milliways_bar | (no subject)

A ... not at all small dog runs by. Of course, with those floppy ears and long whippy tail it's hard to look fierce. Especially when your crazy owner-mum-person who drags you around the universe to weird places is hot on your heels.

At least Ace put on some trainers to at least look like this might be hard? Poor puppy ego.

It's the first animal Beckett's seen in the bar, at least, and the quick blur of movement has her whipping her head around to see exactly what's moving past her feet.

She relaxes a little more when she catches sight of the woman behind.

There's no leash connecting them, but when Ace veers away from Beckett to avoid sending that particular train of doggy energy in her direction, the dog turns and follows, finding a new direction to hare off in.

Ace hopes there's no mud in that direction. She can't take a dirty dog back to Yorkshire, not with the door still connecting to the kitchen.

It's all been pretty dry where Beckett's running, at least.

Slowly, she lowers her leg and gives the other woman an acknowledging smile.

Ace grins back - it's less acknowledging than 'Hi! T'day's brilliant innit?' in expression form.

The doberman would add her own (alas, muddy) greetings, but Ace is wise in the ways of wily dobies, and finds a pinecone to lob off into the distance (overhand, like a woody grenade). The dog follows like a pinecone-seeking missile, thankfully.

"Your dog, I'm guessing?"

Beckett's feeling very appreciative for not winding up on the receiving end of said muddy greetings.

The cabs start getting harder to come by when the mercury freezes off the bottom of the thermometer. It took Castle the better part of ten minutes and three blocks to finally flag one down and he probably looked like a painted lunatic while he was trying, flagging his arms like a signalman trying to steer a plane onto a runway.

Truth be told, Castle likes the city in winter. The cold brings a weird kind of clarity.

He unloads a couple of blocks from his apartment, turning his cab over to a trio of tourists who recognize him from dust jackets and three a.m. commercials on local stations. He signs autographs and warms his hands by blowing on them in between.

As he walks, the scenery begins to change slightly. Castle rounds a corner to find Kate Beckett ahead of him, stretching herself on a Chinese torture rack. No, wait, it's just a railing. Outside the Bar. Well, hell, that's convenient.

He jogs toward her, his gait exaggerated, the ends of his scarf flapping as he bumps down the sidewalk. He stops beside her and runs in place, elbows hiked high and pumping. 'Like he jogs in an Armani every day.

"I didn't know you jogged this route," he says, shouting to be heard over the din in her earbuds.

Beckett turns her head a fraction to the left, her cheek hovering inches over her kneecap as she proceeds to give him a look that informs him of just how ridiculous he appears - or how ridiculous she thinks he appears, at the very least.

Without moving her lower half, she reaches up to pull one of the small white buds out of her ear, only lowering her leg when she can feel her muscles reaching their limit.

"How long have you been here?"

"I'm like the Flash. Here one second, gone the next." Right. From his form and the degree of puffing, it's clear that the only jogging Rick Castle has done lately has been going from the inside of a limo into a press gig. He draws up his limbs and bends over, planting his palms on his knees. "There's always time for a little cardio."

Beckett shuts off the music pulsing through the earbuds of her iPod and just looks at him for a while, resting her hands on her hips.

"I'll let you catch your breath," she finally says, as if she's offering him some grand consideration.

"Oh, thank god," he wheezes, "I thought my heart was going to explode." He pushes his hand over his lapel and spends a couple of seconds just catching his breath.

"And somehow, he has plenty of energy to chase a murder suspect into an alleyway after I've distinctly asked him not to," Beckett replies, in a tone of mock-amazement.

She slips the iPod into the pocket of her workout jacket and then stretches her arms over her head.

"Hey," he says, wagging a finger in her direction while he digs around for the energy required to stand upright, "that's different. All that macho adrenaline kicks in when there's a reason to run. It's why we ran away from cheetahs when we were still wearing buffalo-skin jockey shorts."

"When would you ever-" Beckett starts, and then holds up a hand in dismissal before he can start answering her question.

"Never mind, I don't even want to know. You haven't been around here in a while."

He arranges his scarf through the collar of his coat and flashes a simple, tight smile at her observation. "Yeah, they're courting me to do this graphic novel thing. 'Cash in on the superhero revival."

A nod toward her. "I hear you went on vacation. Good for you."

"Seems like you're being courted to do a lot of things. The answer to the eternal question: can Rick Castle be everywhere at once?" She's not cold yet, but in a few minutes, once her body starts to cool down, she'll need to go inside.

"Milliways is plenty vacation on its own, anyway," she admits, with a half-shrug.

"Well, maybe not everywhere. But if you get me a party sub, you can pretty much rent me out anywhere." Rick Castle does not work for peanuts. He drapes the edges of his coat over his knees and leans against the railing beside her, hands in his pockets.

"You've probably got a month of paid vacation stacked up at the precinct, right? Why don't you go someplace warm? You can jog on a beach."

"Duly noted," Beckett responds, nodding decisively to hide her grin, idly tucking a few strands of hair behind her ear.

"There is a beach here, actually. If you head out there - " She points out into the darkness of the woods. "It's just past the woods that way, this little Caribbean inlet. Or it was designed to be like one, at least."

In fact, she'd been debating a nightswim to wash off, but with Castle here, that might become a problem.

"You've gotten to know this place pretty well," he points out. Whether or not that's by design is entirely Beckett's business. With what's been going on back at work, he wouldn't blame her for wanting an escape every now and again, but it bothers him sometimes that he doesn't get to see her as often as he'd like.

"It happens when the door keeps showing up," she counters.

Beckett can't tell what he's thinking by the tone in his voice, but she eventually concedes over her own misgivings with a small sigh.

"I was going to head over there, maybe go for a swim. Want to come?"

"I don't have my trunks." Not that that's ever stopped him before. He has fond memories of a certain party on the rooftop of Rockefeller Center (honestly, that's the last time he ever rents a hot tub).

Beckett lifts an eyebrow.

"Well, if you're really set on not ruining that Armani, you could always ask Bar for a pair."

Castle hadn't been aware that Bar could produce anything more meaningful than sandwiches. He has a lot of catching up to do.

"Swim trunks and floaties," he says, swinging up onto the stoop in front of Bar's door. "You want anything while I'm in there? Beach ball? Lifeguard uniform?"

"None of the above," Beckett answers, fingers toying with the zipper on her warm-up jacket.

Her plan is just to peel out of the warmer layers and rinse off the hour's worth of sweat.

"Hurry up. We're pulling out in five."

"Ten-four, detective."

Inside, Bar is abuzz with midday activity. 'Place is very much like Castle remembers it, and Bar seems to remember him, too, because there's a pair of navy swim trunks and a towel waiting for him when he gets there. "Thanks." He takes the trunks and starts toward the bathroom, 'doubles back on his heel and leans forward toward Bar. "If I'd asked for a Speedo, would I have gotten a Speedo?"

Bar remains mute.

Castle changes quickly and steps outside to meet Beckett.

"Should I be worried that Bar knew my inseam?" he asks, slinging the towel over his shoulder.