Switched

Picks up in season 3 prior to the finale. I own nothing at all.

This is a completed fic that I've kept in the back of my mind and on my thumb drive, reworking and editing. Everyone is alive and reasonably well. Josh is still in the picture.

Note: first 2 chapters are T then on to M for the remainder just to be safe.

Reparata

Chapter1

Crime Scene
Museum of Meso-American History

"Castle, that's the stupidest theory I think you've ever put out there. It doesn't even begin to explain the facts in evidence."

Kate Beckett was about two seconds away from smacking that smirk off his face. He'd been getting on her last nerve lately, every day in fact, and today of all days he has to be in one of his wacky moods when she's already stressed with her boyfriend's latest demand that they 'move in' together or 'move on'.

"How else do you explain the total absence of blood in the victim. You heard Lanie. He's been drained of all his blood. There are no major traumas, just those one-inch incisions on both sides of his neck. It's got to be a vam – "

"Castle, don't you dare say it. Don't even think it if you want to be part of this investigation. Come over here, you idiot!" Kate grabs Castle by the upper arm, momentarily surprised by firmness and definition of the bicep she'd grabbed.

She leads him away from the taped crime scene and into a less crowded portion of the exhibit. The heels of her boots make impatient clicking sounds on the hardwood floor and she spins him around to face her anger.

"Look, I get it. I really do. You're a writer and a very imaginative one at that but this isn't some fictional situation, Castle, it's real. That man has a family and I can't just say – "

"I didn't say it was a vamp – " she shoots him a warning look and he continues, "but a that-which-I'm-not-allowed-to-utter wannabee, that's all."

Kate rests her hand on the extended hand of a carved statue of an obscure Aztec God and Castle copies her unwittingly by leaning his entire arm on the outstretched palm of the statue. She stares at him, wondering, not for the first time, what she did in a past life to be deserving of such punishment? Sure, he's her partner but sometimes she wonders what the hell goes on behind those baby blues.

Castle glares at her, wondering why he even bothers to try and open up her mind to possibilities. He scoffs and thinks that her mind is a closed metal box, welded inside a steel tank that's been sealed and then painted over and buried in 10 feet of cement. If it isn't her idea then it isn't worth crap and always ridiculed or dismissed out of hand.

Neither of them notices the subtle change in the hues of the colorful ceramic inlays that represent a belt around the grinning statue's midriff. Neither one is willing to even blink in this confrontation that is becoming more and more commonplace between them.

"Castle, go home. I don't want you involved in this case. Your input, such as it is, is counterproductive to this investigation. I'll call you when I have a case you can really be of help with. Until then, don't call me; I'll call you."

"Fine. Mark my words, Detective. I'm right about this…"

Kate snapped and her voice was loud and angry and hateful. If someone played a recording of her voice back, she would deny that it was her saying such terrible things and certainly not to Castle.

"You're a writer, Castle, maybe even a good one, so why don't you go and do what you're good at and let the police professionals do the thing we're good at. Castle, get the hell out of my crime scene. Don't come back. Your shadow days are over!" Her voice seemed to get louder as her little speech progressed until she was yelling at him.

She wanted to take back those words the second they left her mouth but it was too late. She could see the impact of each hateful syllable as it struck him where he was most vulnerable – his self-image.

"Rick…I'm sorry…" Her heart-felt plea was spoken to his rapidly retreating back. She suddenly became aware of the silence that enveloped this part of the museum. Everyone was standing around staring at her. Some obviously disapproved while others simply looked embarrassed. To those who didn't know her, she looked haughty and pretentious.

Lanie Parish, in particular, looked at her with disapproval and thinly veiled disgust. From her position on her knees next to the corpse, she glared at her best friend and then turned her gaze back to the victim.

"Detective Beckett, if you can tear yourself away from the scene of your crime, I can fill you in on what happened to our victim, Mr. Burke."

Lanie's voice cut through the mental haze that surrounded Beckett like one of her surgical scalpels cut through flesh.

Kate walked over and squatted down beside Lanie who reached up and yanked the lapel of her red leather jacket and almost pulled her off her booted feet.

"Just what the hell do you think you're doing talking to Castle that way? He was right about the cause of death. See those faint, raspberry-looking raised abrasions around each of the slices? Those are from a vacuum tube. Someone drained Mr. Burke's blood after knocking him out and hanging him by his heels from the marquee. He was alive almost the entire time, Detective."

"Oh, no…" She dropped her forehead to the palm of her hand. This day just kept getting better and better.

"Oh, yes…" Lanie knew that Kate was the queen of empty relationships. She only kept a guy around as long as he was as uninvolved and uncommitted as she was but the second he showed or wanted commitment, she was outta there like her tail was on fire.

She wondered if maybe Castle had asked her…nah, never happen. He was too damned smart to go there after all he'd seen these past three years.

He slammed the door of the loft and stalked into his study and slammed the door. He opened up the liquor caddy that seemed to spend more and more time in his study than out where it belonged. Surveying its contents, he selected a dusty bottle of vintage Scotch and poured three fingers of it into a cut-glass tumbler and flopped down in his chair.

He opened up his laptop and pulled up his word processor and typed a brief letter to Roy Montgomery, printed it out and signed it. Still angry, perhaps angrier than before, he left the loft and went down to the lobby and had the doorman hail him a cab.

He told the cabbie to wait and threw him $20 for his patience and then stalked up the granite steps to the lobby of the 12th Precinct. He nodded to the desk sergeant and took the stairs to the 4th floor.

Montgomery's office was empty so he placed the letter in the middle of his blotter and left the same way he came. Still furious, he gave the cabbie the address of The Old Haunt and leaned back into the seat and thought about what he'd do next with his life.

A/N: Will post the second installment tomorrow (Monday).

Reparata 6/17/2012