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.

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"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.

"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.

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