Quiet Supplication

7x15 Speculation Fic, spoilers for 7x14, Rated T

Prompt from Anon on tumblr: I really need a rescue scene for 7x15, Castle finds Beckett strapped and gagged to that table.

He freezes when he sees her.

It's just for a moment, but seeing her like this stops him short as memories and possibilities override his senses. Images of her on another gurney, lifeless, pale, and bloody assault him, and even from here he can see her eyes are closed. Shit, her eyes are closed, that's not good. Not good at all.

"Don't you dare die on me, Kate," echoes in his head.

"Beckett! Beckett, I'm here." He surges forward, forcing his legs to cooperate. "I'm here, Beckett."

He stumbles into the gurney, finesse a distant worry as his hands make contact with her.

Oh god, she's here, his wife's here. She's right here, her heart thumping steadily under his seeking fingers. Her wrists are bruised, raw from struggling, and he just knows his fumbling to find her pulse has probably irritated them even more. He'll make it up to her. He'll make it all up to her.

"Beckett, Kate, open your eyes, okay?" he pleads, his voice crackling. "Honey, open your eyes, I'm gonna get you out of here."

He frees her wrists first, gently pressing his mouth against the lines marring her skin before turning his face into her palm.

He should've known. He should've known the moment her phone rang. The moment she said she was going to Amy. He should've known it was a trap, another misdirect, that they'd put her exactly where they needed her to be.

The band around her chest is the next to go and his forehead lands against her sternum in quiet supplication. Whatever it takes to be worthy of having this woman, he'll do it, because she's still here, still with him.

His heart slams against his ribs at even the barest thought of it turning out differently. He's getting her out of here and to a doctor and once she's cleared he's taking her home and they're taking a fucking vacation. They're getting the island adventure they'd been robbed of when he disappeared; he's giving Kate Beckett the honeymoon she deserves.

Her feet are frigid when he opens her restraints, but he takes just a moment to close his hand around her toes and lend her his warmth. He'll carry her out of here and into the ambulance, then he'll give her his socks. Hell, he'll strip naked if she wants or needs the rest of his clothes, too.

Cold toes jerk in his grip and he looks up to wide, terrorized eyes and oh shit, a weeping cut down the side of her face.

"Beckett!" He jumps to the head of the gurney, brushing his fingertips over her forehead. Damn it, he should've removed the gag first. He should've started at her head. "Beckett, hey. Hey, honey."

She spits at the gag as soon as it's loose enough, turning into his shaking fingers as he smooths the reddened edges of her mouth.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry. You're okay, you're okay," he chants automatically, cupping her wounded cheek in his hand and pressing his lips to the corner of her mouth. "You're okay, sweetheart, you're okay."

Her answering nod is delayed, but it's there.

"Cassle…hurts."

"I know, I know. You're bleeding. Pretty badly, actually."

Straightening, he looks for a cloth or gauze, something to stop the blood from moving down her face and matting her hair. Flustered, he ends up yanking his own shirt out of his waistband, grabbing for the soft cotton undershirt he's wearing.

"S'not time for a stri'tease, Cassle."

His gut clenches at her attempt - humor for his sake - and he finally manages to rip a decent sized piece of his shirt to press to her face.

She hisses at the contact, lifting clumsy hands to knock at his wrist.

"Ow."

"I know," he murmurs soothingly, brushing his thumb over her lip. "Just want to stop the bleeding, Kate. I just want to stop the bleeding."

"Kay," she exhales. "Drugged me."

"Yeah they did," he agrees, kissing her again lightly. His eyes sting, but he gulps the tears back, keeping his focus on her. She's what matters.

"Didn' really want a facelift yet," she adds - another attempt at humor for him - pressing her mouth against his firmly.

"Never gonna need one, Beckett," he promises, feeling the dampness of her blood seeping through his shirt. "Can you sit up?"

She squints, but nods. "Yeah, yeah I can."

He helps her do that, finding it easier to just keep moving than to stop, lest the last 37 hours get the best of him. She's wobbly, but his shoulder keeps her from pitching off the gurney.

"Wha's going on?" she asks, fingers gripping his jacket tightly. "Where're the others?"

"They're… dealing with things." He strips his jacket off to drape it over her shoulders and tug her bare arms through the sleeves. She'll need it when they get outside.

"Things? Tyson? Nieman?"

She needs to know - of course she needs to know.

"Yeah," he confirms gruffly, stealing a hard kiss from her mouth. "I was gonna, he was taunting… but I found you. I found you."

Beckett's fingers brush his chin, trembling from the drugs or whatever anesthesia she'd been given, he assumes.

"They're alive?" the question is steady, firm, in spite of her shaking hands. In spite of his.

He nods, swallowing hard. Only because of her. Only because she'd needed him more.

"Good. Good," she breathes, slumping again. His arm winds around her, palm splaying across her back. "Then we're both walking out of here."

Checking the cloth at her temple, he nods. She might not be steady on her feet, she might feel like shit, but she's still here and she's walking out of here with him.

Still, he kisses her, pouring every moment of panic, of stunned grief, of blinding anger into it only to feel her matching him with each slide of her tongue. She shudders against him, stroking his chin, the motion hypnotic enough to keep his emotions – and hers – at bay.

"Yeah," he agrees, palming her sticky hair. "We're both walking out of here, Beckett."