The Elevator

He wanted to do anything other than just walk away.

It wasn't in his nature to not gloat!

As his strong digits groped around the cooled fingers of his doctor, he wanted to jeer and taunt the vexation of a writer that seemed to be putting more pieces together even as they walked free.

Didn't matter.

The phone call was coming.

Maybe he could at least let out the smirk he'd been trying to conceal since the over-baring Captain undid his shackles, but Kelly would know. And he wouldn't want to disappoint her. Never Kelly.

The eyes of the four behind them made the hair at the back of his neck stand up. He could feel their gazes as tangible objects, and how desperately he wanted to take in the writer's face—

But no.

Walk straight. Don't turn back. Follow the plan.

Give them nothing but our alibi for when they realized what happened.

Give them nothing until the writer realizes what we've done.

This was always about him anyway.

Richard- fucking- Castle.

Kelly's sudden stop at the doors baring the symbol of the 12th jarred him back into the present and he reached out to summon their cart to take them to their prize. He worked his finger slowly around the hard steel of the call button and pressed it with a resolute finality that only seemed to have meaning for himself and his companion.

They must have found old DNA, like Nieman had known they would. Probably from that bitch, Cutler. Castle wouldn't have brought her up if she hadn't of helped them. She never could stay out of his business. Maybe it was finally time to finish cleaning house.

He was actually surprised about the beer bottle. That none of the glorious detectives could distinguish the planted evidence. Everything the police thought they had was spoon-fed to them like an insufferable child, and as he tried not to focus too closely on their harsh mutterings behind them, he shifted is attention instead to the opening doors.

They never learn. They're always one step behind.

The writer had moved, and he had distinctly heard "voicemail" fall from his mouth. Pure euphoria and elation surged through his veins as he pushed the button for the ground floor and finally flicked his eyes up to see the blossoming terror on Rick's face.

It was –everything.

And when the scent of fear started to seep into his senses he had to grind his teeth to not ruin their charade.

He stared him down as the writer kept taking short steps closer to their compartment, holding his phone to his face and waiting for his beloved wife to answer.

Then Kelly's phone rang.

And the smirk that he'd been hiding burned to pull at his lips. Insisted on pealing across his face and alerting them all that they were masterminding the whole performance, not just the opening act.

But this part of the plan must be perfect. It must be so intrinsically precise that the smallest gesture could ruin their whole game.

He threw a side-glace to his partner and saw her lips twitch into a glorious grin as their news of success radiated out of her eyes. Her new play-thing was in her clutches.

The door gears started to grind and the writer was still in shock as the pieces started to slide into play. He could almost see the story blossoming behind the blistering eyes of the man before him. How soon they would corrode with desperation.

He needed the last word.

The silent, harsh stare of the writer demanded him to present the final nail in the proverbial coffin that would be their investigation.

And just as the doors edged to a close, he winked.

For Dean.