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The call comes in, a body has dropped, another life taken, another murder to solve. Beckett sits up in bed, scrubs a hand through her sleep-mussed hair, and dials Castle. It doesn't ring, just goes straight to his voice-mail, so she leaves him a message and hangs up.
It's Sunday morning; she hasn't seen or heard from him since Friday night, and his absence, this lack of contact, is beginning to unsettle her.
The black umbrella held securely in her hand diverts the rain; the droplets fall down in front of her face, splashing into a puddle at her feet, muddying her boots. Beckett sighs and shuffles under the tarp CSU has strung above the body, the umbrella passed to an unimpressed Ryan as she ducks down and sweeps her hand out in quick, fluid movements. He takes the umbrella from her, a thankful smile tugging at his lips. He dislikes the rain as much as she does; he's been shooed out from under the tarp - the shelter isn't in place for him - and Espo's not sharing his umbrella. They're all trying to wrap this up quickly, before the wind shifts and the rain starts coming in sideways; the need to move the body growing more desperate as the sky above continues to darken. She glances back behind her while Lanie fills her in, and there's still no sign of him.
"Missing someone?"
Beckett snaps her attention back to Lanie. "What? No." She lowers herself, crouching down to face the M.E. "Please continue."
Lanie lifts an eyebrow, and then gestures down at the male, mid-forties, blunt force trauma to the back of the head, liver temp-
She takes it all in, thanks Lanie, pushes herself to her feet, makes her way back over to the boys, but she is missing someone, and it's definitely bothering her.
Beckett drops Castle a message once she's back at the precinct; the beginnings of a timeline are starting to appear on the murder board, and he isn't beside her, passing her coffee, spouting off random theories, teasing her about the wet patch she has on the back of her pants from her poorly-timed exit from under the tarp - from a gust of wind and a cascade of collected cold rain water that had poured down her back. He should be here, staring at her butt, offering to help dry her pants. He's not here.
Her message goes unanswered, and she shifts her attention back on the murder board, ignoring her damp pants, ignoring the tug of concern within her.
Her phone rings, and her hopes swell - but it's Esposito with information on the victim's last known whereabouts before the murder - and no, Espo hasn't heard from Castle either.
The coffee machine rebels; it's noon and she's desperately trying to make her first cup of the day, but the machine is having none of it, and is denying her a much needed fix. She isn't doing this wrong, she knows how to make a damn cup of coffee, but it doesn't sound right, spluttering instead of hissing, and it's refusing to release the caffeine - and she finds herself beginning to really miss him.
Standing in the break room, her finger still hooked around the handle of her mug - still sitting on the tray, still waiting to be filled - Beckett glances up through the window, and looks out into the precinct, just in case.
It's been thirty eight hours since she last heard from him - not that she's counting. She last received a message from his phone on Friday night, wishing her pleasant dreams. She had returned the words - and then silence. His phone is off, he's not seeing his messages, but he's probably fine. He's Castle; he has probably cuffed himself to the bed for research purposes - and wow, that image turned sexual embarrassingly fast. She blinks, clears her mind of it, and begins to gnaw on her lower lip. But maybe she should stop by the loft, just in case he's actually got himself in a bind.
And then the boys are back, hauling a suspect through the bullpen, and she switches back on to the case, leaves her empty coffee cup on the tray, and follows them, ducking into the observation room to watch.
If she hasn't heard from him by the end of the day she'll stop by on her way home.
She phones Martha at six PM, because this is out of character and she's officially worried.
"Oh, Darling, I'm sure he's fine."
Beckett stands behind her desk, phone tucked against her ear, fingers doing up the buttons on her coat. "You haven't seen him either?"
"Alexis and I are away at a spa retreat this weekend," Martha tells her warmly.
Beckett is silent, running through scenarios in her head, and her worry must carry down the line, because Martha's next words are, "But I'll phone ahead and advise Eduardo you'll need to be let in."
"Thank you, Martha," Beckett says on a sigh. "I'm sorry, I hope I haven't worried you, I just-"
"You're a detective," Martha supplies kindly. "I understand. Knowing Richard he's tied himself to a chair and gotten into a jam."
Beckett chuckles. "My thoughts exactly, Martha."
Eduardo stands beside her as she knocks and calls Castle's name, both aware she might have kicked the door down without him. When neither knock nor name elicit a response, Eduardo unlocks the door for her, and then leaves her to it. They both know of Castle's reputation, his overuse of duct tape.
It's dark, and she can't help but rest a hand on her gun as she reaches her other hand up to flick on a light. Nothing looks out of place; no signs of a struggle. "Castle?" she calls into the loft, glancing around the living room. She makes her way cautiously into his study, and peers into his bedroom for the first time. She checks his bathroom, and then treads slowly up the stairs. But the apartment is empty; he's not here.
