Disclaimer: The only part of Castle that I own is the TV on which I used to watch the show.

"Yes, sir, I know that it's a spur-of-the-moment request, but I haven't taken a day off since I came back on the job eight months ago. I have eighteen days of vacation in the bank. More, actually, since I have some left over from last year. And from, um, before." She's sitting in her boss's office, on the most uncomfortable chair ever made. Montgomery had nice ones, but Cruella deVil here had replaced them with chairs that the leaders of the Spanish Inquisition would have endorsed.

Gates is giving her a look that could ice over a pond in August, but Beckett is emotionally clad in a head-to-toe down coat. She's not going to blink, not going to yield. If she has to go to Burke and get him to write a letter for a week of sick leave, she will. She's stared down people as tough as Gates. Tougher, some of them, and more than a few were holding a gun. Gates is wearing a suit, a suit with a skirt, not pants. Always this or a dress. Interesting. Making a statement. Yeah, well she's making a statement of her own, though it has nothing to do with fashion.

The captain removes her glasses and places them on top of her alarmingly neat desk. After straightening two pencils that already appeared to be perfectly aligned she looks sternly, if slightly less icily, at Beckett. "I understand that you've always been reluctant to take vacation, Detective. Not sensible. Foolhardy, even. Nonetheless, you've got a case to wrap up."

"Sir, Esposito and Ryan have a good handle on it, and Detective Hunt–"

"Detective Inspector Hunt."

"Right. Detective Inspector Hunt was very helpful." Under other circumstances she might have been interested in him. Smart, dedicated to his job, good looking, if a little cocky. He was way too eager to shed his towel in front of her, speaking of cocky. She represses a smile. But the circumstances she's in–well, no. It would have been a rebound, even if she's not technically rebounding from anything. She and Castle haven't been. Haven't. Shit. "I'm sure that Esposito and Ryan can handle the paperwork without me. Everything's in order." She just needs to be out of here, now. This minute. Needs to take control of her life, such as it is.

Gates looks at her again, this time almost kindly. "Detective Beckett, I don't mean to interfere, but is everything all right?"

"Yes, sir. I guess you're right about my foolhardiness. I guess I realized that I need a break."

"Like mere mortals, Detective," Gates says after a short silence, then picks up her glasses and waves her hand over her paperwork. "Go. I'll expect you back a week from Monday."

"Yes, sir. Thank you."

She hightails it to her desk, grabs her bag and coat, and walks over to her colleagues. "You guys don't mind finishing up? Sorry to leave you with it. I gotta go."

"Beckett?" Ryan asks. "You sure you're all right?"

"Yup. Good. Just need a little change of scenery. See you in a week." Rather than wait for the antediluvian elevator to heave its way up, she takes the stairs. Besides, she doesn't want the boys to ask her any more questions, such as scenery she'll be looking at, since that scenery is nothing more than the inside of her apartment.

A train is entering the subway station just as she reaches the platform, and she's home in minutes. As soon as she's inside she changes into pajamas, opens a bottle of wine, and sits in her oversized armchair. Tilting the glass back and forth in her hand and watching the liquid swirl around, she goes over the conversation she'd had just two days ago with Lanie. She'd told her that she didn't want to lose what she and Castle had, and when Lanie asked what that was she'd said a friendship. "No," the doctor had responded, "What you and I have is a friendship. What you and Castle have is a holding pattern. How long can you circle before the fuel runs out?"

Now, wiggling her toes as she stretches her legs out across the rug, she morosely addresses her Cabernet. "I guess it has run out. I guess we were running on fumes."

The wine doesn't answer, but it doesn't give her any grief, either. She pours another glass, and by the time she finishes that one she's feeling a little less sorry for herself and a little more pissed off at Castle. By the time she's staring at the residue of glass three, she's running on fumes of another kind. Fumes as in fuming. "See, Castle?" she says, though she has no idea where he is at the moment. "See?" She jabs her index finger into her chest. "You may be a writer, but I can play with words, too."

Broodily, she takes the first sip of glass number four. Where did Castle get off showing evidence to that flight attendant? The one with an obviously made-up name. Jacinda. Please. She'd probably changed it from Joan or Jean, some uncomplicated name. And where did he get off implying that she, Kate Beckett, is undesirably complicated, when being complicated used to be something that he liked about her? "And you let her drive your precious Ferrari!" She's on her feet now, and yelling. "What, two hours after you met her? I'd already known you for more than two years before I got to do that, and only because I grabbed the damn keys from your hand." She sits down hard, grimaces, and closes her eyes. A few minutes later she checks her watch. It's late. Way late. Is it too late?

Rick Castle has just returned to his loft from Kennedy Airport, where he'd driven Jacinda to the flight she's working back to Vegas. He tosses his car keys towards the bowl on the table by the door, but misses his target; scowling, he retrieves them from the floor, drops them in the bowl, and strides to his office, grateful that his mother has taken Alexis to a theater and poetry festival in Boston for the weekend and won't be back for 48 hours.

