[ 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

[bestsellingego]

Now, this is just plain bizarre. If Castle didn't know any better, he'd swear that Beckett was going territorial. Over what? Him? The fact that he'd thrown out a couple of ideas and Shaw had been on the other side of the room with a catcher's mitt? Oh man. This went way beyond jurisdiction.

"I thought we were on all the same team," he points out. What's that funny feeling at the back of his neck? Oh yeah -- the completely unfamiliar, unusual sensation of being the "sensible one" in a conversation.

[fanofthegenre]

"We are."

Now she's trying to backtrack - or, at the very least, figure out how to say what it is she wants to say without actually saying it. And the way Castle's looking at her like she might be close to going off the deep end leads her toward the realization that she may be blowing this out of proportion. Either way, she needs to make her point - and she does.

"It's just - I think that if you have an insight, you should run it by me first."

[bestsellingego]

They're in uncharted waters now, paddling around something bigger than either of them are willing to deal with without finishing half of this bottle first. Castle levels that laser sight of a look of his right over the rim of her glass. His expression is half curious, half amused.

"Fine. I will." He hefts his glass. "Now drink your wine."

[fanofthegenre]

His concession is unexpectedly quick, and he catches her off-guard for the second time that night. The words she's just spoken are still echoing in her head as she glances down at the deep red liquid in her glass.

"Thanks. But, um, I'm tired, and I need to go to bed."

An action that wine would likely aid in, admittedly, but she's already up on her feet, setting the file down to rest for the night, and gives him leave to exit with a hand that moves to indicate the front door.

[bestsellingego]

He follows the track of her hand -- is she actually trying to shoo him out of her apartment? -- and then locks his eyes back on her face. "Oh no. I'm not leaving. I'm here to protect you."

Said with a completely straight face and everything.

[fanofthegenre]

Embarrassment over her confession quickly turns to surprise, then amusement, and she's fighting back a smirk even as she answers.

"What, with your vast arsenal of rapier wit?"

Castle may be a good shot - he's proven that before in his desire to secure information from her - but the notion that he's refusing to leave because he wants to protect her is one that has her torn between laughing and feeling flattered at the sentiment.

[bestsellingego]

Castle's no knight in shining Italian loafers, but part of him can't help feeling that this whole case is somehow his fault. Authors always want people to admire their work, but stacking up a body count is going too far.

He curls the glass of wine toward his chest, prepared to deliver the emphatic line of reasoning he'd rehearsed several times on his way over: "There is a madman gunning for you because of me. I'm not going to leave you alone."

[fanofthegenre]

There's a different kind of insistence in his gaze, different than the times he's begged her to let him work the siren or follow her into a potentially dangerous situation. It's the kind of insistence that says, I know how you feel about letting someone else keep an eye on things, but deal with it.

So she deals with it, her hand falling to her side.

"Fine. I'm too tired to argue."

And for some reason, as she crosses the living room to head down the hall to her room, she feels compelled to spin on one heel and add:

"But if I see that doorknob turn - I will have you know, Mr. Castle, that I sleep with a gun."

It's an empty threat, of course, given that he already knows what she sleeps with - or doesn't.

[bestsellingego]

They're conceding all over the place tonight. When she gets up, Castle leans in and scoops up her abandoned wine glass. Waste not. It's a damn expensive bottle of wine, too, and he's determined not to let it turn into vinegar before the morning. He dumps her glass into his and turns, offering a wide and comely grin when she tells him she sleeps with cold steel.

"Understood." With all the gravitas that acknowledgment requires.

[fanofthegenre]

Without a response, she heads back to her room, leaving him there to finish the wine and probably stay up to do something along the lines of what he'll be calling lookout. It's not uncomfortable, having him here - that isn't what keeps her up even as she tries to settle down and relax, rolling over to either side to find a comfortable position, watching the numbers turn on her alarm clock and counting how many hours she'll get if she falls asleep now.

Finally, her insomnia gets the best of her and she rises to go to the bathroom, but on the way there, she detours slightly and tiptoes down the corridor to the living room. The lights are mostly out - except for a small lamp that casts the room in a dim glow, and Beckett's gaze lands on the twin empty glasses on the table, then searches for the back of Castle's head among the couch cushions.

Another creaking floorboard announces her presence.

[bestsellingego]

The room had seemed smaller when she'd disappeared. Castle chalked the feeling up to the wine -- he'd finished half a glass by the time he heard her bedroom door ease shut -- and turned out a couple of lights so he wouldn't have to look into corners anymore.

She'd left the case notes spread out over the coffee table, the margins filled with her tiny, precise handwriting. Castle had licked the pad of his thumb and flipped through the topmost sheet --

1ST VIC - 5 SLUGS - NIKKI.

She was talking about their first victim, the guy at the train station, and the five bullets they'd pulled out of his ribs. Castle's gorge rose at the creepy calling card.

2ND VIC - 4 SLUGS - WILL.

The writing got more emphatic at this point, and Beckett had evidently pressed the pen pretty hard against the paper: 3RD VIC - JANE DOE - ????? was an impression that went four pages down

[fanofthegenre]

He's got one of the files resting on his lap, slowly rising up and down at the edge with his breathing. Her eyes trail down the corner of his shoulder to where his hand still holds the glass, fingers almost magically retaining their grip even as he loses himself to the second stage of the REM cycle. Beckett steps over the next noisy floorboard and continues forward into the living room, her oversized shirt hanging loose from one shoulder.

She bends down to take the file from his lap, careful not to touch him where he'll flinch and stir, and places it on top of the others piled on the coffee table. The wine glass is a little harder to pry out of his hand, but he gives it up relatively quickly, and she eyes its nearly full contents before downing it within a few swallows. Liquid courage, her brain spits out while she sets the glass down, now empty, to join the other

[bestsellingego]

Something in Castle's biology has shifted since he's started working with Beckett -- he's learned to sleep like a cop. Scraps of rest, only when absolutely necessary, with a hair-trigger wake-up reflex.

The pressure of the blanket is slight, but it pulls him from sleep all the same, and when he feels a warm presence beside him he chooses not to open his eyes. The weight of her is beside him, her constant gravity keeping him anchored, and he takes in a breath of her perfume. Slowly, he hinges his jaw back together.

With his eyes closed: "I could smell you coming, Clarice..."

[fanofthegenre]

Beckett freezes in that brief second of allowing his words to sink in - and then promptly smacks his shoulder, though it lands as more of a gentle swat as her hand barely glances off him.

"Some lookout you are," she murmurs, though like her earlier thought, there's a trace of affection in the words, and she fits herself in alongside him on the couch, sitting where there's a small space on the edge next to his hip.

"Unless you'd been planning on, I don't know, drooling on our guy."

There isn't any drool. Not really.

[bestsellingego]

Castle pushes the heel of his hand against his eye socket, then pushes his hips toward the back of the couch to make room for her. "I was only out for a couple of minutes," he insists, flashing a glance at his watch. Well, twenty minutes. He grimaces. "And besides, I was all ready to spring into action." His right hand closes around empty air. He pats the cushion for what he assumes is an upended wine glass. His fingers touch her hip in passing.

"What're you doing up?" he asks. "Can't sleep?"