or interrogating a guilty party. Sometimes, there's the moments that aren't always worth writing about, the files she somehow manages to let pile up while she's doing the more exciting parts of her job. It's a vicious cycle, the way the tedious work tends to sneak up on her when she's least expecting it.

Every now and then, her eyes flick to the clock, tracking the time, gauging how many hours she has left to finish what she's working on before she'll be getting absolutely no sleep at all. She's the only one here, apart from the night guard working the desk downstairs, and every now and then she stops to stretch, or to refresh her coffee after fiddling with some of the dials on the espresso machine - the machine that nearly requires a PhD from Starbucks to know how to use.

Sitting back down again at her desk, she rolls her shoulders and then her neck, settling in to wrap up a few last-minute details on the open file in front of her.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

She catches him staring and he hunkers down beneath the weight of it, like a warm comforter. 'Smiles a little and shifts on the seat. These cabs haven't been updated in years and they all carry the familiar, slightly stale smell of hurry and stress.

"I was thinking about hot dogs," he says, apropos of nothing. "There's a stand a couple blocks from your place. 'Usually open until after two. You eat anything today?"

"You want to go get a hot dog. Now."

She sighs, pushes her tongue out against the corner of her mouth, and then leans back against the seat, her shoulder pressing along his.

"Fine, fine."

"You put down your paperwork," he says, turning a smile at her, "the least I can do is buy you a hot dog."

"Who says that's even the thing I want right now?"

She hides her smile, turning her face away. The next thing he'll feel is the press of her cheek as she lays her head against his shoulder.

"Let me know when we get there," she says quietly.

"What do you --"

as he's interrupted by the soft drop of a cheek on his shoulder, her elbow tucked neatly against his ribcage. 'Just close enough to serve as a support, which he's more than happy to do. He leans his cheek near the crown of her head. "I will." His breath stirs her hair.

"Good," she sighs, her eyes drifting closed as the soothing rumble of the taxi gives her a few moments of rest. Just enough, for now.

She doesn't fall asleep completely; how could she, with him this close? But there's another small comfort in the scent of his cologne - not overwhelming - and the ghost of warm breath over her hairline while her cheek presses into his shoulder - not uncomfortable.

Beckett lives in a respectable part of town, sandwiched between two art districts. Her apartment is a handsome brownstone and, while it doesn't have the amenities that Castle's place does, at least it's got a view and a seasoned doorman. Castle sees the hot dog cart parked on the corner a few blocks down. The vendor's apron is bright white and frames his belly like a puffed-out sail.

The cabbie slides the plate glass aside. "This the place?"

Castle speaks lowly. "Yeah, but do me a favour. Circle the block a couple of times, wouldja?"

"Sorry, buddy, my shift's over. You want the sightseeing tour you're gonna' have to --"

"-- There's an extra fifty bucks in it for you if you do the scenic route."

The cabbie switches off his On Duty sign and shuts the partition. The cab glides on through the dark.

Beckett shifts sleepily along Castle's shoulder, moving her head in a sort of half-nuzzle before she straightens her posture, pressing a hand to the cheek that seems to have taken on the exact impression of the stitching along the shoulder of his jacket.

"We there yet?" she mumbles, blinking awareness back into her eyes as she looks for familiar landmarks out through the cab's rear window.

"Just about." He checks his eyes with the driver's via the rearview mirror and the cab picks up a little inertia. If he's lucky, Beckett won't recognize her neighborhood until they circle back around to the main road. He bought them a little time -- ten minutes, maybe -- and it was the first time tonight that Castle has been greedy about something.

"Don't worry. I didn't touch you. Much."

Even through half-lidded eyes, she can still manage an impressive glare - in fact, it almost works better for that, she thinks, as she muffles a yawn with her fist and runs fingers through her hair in a makeshift comb.

"You're getting your hot dog," Beckett says. "Don't push it."

