LOG : Open to fanofthegenre

The precinct is quiet. Most of the officers have gone home for the night, leaving behind their humming computers and the residue at the bottoms of two dozen chipped coffee cups. Most of the men at the precinct have families to go home to. The ones that don't, well, they volunteer to work the night shift. They roll into the precinct in pairs, jostling their belts, rattling the half-empty coffee carafes and bitching about last week's cast-off on Dancing With the Stars.

Castle sits against the wall outside Booking, a cup of oily coffee congealing between his fingers. He hasn't spoken to Beckett in twenty-four hours. He's starting to get nervous.