A/N: This is an end Season 8 fic but started writing this months ago so it goes AU somewhere around 'The Last Seduction' ep, I think.
All this Promise
All my promises are making their way
Back to you
I promise
- The Joy Formidable -
"It's over."
Castle gapes at the presence of his wife at his door. He's initially breathless at the sight of her, yet a chill runs through him as he really takes in her appearance, his heart thudding heavier with each new piece of information. She looks dishevelled, exhausted, tears rimming and threatening to spill. She raises a shaking hand to brush a knotted curl from her cheek.
And then her words register. What's over? Her need for space? Her secret? He gulps down a breath to avoid demanding an immediate answer. Their marriage?
"Can I… Come in?" She's hesitant with it, her hands twisting before her and she shifts her weight from one foot to the other.
He ushers her in then with a guiding hand to her elbow, his fingers tingling with the brief contact after so long without. His heart is beating so hard he can feel it in his throat, feel a tightness which doesn't allow words. He takes a steadying moment to close and lock the door with deliberation, evens his breathing, and by the time he's turned around, Kate has sequestered herself in the corner of the couch. He'd like to say that seating herself without his invitation indicates she still feels at home here. But her posture erases that notion. Rigid back, tense shoulders, perched on the edge of the cushion… There's no indication that she ever spent hours reclined on this couch, snuggled up next to him with a bowl of popcorn and film, or curled up with a book and taking a breather from the world.
"I… Do you want a drink?"
"No, Castle. Sit down. I have a lot I need to tell you." She holds out her hand and he seizes it, greedy for the contact.
She draws him down next to her then, gently eases her hand from his. Her breath is shaky, she swallows thickly, yet she levels her gaze with his. And she begins. Locksat, Vikram, the AG's office…
She grips her right thigh as she speaks. He supposes it's an indication of her anxiety, a point at which to anchor herself and exude some of her tension while she struggles with the words. He doesn't interrupt to alleviate her worry, but he's patient, allowing her to speak and pause and start up again. The anguish in her expression tells him how very much she wants to adequately explain herself, so he gives her the time she needs, despite his instinct to fire questions at her with every increment of story that she unfolds with precise attention to the facts.
She ends with the climax of tonight. Compared with the precisely laid out timeline of the rest of the story, there is little detail of what happened. But the end result was that Locksat was taken down.
"It's over," she repeats her earlier words. And this time he's not struck by fear. He breaths out her name, dizzy with the realisation that the months of torment might truly be at an end.
Unable to keep a distance any longer, he surges towards her, but manages to reign himself in at the last second, mindful of the rigid control she has on her emotions. So he merely grasps her hands, contenting himself with this small connection.
At first, he thinks her right hand is slick with moisture. He's never known her to have sweaty palms, but then he supposes fear and nerves may well elicit perspiration. But then the contact between them quickly becomes sticky and tacky, like juice drying to leave the sugary remnants. He abandons one of her hands. His fingers come up red.
"What the- Kate!" he exclaims, grabbing her right hand and turning it so the blood smeared across her palm is horrifyingly visible to him.
"Just a scratch," she grits out.
And now he realises the tension in her features, the struggle to speak, are not solely attributable to the topic of their conversation.
"Where?"
"My leg. Thigh."
The dark fabric of her trousers conceal any colour, though he thinks he can discern a darker patch of cotton. He is not about to go touching her to determine whether the area is damp with blood, not without knowing the extent of the damage. Judging by the amount of blood shared between them, her description of a 'scratch' is vastly understating the issue.
"Okay, Beckett. Trousers off." His tone is firm, allowing no disagreement, and for the first time in weeks, she concedes to his wishes.
Grunts, hisses and curses accompany the grimaces, winces and gritted teeth as she eases the material over her thighs and to her knees. Castle takes over from there, though his gaze is firmly trained on the gauze which must surely once have been white, but which is now soaked crimson. The blood loss is so great that he can see the liquid beginning to pool atop the fabric.
"Okay, okay," he says more to himself than to his wife, pushing down the rising panic. "Hospital."
"No!" Despite Castle's tone being once again firm, she vehemently disagrees.
"Kate, don't be foolish. You're bleeding out, honey."
"No, it's not that bad. Just a graze."
"Kate."
"No." She presses the fingers of her clean hand to his anguished lips, hating herself for doing this to him. "If I go to hospital, there'll be a report. I can't tell them how I really got sh- got injured," she quickly amends. Given their history, the word 'shot' will only invoke more horror, borne from nightmarish memories, in Castle. How many more times does he have to literally have her blood on his hands? "There can't be any connection made between me and the takedown of LockSat today."
"But-"
"I'll sew it up here. It'll be okay," she soothes.
How exactly has she, the injured party, become the one delivering comfort? He nods then, seeing no other choice. She seems confident enough that she'll be okay, and he really doesn't want to bring more trouble to their door so soon after her telling him it's over. He squeezes her hand. "What do you need me to do?"
"It's going to be messy so, help me to the bathroom?"
He jumps to his feet and oh so carefully lifts her up, carrying her with such care through the loft. Forget the physical pain, this is what makes her want to weep. He's so eager to help now that she's finally allowing him. He's so tender, so mindful of hurting her even though her recent actions have caused him so much pain.
She's set on the edge of the bath, facing inwards so her feet are planted at the base and any blood can drop onto the porcelain. She dispatches him to fetch the first aid kit, sewing kit, and Martha's leftover vodka. While he's away, she bunches her shirt up, stuffs a wad of the material in her mouth and takes hold of one edge of the dressing. A flick of her wrist and the gauze is ripped from her, pulling congealed blood away from torn flesh and setting forth a greater pulse of blood. Her yell of pain is sufficiently muffled by her shirt that Castle doesn't hear. She pushes the cotton out with her tongue and heaves in great gasps of air. Her eyes are tightly shut and she pants through the lances of agony radiating through her thigh. It's almost as bad as the initial tear of the bullet.
She's thankfully recovered enough of her composure by the time Castle returns. She grabs the Vodka first, though her trembling digits compel her to pass it back to Castle to unscrew the top. She takes two large swigs of the burning liquid. Then she pulls the antiseptic from the kit, pouring a liberal amount over the wound. She roars, a primal sound which tears through Castle as if he's been injured himself. He grasps for her but withdraws within a hair's breadth of making contact, unsure if touching her will make it worse.
Kate extracts the needle and black cotton thread next. But her hands are still shaking, the alcohol not yet taken effect. "Can you?"
He obliges. His own hands are quivering and it takes a few fumbling tries before he threads the needle. "Do you want me to…?" He gestures to her thigh.
"I'll do it."
"I can, though. I can do it for you."
"I know." And she's gentling him again. She cups face, more blood is spread between them but it hardly seems to matter now. "But I know you, babe. You'll feel guilty every time I wince. I'll do it. I, er, have experience anyway."
He wants to tell her he knows. That he saw her bloodied clothes, held the needle with which she pierced her flesh, stained his fingers crimson when he picked her bracelet from the pool within which it lay. But he glances at her uncovered wound, the ragged edges of skin barely visible through the pulsing blood and he shelves his distress for later. "What do you want me to do?"
"Brace me. Hold my thigh… Hold me."
After a moment's hesitation while he contemplates her precarious perch on the bath, he assumes a position behind her. His arms are either side of her and he grasps her knee and the top of her thigh in a vice-like grip. The angle is awkward but his chest is pressed to the top of her back and head, and she's effectively surrounded, secure within her husband's bulk.
She readies the needle and begins.
He may be a coward but he can't watch her work. He bows his head to her shoulder, squeezes his eyes closed and clenches his teeth. Tears escape as he listens to her grunt and whimper, bark and sob. She is sweating now, he can feel the perspiration through the cotton at her back, the slick line of her neck against his forehead.
Eventually, eventually, it's over. She slumps back against him, pale, quivering. Her face is a mess of tears, snot and blood, dripping down her chin to mar her lilac blouse. The crimson liquid covers her arms, her hands and her feet. And stark against her thigh is an uneven line of raised and puckered skin, punctuated by nearly thirty stitches.
She said she did all this to protect him, but at what cost to herself?
She drops the needle to the tiles and sits rigid, breathing heavily through her nose with teeth clenched. He can see the tension through every single line of her body and wants nothing more than to smooth his hands over her and sooth it all away. But he doesn't want to risk disrupting her concentration on riding through what must be intense pain. So he merely maintains his hold on her, fighting aside the uselessness he feels by ensuring she's stabilised enough not to fall from the narrow lip of the bath.
Finally, after agonising minutes where sweat prickles his scalp and worry pounds through his chest, she raises her head. "Okay," she grunts. "I'm okay."
"You okay to move? Get you cleaned up."
The shift of her head, leaden again his chest is minute.
He eases round her, careful, rearranging himself to encircle her until he can lift her fluidly. She gasps out, but all things considered, the movement from the tub to his arms is less painful than it could be. So too is the transfer to the chair in the corner of the bathroom. He's never before been so grateful for the hours he's put in at the gym.
"Vodka," she pleads and he brings it to her, even steadying its path to her lips. He has no idea if it's the best course of action but he's not going to deny her pain relief. Besides, he doubts she would be allowed any pharmaceutical analgesia with the amount of alcohol coursing through her system.
With Kate safely ensconced in the chair, he bustles around, firstly cleaning his own hands of her blood. He has to turn away as it washes down the drain. It feels all too much like ridding himself of her life. Looking at Kate does little to help him; she's slumped against the wall, blood-covered, trembling.
He fills a bowl with water, grabbing flannels and towels on his way back to her. He's so gentle as he washes the blood from her skin, wiping and drying and finally dressing the wound. He undresses her with reverence, catching a glimpse of the bullet wound marking her abdomen. The urgency to get her comfortable overrides his need to inspect, so he forces his attention to drawing the cuffs of her blouse over her hands and removing her bra. He disappears for only a few seconds and returns with a t-shirt of his she likes to wear to bed.
It's the vision of the well-worn comfort that brings tears not of pain, but of grief to her eyes. She lets him slip it over her. He's tender in his actions, smoothing a hand over her hair, gliding fingers across her wet cheeks, pressing a kiss to her forehead.
She almost curls into herself, almost pushes him away. I don't deserve him. I don't deserve him. The words run like destructive mantras over and over, interrupted periodically. How can be so kind after all I've done?
"Bed, Kate?" he murmurs close to her ear. He tucks the strands of her hair back, his eyes soft and patient as she returns to him from the damage of her own thoughts.
Bed.
Their bed.
The tears come again; she's thoroughly wrecked by everything. He merely picks her up, holds her close and carries her through to their bedroom.
The covers are already turned-down – he foresaw this and arranged the bed on one of his trips through the bedroom – so all he has to do is lay her against the pillows. He arranges the blankets over her and can't help but pause to drink her in. Finally, after months apart, she's back where she belongs.
"Beckett." He's quiet, reluctant to break the first instance of calm they've experienced together in months. She hums in response so he continues. He feels like a bastard when she so obviously needs to sleep, but they need to sort this, even if they have to re-hash it in the morning when she is more lucid. After the months of miscommunication they have to make a start. "You said earlier that you'd do it all again. Do you mean it?"
She tips her head back against his shoulder, attempting to discern his expression but everything it distorted from this angle, blurry from being too close. So she shifts her head back, gauging his mood from his rapidly thudding heartbeat and taut muscles. "Would I leave you after only a few months of marriage without giving you a reason?"
The action of his nod causes his whiskers to catch in her hair.
She bites her lip, half of her wanting to lie and sooth the muscles and slow his heartrate. But he deserves the truth, whatever the consequences to their current reprieve. So she replies simply, "Yes."
"Why?"
"Because you're alive," she pauses, letting that hold the gravity it warrants. "Because even though we had a few months apart, we still have the rest of our lives together." Here, she hunches into herself, protecting herself. "If you'll have me?"
He releases a heavy breath. He really doesn't need to contemplate the answer, despite his pain. "That'll never be a question, Beckett. But it'll take time," he cautions.
"Of course," she immediately responds, though she chokes out the next words. "I hurt you. I don't expect everything to go back to normal."
"It will do," he's quick to reassure. The anger will probably resurface at some point, but now he's just content with having her by his side, back in the quiet of their home. "It's just like it took you a while not to wake in panic every night after I returned."
"You knew about that?"
He nods again, soothing his fingers over her hip, feeling her relax in increments against him as their conversation progresses. "And I still feel so guilty for doing that to you."
"Castle…" She raises a heavy hand to his cheek, sliding her fingers over the sandpaper of his whiskers before dropping it to his lap.
She's sinking, he can tell, everything – alcohol, emotions and pain – catching up with her and making her heavy against him. But she's fighting it for this conversation, for them, and he loves her for it, and he's determined to give them both one last piece of reassurance before they succumb for the night.
"It's who we are, Kate. We fight for what's right, even if we end up hurting each other." He eases further down against the pillows, drawing her within him. "But so long as come back to each other, we're okay."
She releases her final words for the night on an exhausted breath, "Back to you. I promise."
A/N: Thank you for reading! This isn't a resolution by any means - more of this fic to come. :)
Reviews are very gratefully received. However, please don't post any spoilers for the final episode in reviews - I live in the UK so I will be watching it in a few weeks.