The click of his key exiting the lock is the only sound breaking through the silent darkness of the loft. Castle steps inside, closes the door behind him with a trailing grip, as the square of light from the hall narrows to a sliver on the hardwood floor. A slow breath, the clunk of his keys in the dish. He doesn't bother with lights.
Halfway to his office, the vibration in his pocket brings his first smile of the day at the thought of hearing his daughter's voice, checking in. It's the first year he's missed the trip up, but the thought of sunshine and green grass had turned his stomach. Pulling the phone out, he shakes off the failure of another dead end, feels manufactured joy piecing itself together deep in his chest.
Until it shatters.
"Beckett."
When his heart lurches back to life, thudding cold and dense in his chest, his thumb hovers, frozen, over the "answer" icon.
Six weeks and six days spent combing every blade of that green carpet, losing every thread of hope. Not one word.
Lids slamming closed, he inhales, sets his jaw, and shoves everything down. Cold glass meets his fingerprint, and the vibration stills.
Opening his eyes, a spark of relief floods him when he sees the call has connected, and he lifts the phone to his ear.
"Beckett?" Hard consonants punch through her name into the silence on the other end of the line. Three heartbeats. Four. Still nothing. A final wave of defeat threatens to swamp his chest, but before he can click "end," stupid, useless hope finds its way to his lips in a final "Hello?"
Stuttering, uneven breath exhales in his ear.
"Kate?" Castle's heart kicks hard against his ribs, fine hair rising on the back of his neck. "Are you there?"
Another huff of breath escapes before a burst of loud pops echoes over the line, and a wave of icy goosebumps bloom up from the base of his spine.
"Beckett, answer me, what's wrong?"
A single, broken note reaches his ear, a noise he's never heard before but could only be her. Castle's frozen muscles unclench, and he spins, grabbing for his keys as he yanks open his front door.
"I'm coming, Kate. But you have to tell me where you are."
"Castle?" His name is a whisper.
"Yes - Kate are you okay?"
"No."
Another shaky breath.
"Where are you? Is your father there?"
"He's gone."
A loud bang eclipses whatever else she might have said, and he hears the harsh rasp of her breath, punctuated by a half-swallowed curse.
Castle rounds the final flight of stairs and shoves through the door to the parking deck, clicking his fob because he cannot remember where he parked only ten minutes earlier.
"Are you at your apartment?" His Bluetooth picks up the audio as he starts the engine, backing out and steering with a squeal of tires to the exit.
"No."
His fingers grip the wheel and he clicks the volume on the car speakers up to maximum to hear every whispered syllable.
"Beckett, are you in danger?"
There is a thump over the line before she grits out, "Nothing makes sense."
Calling the boys, calling anyone would mean clicking off from her, and he can't do that, maybe ever, but surely not until he knows where to send help. Adrenaline and instinct have him heading for the quickest route north.
"Are you hurt?"
Rustling and a muted gasp.
"I'm bleeding."
His foot presses to the floor as his heart pounds. Not again.
"Damn it, Kate, what is going on?"
"I can't breathe."
Another round of pops.
"What's that noise - is someone shooting?" Just as he clears the line of buildings to enter the freeway, a bang sounds ahead of him, and he cannot help but wince. Realization dawns at the answering burst of colored light over the Hudson. "Are those fireworks, Kate?"
"I - think so."
Air whooshes from his chest, and he slumps forward in his seat, spine going loose as he merges with traffic.
"Kate, listen to me. Take a slow, deep breath." He follows his own directions and his vision opens up from what had been a narrow tunnel.
"I'm trying. Castle, I can't." But she must be, because she can speak half a sentence without pausing for air. He steadies his own voice as his adrenaline ebbs, and puts all the calm he can muster into his words for her.
"Have you ever had a panic attack before?"
"No- I- No."
"I think you're having one now. And the most important thing is to know that everything will be okay."
Two hours later, the line is still open, but she has long ago fallen asleep. Stupid jokes hadn't worked. Talking about the only case he's seen in two months had been out of the question. In the end, he had spilled the entire plot of Heat Rises, hoping she was out by the time he had revealed the ending.
Somewhere around 30 miles outside Manhattan, she had managed the address of her father's cabin. At 60 miles, she had sworn she was climbing out from under the kitchen table and rinsing the cuts on her forearms.
Two hours has been enough to unknot the mess in his gut, and re-knot it all over again.
The house sits on a spit of land jutting out into a crescent-shaped lake. A sliver of the moon skirts the tree line as his loafers crunch over the gravel drive. He has nothing, not a toothbrush, or a spare shirt. Only himself. The hole gapes in his chest.
When he pulls the key from under the red flowerpot on the middle step, a lone rocket soars out over the water and bursts red, tips trailing down in sparkling gold.
The door opens easily into darkness, but his accustomed eyes find an empty room. Latching the screen door, he slips off his shoes, trying not to wake her if he can help it.
Red light flares from the back of the house, and his eyes find her face, glowing crimson as she touches the long match to a candle on the kitchen counter. Flickering to life in candle glow, the curve of her cheekbone flames umber and gold, so bright, not the parchment hollow from weeks ago.
"Kate?"
She presses her lips into a smile at her name, eyes fixed on the flaming tip of the match. Crossing the room, the seams between her fingers glow orange as she shields the flaring ember, and she passes him without a word, shouldering the door open to stand on the porch.
One hand digs into the pocket of her hooded sweatshirt, pulls out a handful of spindly sticks, touches one to the match tip.
Green sparks explode over the water, for one Instant lighting her profile in sharp relief.
"We always came up here for the fourth."
A pair of sparklers hiss to life in her hand, and she holds one out, a sparking point of light between them. Reaching toward her, he takes it, holds the hot, white tip steady, lighting her face.
"I remember." Her eyes find his through the darkness. "Everything."
# * # * # * #
I blame those twitter voters. Would sure be nice if I heard from y'al herel... ;)
Happy 4th of July, for all those who are celebrating.
Thanks to Alex, Jenny, and Dia (pew-pew) for the quick beta, but all mistakes are mine, ladies.
Also, thanks to Mark (shutterbug5269) for his generosity with letting me share a story idea so close to his. Go read "Fall from Grace" everyone.
Twitter: at Kate_Christie_
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