The cab glides up to the curb and Castle gets out to do business with the driver. ("I've seen a lot of weird things in my time, but I never saw a guy fork over fifty bucks just so he could watch a chick sleep in the back of a cab.") The wind's picked up. Castle buries his cheek into the lining of his coat and crosses to Beckett, who looks surprisingly awake for someone who just spent the last quarter hour snuggled against his shoulder.

Guess it's a "cop thing" -- reflexes always at the ready.

That old, charming smile is back. "They say that the eyes are the window to the soul, but I prefer to think that a better judge of human character is the way a person dresses their hot dog." He nods toward the cart. "Get whatever you want."

The cold's part of the reason she's back to her normal alertness, and she shoulders her bag, jamming her bare hands into the pockets of her coat to keep warm as a cutting burst of wind picks up. Beckett waits for Castle on the curb and catches snippets of his conversation with their driver, but the wind makes it impossible to hear everything and she gives up trying.

She takes a step to the cart, blinking under the fluorescence, and the smell alone renews her hunger. Nothing does that quite like a New York City hot dog, Beckett thinks.

"Ketchup and mustard on mine, thanks."

She reaches out for it when it's ready, grateful for the heat that permeates through the small white-and-red checkered container against her chilled fingers. Beckett's hungrier than she even realized; she takes a bite before Castle's even done ordering his.

"Hm, the classic approach --" Castle watches her hot dog disappear while he handles one for himself, loaded with Chicago-style trimmings (with the addition of spicy mustard) "-- says you're organized, rule-abiding, and that you may or may not have ties to the Heinz family." He bucks his eyebrows and takes a large bite.

"And what does yours say?" Beckett asks, around a mouthful of dog.

"Risk-taker, free-thinker, not afraid to spice things up a little," she adds, affecting the tone he uses when he's in writer mode.

He hands the vendor a few bills and swipes some napkins, flanking her as they begin the walk toward her apartment.

"That," he affords. "Also says I'm the kind of guy who's going to need breath mints before work tomorrow morning." He toasts her with the onion-loaded dog.

"Too bad," Beckett says, polishing hers off and licking a swirl of red-and-yellow from her thumb to hide the inevitable smirk.

"I was really aiming for that Diamond Package offer."

As she speaks, they pass a curbside garbage can.

Castle dumps the rest of his hot dog.

"Something just opened up."

Beckett's nearly rendered speechless.

But not quite.

"What'd you do that for?"

"Some things in moderation, detective. Everything else in excess."

She shakes her head again. They're closer, now, to the apartment; she stalls outside, lingering near the front door, her hands back in her pockets and her breath briefly visible in the air.

"You going to try and snag a cab this late, or what?"

He pulls his hands from his sides and stuffs them into the pockets of his coat, glancing up the street. The lights have already turned over from red-yellow-greens to flashing four-way stops. He starts to regret the logistical problem that living uptown presents.

"Ah, yeah. I'll go a couple blocks up and over. Bars're starting to close down; there'll be foot traffic."

Beckett pauses. There's a leap to be made here, and she can either charge forward or take a step back.

"You sure? I mean, it wouldn't be any inconvenience if you wanted to, you know - "

The next word is half-muffled as she turns her head to visually scan her building.

"Stay."

"I'm sorry?"

Castle's too young to be hard of hearing. This is one of those unsettlingly frequent occasions when Beckett says something that takes him completely by surprise. He distinctly heard the word stay, regardless of whether or not she buried it in the collar of her coat. Stay.

"Stay with you?"

"What?"

There's no point in playing it off as though she hasn't said it; inside her pockets, her hands are clenching and unclenching like her stomach feels as though it's turning inside out.

"You don't - never mind, it was a dumb idea, dumb," she mutters, fishing for her keys inside her bag - and when did her bag get so damn bottomless, anyway?

"No, I mean, yeah --" Oh, great start, Castle. "-- I was just, I didn't know if you meant, like, with you or, you know, out here. On the stoop." He makes a 'planting' motion with his hands, indicating the pavement.

'Clicks his fingers.

"You're trying to be my knight in shining armor, aren't you?"

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject