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

"Ten years of tension. Really, now."

She places her hands on the edge of the desk and leans back with a grin.

"In that case, the situation's more dire than even I realized."

"Felt like ten. I'd need a second or third consultation to be sure."

God, are they really doing this? Banter's banter but this is Banter with a capital 'B'. This is verbal sparring two moves away from going to the mat.

"You think you'll get that far?"

It's a matter of toeing the line, testing that boundary to see just how far it'll give before something breaks through.

"What does your writer's intuition tell you, Castle?"

"'Same thing your cop instincts tell you."

"Right now, they're saying that was the last of the work I'm going to get finished tonight."

"Glory, glory, hallelujah," he says lowly. "Donovan's going to be more surprised to see you walk out of here before two a.m. than he was after they weighed his kid."

"He might be even more surprised to see who I walk out of here with," she points out, reaching to grab her coat where it's draped over the back of her desk chair.

"You wanna' split a cab?" He's not assuming anything. It would just be impractical for them to hope to flag down two taxis in this part of town after one a.m.

She's tying her scarf around her neck when he asks.

"Sure." It's nothing she gives much thought to, the potential consequences or ramifications of; besides, it just makes more sense.

The tension -- or whatever it is -- remains, but Castle finds that he can watch her tie a scarf around her neck without immediately referencing the way it felt to have her collarbone beneath his fingertips. He wheels his coat up and over his shoulders, dropping the heavy wool over his back.

"I still can't believe I got you to drop out in the middle of doing paperwork," he says, glancing at her while he works his scarf up over his collar, "I'm going to have so much to put in my diary tonight."

"Can we just skip past that part and go straight to the part where you have a diary? What, do you draw little hearts around our initials, too?"

She slides the strap of her bag over her forearm, then turns off the small desk light, slipping past him to start moving down the rows of desk to the elevator.

He has to hustle to follow. She may be shorter than he is, but she makes up for it with the great, ground-eating stride. The Kate Beckett Takes No Prisoners and Will Never Come In Last Place In A Walkathon.

"You really got that much confidence that you out-rank Rose Byrne in the little-hearts-around-initials department?"

She presses the button next to the elevator, waits for the sound of the cables whirring inside, and then steps through once the doors open for them.

"You tell me if I'm off, Castle."

"Only if, when you shoot the shape of a heart into the paper at the gun range, some part of you isn't thinking of me."

"Oh, I don't know if I can make that promise completely," she says, leaning back against one side of the elevator as the doors close.

And Castle stands on the other side. Not out of a sense of awkwardness or respect (though there's definitely something strange in the air between them now), but for the simple fact that he knows how elevators work, especially if their passengers were pretty handsy not ten minutes ago.

He stares at the number read-out as they crawl toward the lobby.

"Do you have a diary?"

"That's for me to know and you to never find out," she answers, timing her response perfectly with the moment when the doors open and Donovan glances up from his reading, the small lamp light illuminating his profile.

"Evening, detective," he says. "Heard you might be needing a cab in an hour or so, so I called ahead for you."

All Beckett can do is look at Castle and will her jaw not to drop too hard.

"How did you know you were going to get me to put the work down?" she hisses, nudging his side with her elbow as they walk out to the idling cab parked just in front of the precinct.

Castle spreads his hands in a Am I Good Or Am I Good? gesture, crab-stepping out of the precinct while Donovan shakes his head behind them.

He pops open the door for her.

"Writer's intuition, and jeez," rubbing his tender ribs, "do you sharpen those things in the mornings or what?"

The cab dips and bobs when Castle swings his weight onto the back seat, closing the door with a neat snikt.

Edited 2010-02-10 15:47 (UTC)

"Every single morning," she dryly answers, sliding into her side and settling back against the seat, resting her bag on her knees.

There's something about a cab ride in the city though, this early in the morning, that possesses the kind of relaxing lull which soothes her. Combined with the massage from earlier and the fact that the heat inside the cabin isn't actually set to a raging degree, it's a cozy atmosphere to head home to.

Beckett momentarily turns her gaze out towards her window, lost in thought.

Castle follows the focus of her profile and spends a few seconds watching the passing lights weave across her cheek. It's New York City, but there's barely anyone up and around at one o'clock on a weeknight. Even the sidewalks in front of the clubs are relatively empty; no one wants to stand in line in the cold for a ten dollar appletini.

He suddenly wonders if he's getting old.

Her gaze finds his in the dark after another moment or two. It's still a ways to her apartment, even more of a haul to his. There's a look in his eyes that she can't quite decipher.

"What are you thinking?" she murmurs.

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.

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