[ forced decompression ]

[fanofthegenre]

Combing the parking garage for any sign of the third victim's body proves fruitless. The killer - whoever he is - isn't sticking to his normal M.O. of leaving the body where he's killed them, either. Forensics bags the lone pump, the clumps of blonde hair, swabs the places where her blood had spilled, but Beckett isn't hopeful yet. Changing his

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[bestsellingego]

Castle had stayed behind at the parking garage while CSU swept the scene once, then twice. When they came back empty-handed, Shaw had ordered them to go over it again and a couple of them had grumbled about not getting paid overtime to be federal lackeys -- but they'd at least had the foresight to do it when they were out of earshot of the female agent. Castle'd had mixed feelings about Beckett's forced leave of absence. On the one hand, he agreed with Shaw: Beckett needed a break. She'd been running down leads in her sleep, trying to make impossible connections, and Castle had more than once caught her with her nose pressed close to the precinct's whiteboard, as if she believed the thing was actually going to talk to her

[fanofthegenre]

Beckett's camped out on the couch, cardboard and styrofoam containers covering the coffee table while the cushions themselves hold as many files as she could grab on what they've dealt with so far. The way she sees it, Shaw won't even miss handwritten files when she's got her smart board or her data matrix or whatever other fancy-shmancy top-of-the-line gadgets she's working with that has Castle making his googly eyes. Half-subconsciously, she angrily stabs at a bundle of rice with her chopsticks before she realizes what she's doing and almost starts to laugh at herself. It's ridiculous, and she shouldn't even be letting it get to her

[bestsellingego]

You looked like you needed a drink today. He shakes his head. You looked like you could use a drink. No good, either. I wanted to see what kind of pajamas you were wearing. This last excuse, while partially true, doesn't even give him a moment to fantasize because suddenly the door to her apartment is open and he's looking down the wrong end of her service piece.

So, for all of his troubles, Castle's response ends up being a high-pitched "YELP!" and a half-second impulse to throw the bottle of wine at her and bolt in the other direction.

When his heart slides back down his throat to its rightful place, Castle holds the bottle aloft. His hands shake perceptibly.

"Wine?"

Somebody check this guy's shorts.

[fanofthegenre]

The safety goes back on; Beckett leans out into the hallway without stepping forward and curls a hand around the arm that isn't attached to a trembling hand holding a wine bottle. She casts a furtive glance in one direction over Castle's shoulder, then the other, checking to ensure no one else is lurking out here before she moves to quite literally yank him inside.

"Come on," she mutters, the door closing behind them. She's quick to lock the deadbolt and resecure the chain, and the gun resumes its resting place inside the living room drawer.

"You shouldn't sneak up on someone like that," she adds, trying to pretend as though her feathers hadn't been momentarily ruffled, and allows him to linger on the receiving end of a eye-narrowing gaze before she resituates herself back on the couch, stacking up files and photos and neatly setting the pile to one side.

"All those threats I kept making about shooting you and it really could've happened just now."