The Hamptons? she wonders as she exits back into the hall, closing the door securely behind her. Might he too have gone away for the weekend? But he'd tell her; he always tells her.
It's seven PM on a Sunday night, and she needs her writer, and a drink.
Her writer?
She wonders when she started thinking of him like that, but, oh, that's not the only thought that has changed recently. He loves her, and she heard him, and almost forty eight hours without him around is looping images of him through her mind, of her kissing him and never letting go.
Odds are, when she does find him, she's going to punch him for making her worry. Not that she will tell him she was worried. Maybe she'll just deck him and storm off without uttering a single word. But her brain betrays her with images - a memory - of them making out in the middle of the street.
She definitely needs a drink.
It's close to eight PM by the time she descends the steps, and take shelter from the rain inside The Old Haunt. It's quiet; few patrons remain, and the lone female bartender wipes tables and hums to herself.
"He's downstairs," Sam says, smiling as she catches Beckett's attention.
Beckett slips out of her coat, drapes it over her arm, and lifts an eyebrow. "Castle?"
"Yeah," Sam replies, nodding. "Hasn't budged all weekend." She beckons her over to the bar and hands her a bottle of water. "Take this down to him? He needs to stay hydrated."
Beckett frowns but accepts the bottle, thanks Sam, and makes her way down the dimly-lit stairs and into Castle's office.
"Just leave the water on the desk," Castle says from the couch, his back to her, never turning his head, or lifting his eyes from the laptop on his lap.
He clearly thinks she's Sam; she says nothing, just makes her way over to where he sits, drops the bottle and her coat on the couch beside him, and pokes him in the arm - hard.
"Ow!" he yelps, almost unbalancing the computer from off his lap as he turns to her. "What the-Oh! Hi, Beckett."
"Would it kill you to turn your phone on?" she snaps.
Castle eases the laptop onto the small table before him, and digs his phone out of his pocket. He holds the button down until the screen lights up, a silent oops moves his lips, and he grins up at her. "You trying to reach me?"
"Was I-" She growls, and pokes her index finger sharp into his bicep. "No one's heard from you since Friday night."
"Sorry, I was writing. Came down to collect a bottle of whiskey, inspiration hit, and.. What day is it?" At her glare, he waves his phone at her, and then slips it back into his pocket. "I must have turned it off by accident."
She steps around the couch and stands at his side, features tight as she stares down at him, finger extended and ready to make contact with his chest. "I thought you were… Castle, I thought-" She can't say it. She pulls her finger back, and turns from him, frustrated, angry, but relieved.
He stands and touches a hand to her hip, to turn her to face him, but she tenses up and refuses to be moved. "I'm okay," he reminds her. "I'm fine."
"You scared me," she whispers, and saying the words makes her realize just how worried she'd actually been.
"I'm sorry," he says gently.
She keeps her back to him, her spine straight, stiff, calming her fear with a few deep breaths.
When she won't turn to face him, he steps around the small table, and stands before her. Her eyes are locked on the ground, fascinated by the swirls in each plank of wood beneath her feet. "Why, Detective, I didn't know you cared." The moment the words are out of his mouth he hates himself even more.
"Are you kidding me?" She looks up then, eyes wide, lips parted in surprise. "Of course I care," she tells him. "You're my- friend, Castle, and it isn't like you to ignore a case, to ignore me-"
"I wasn't, I promise." His hands come to rest on her forearms, and he squeezes gently. "I'm sorry."
His apology is genuine, and he looks miserable for making her worry - and that makes her feel a little better about the whole stupid situation. She nods, and moves to walk away, releasing her arms from his loose grip, but he catches her, snakes his arms around her waist, and pulls her body against his in a tight hug. Her arms lift slowly as she questions what to do with them, but there's only one answer, only one response, and she wraps them around him, and sinks into his embrace.
"I could never ignore you, Kate," he murmurs into her ear, so close she can feel his breath against her skin.
She nods, and pulls back, ending the hug quickly. Her eyes lock with his, and they both feel the shift in their relationship as they fight to break the connection, but fail.
"You want a drink?" he asks, his voice subdued, eyes still intensely focused on her own.
She swallows thickly, blinks rapidly to soften the emotions flowing between them, and nods. "I need a drink."
He lifts his chin, and extends a hand towards the staircase. "Lead the way."
She does; she walks ahead, up the stairs, fully aware that he's sneaking glances at her butt. And that's okay, because she loves her writer, even when he's an idiot who sits on his phone.
That just makes her love him a little more.
(But she still wants to punch him).