He takes a bottle of his most expensive and therefore best-for-drowning-his-sorrows single malt from his cabinet, and pours a hefty amount into a glass. After saying goodbye–and it had been goodbye, not see you next time you're in town–to Jacinda he'd almost stopped in an airport bar for a drink, but changed his mind. He'd already known that he might drink a lot tonight, and he wasn't about to jeopardize his car, his license, or himself by driving under the influence. He did risk getting a point on license by speeding on the way home, but at least he'd been sober. The traffic had been peculiarly light and he'd been able to exceed the limit far too easily. Fortunately no cop had clocked it.

No cop. Not a single cop. Not any cop. He stretches his legs out, puts his feet on his desk, and has his first taste of the Macallan. It's perfection. Unlike anything else.

Not any cop. She's not just any cop. Hell, no. She's unlike anything else, too. There's no cop like her. Not a bit. Not anywhere. Not on any force. Not any woman, either. He's never known a woman like her. He takes far too deep a swallow of Macallan, which is something that should be savored slowly and reverently, but he wants to immerse himself in it, as if that would wash her away.

Cops aren't supposed to lie. Well, except to perps. They can always do that, get them to show their hands. He wishes she'd been lying to that little snot in interrogation, but he knows her too well to know that she wasn't. She'd told that boy the truth, that she remembered everything about her shooting, but she'd lied to him, her partner. The man who'd told her that he loved her. Fucking hell. He'd left the precinct, gone home, thrown a few things in a bag, and bought a seat on the next plane to Vegas. He'd tried forgetting Beckett at roulette; had tried banishing her from his mind in a heart-stoppingly high-stakes game of poker in which he'd won more than a hundred grand without half trying, and hadn't cared; had tried to erase any trace of her as he'd hypnotized himself at the slot machines. None of it had worked. And then, genius that he is, he'd picked up Jacinda on the flight home. It had almost been worth it.

No, it hadn't. He'd lied, too, when he'd told Beckett that Jacinda was fun. Well, maybe a little fun, but not long-lasting fun. And fun isn't what he needs, either, but his lie is nothing, absolutely nothing, compared to hers. His is a Little League level lie; Beckett's is a Major League, Hall of Fame lie.

He raises the glass to his lips again, but there's nothing there. Huh, he finished the drink already? Fine, he'll have another. It will give him the courage to take the next step in his newly formulated campaign to erase Kate Beckett from his life. What should he do first, since nothing has worked so far? Ah, here's a 92-proof idea. He yanks his phone from his pocket and clicks on his photographs. He goes back to March 10, 2009; it was the day after they'd met, and the first time he'd snapped a picture of her, though she hadn't been aware of it. Wow, such short hair. Boyish. Almost no make-up. But God, so beautiful. She was looking sideways, that little mole under one eye clearly visible; she'd thought he was playing a game on his phone. He was, come to think of it. Hunting big game, and she was it. Not any more. He hits delete. He keeps on hitting delete for the next quarter of an hour, stopping only because his glass is empty again. Time for a refill.

He returns to the photos, which have taken on a slightly blurry quality, maybe as a result of the booze he's throwing back. He should have something to eat, but he has no stomach for food. No stomach for Beckett, who he used to think was better than any food he'd ever had. God, he doesn't want to get rid of this photo. It was from five months ago, after she'd rescued him and his mother from the New Amsterdam Bank and Trust and come to dinner at the loft. He'd wished that he'd been able to photograph her when she'd found him in the vault. Her expression–he'd been sure that it was one of love when she'd cut the ties that had bound his hands together. That picture, the unrecorded one, is seared into his mind, and it's going to take a lot more than Scotch to dissolve it. Shit. He shakes his head and his finger hovers over DELETE as he focuses on the image on his phone. She'd been on the sofa in the loft after the enormous, celebratory dinner they'd had. They'd joked about who had saved the other's life more times. As with almost every picture here, she'd had no idea that he'd taken it. Her eyes were soft, even softer than the loose, gray blouse that she'd been wearing. Her hair was down and uncombed, a tangle of curls framing that magnificent face. No. This is too painful. He presses delete and tries to pretend that he has no regrets. He looks at his watch. It's late. Everything is late. Too late.

He pushes himself up from his chair and turns out the light. A few minutes later, he's brushed his teeth, stripped down to his underwear, and put his phone in the charger. But as soon as he gets in bed and pulls the covers up to his chin he hears the chirp of an incoming text. At midnight? He rolls onto his side and looks at the screen. Beckett? Seriously? He's not reading it. He hits delete a lot faster than he had when he'd been purging the photos, and puts the phone back. Almost immediately it rings and her face appears, so vivid it's as if she's in the room with him. As if. He hits the decline button and turns off the phone. Goddammit, goddammit, goddammit, goddammit.

Beckett stamps her bare foot on the bare floor of her bedroom. How dare he do that? How dare he refuse to take her call? Is he in bed with Jacinda? No, can't be. He wouldn't have been able to get to the phone that quickly. You know what? She should just get dressed, go to the loft and have it out with him. If he's going to disappear from her life, she wants to tell him good riddance first.

Except, goddammit, she doesn't want him to disappear. She'll go over there tomorrow, in the cold light of a warm spring day, and say goodbye.

TBC