milliways_bar | (no subject)

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Beckett is running.

To work out, mostly, but also to clear her head.

(There's a lot in there that needs clearing.)

She's outside, dressed just enough to stay warm and trying to make her way back to the bar before it gets too dark and she's forced to dodge demon bunnies or whatever else lurks out in the shadows. By the time she returns, she's made good time, and stops to do a few finishing stretches, hoisting her foot up onto the railing and trying to touch her nose to her leg.

She's got headphones in, so she may not hear you if you approach quietly. And we don't advise sneaking up on her, either.

[ tiny tag: rick castle ]

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She's still not completely dry, but re-dresses just the same, using the hairtie around her wrist to secure her damp hair off the back of her neck in a messy bun.

"Well, time passes differently here, so unless you were late already, you'll be right back where you started as soon as you head back through," Beckett explains.

"I'm always late," he admits with a grin. "Except when I'm on time. Coincidentally, that ties in with the whole 'party sub' thing I mentioned earlier."

She steals her jacket back, sliding her arms through the sleeves and zipping it up to her neck, already dreading the short, chilly trek back to the bar.

"Don't I know it," she murmurs.

He looks ridiculous with his suit jacket over his bare chest, swim trunks dripping pitifully. He'll have to go back to Bar and regroup, 'try to come up with a story about why he's dripping wet in the middle of a Manhattan afternoon.

"This doesn't have to be weird, right?"

Out of nowhere.

She's in the middle of bending over to pick up the towel when he asks the question, and hesitates for barely a second before she follows through with the motion, busying herself with shaking off the sand.

"Why would it be weird?" she quickly answers, though she doesn't quite look at him in the semi-darkness.

That's the kind of question with claws. Jaws. A six-foot security perimeter. He either lies and says that it's not weird -- not at all, not one iota -- and she sees through him like plate glass, or he cops to the fact that it is very weird and then they have to talk about it. Right now, neither option sounds like a winner.

So he resorts to,

"I don't know?" with the upward, interrogative inflection that denotes he's really out of his depth.

"Great," Beckett says, in a chipper tone that proves she's just as uncomfortable about addressing the issue as he is, folding up the towel and then gently resting it over her forearm.

"Then it doesn't have to be," she adds, like she's trying to convince herself - and failing miserably.

"Great," he echoes, borrowing some of her feigned enthusiasm.

He picks up his shoes.

"You want me to walk you back to the bar?"

"Only if it's on your way," she starts, and then has a realization.

"Though, on second thought, we should probably stick close until we're both back at the bar. I've heard some pretty hair-raising stories about the kind of things that hang out in the woods at night."

Today of all days, she realizes, she isn't packing anything on her person.

"What, like a drifter with a hook for a hand? I've got your back. I'm impervious to urban legends." He's not as familiar with Milliways territory like she is, but the prospect of mortal peril is a welcome distraction from what they're not saying to each other. He'll go with it.

"Demon bunnies, actually."

Beckett realizes how ridiculous it sounds even as it comes out, and her expression changes to reflect that fact. Either way, she'll be watching carefully as they set off back towards the bar. The change in temperature alone is reason enough to walk a little faster, and the lack of space between them may partly be due to a desire to beat the chill.

The lights of the bar shine like a welcoming beacon as they clear the trees, and Beckett stops just in front of the back door, turning to face him.

"There's probably a door waiting for you inside to take you back to - well, whatever street you were on before."

Demon bunnies. He mulls this over. And she calls this a vacation spot?

At least the bar's someplace familiar. He folds his trousers over his arm and nods. "I should probably change. There's not a cab in the city that'll pick me up while I'm wearing swim trunks and Armani loafers. Well, maybe, but they'll probably try to take me back to Bellevue."

He turns back to her, offering a tame version of his standard grin. "Well, thanks for the swim. 'You coming into the precinct tomorrow?"

Beckett shrugs one shoulder, a casual move that belies the knot twisting deep down in the pit of her stomach.

"If you feel like rinsing the salt off, you're more than welcome to use the shower in the room I've got upstairs. Though I wouldn't blame you if you just wanted to get back out there."

Her grin appears, crooked and genuine.

"You know I will be."

"Thanks, but I think I'll just splash some water on my face. You've had enough of me for today." Then he squints, smirks, trying to make light of the situation. "Or have you?"

Her eyebrow springs upward again. He's tossed out the bait, and now it's her job to raise the stakes. Mixed metaphors notwithstanding.

"Obviously, Castle. It was my plan all along," Beckett murmurs, stepping in until her sneakered feet bump into his leather-clad ones.

"To lure you up to my room under the pretense of generosity so I could have my racy - "

(her hands find the lapels of his jacket, curling around the expensive fabric and trailing down, knuckles brushing against his bare chest)

"- raunchy - "

(she bites her lower lip to draw his attention there, turns her head to finish the rest of the sentence in his right ear)

"- way with you."

Castle notices two things right off the bat: one, there's a lot less distance between them now and, two, it's probably because she's occupying it. It's a game. She's having fun with him. 'Still doesn't erase the fact that his stomach just got a whole lot warmer or that hard-of-hearing senior citizens two blocks away can probably hear him gulp down the biggest breath he's ever taken.

He tilts his head, registering with her eyes, then grins.

"You're a very bad person, detective."

"No, Castle."

Slowly, she releases her grip on his jacket, palms patting down the lapels to smooth out any unintentionally-made wrinkles. There really isn't anything like the look Castle gets on his face when she catches him off-guard, and right now, she's reveling in the sight of it. Having risen up on tiptoe to whisper to him, she rocks back down onto her feet, cheeks visibly flushed.

"I'm the best."

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