"Castle," her voice echoes through the phone. Her voice ragged, heavy as she greets him. But it's hushed, like she is trying to make the least amount of noise possible. She is breathless. He can hear the way she's exhaling against the phone, not even attempting for control, but they're silent.
"Kate," he responds immediately, everything about her voice, the way she said that one word, the way she said his name, giving her away. She is scared, maybe even petrified. Normally she wouldn't show it, so he knows it has to be serious. He's already sat bolt upright in bed, fumbling through the covers for the phone pressed to his ear, searching in a mad panic. Then her voice forces the realisation, the phone is to his ear and there is a clock on his bedside table.
"Can you do me a favour?"
He hears her swallow, imagines the rise and fall of her throat as she swallows her pride, asking for help. Anything, he will do anything. Then he realises she isn't a mind reader, isn't in front of him witnessing him sliding from bed, headed for his wardrobe searching for shoes. So he vocalises it. "Anything," he says. He loves the way the word puts a deep feeling in his chest, a pride he shouldn't have. He knows he shouldn't be enjoying her need, especially under whatever these circumstances turn out to be, but he is still enjoying it despite his better knowing. But it's the truth, he would do anything.
"My door is open, Castle." Her voice hitches in the middle, then again as she says his name. It makes him decide his sweats and sweatshirt are enough. "Can you please just stay on the line while I check?" she says distractedly, like she's searching her eyes over the doorway just waiting for someone to spring out from behind the door. " Just in case," she adds reluctantly. Her voice hitching along the way, the pleading note on the please strikes another chord.
"Do you think someone is there?" It doesn't matter. He is already at his front door, shoes on his feet and his car keys in his hands. Be damned if he isn't going to check she is really okay, he can't let something happen, he won't. If she needs him, actually needs him, actually finds some sinister individual in her apartment then he will almost be there. He hopes.
His question never reaches her. She must have put the phone in her pocket, knowing he won't refuse her request. He would never refuse her anything, they both know that. What she doesn't know is that there are more people after her than she thinks.
He hears her shuffling as he pushes the elevator button, calling on the car which is four floors too many below. He waits three seconds, pushing the buttons upwards of fifty times, muttering a small mantra of "come on" as his finger works furiously on the button. Then he hears her flick the safety, his stomach drops. There is no doubt in his mind now she needs him so he isn't going to be standing waiting for an elevator while she is shot, or stabbed, or beaten, or worse… He can't even consider them. He won't have that burn into his memory. He won't lose her, not with him a few blocks away. If only she'd waited, he won't let that haunt him. He runs for the stairs, no thought that it will probably take a little more time than the waiting. But the waiting, the doing nothing would feel longer. This way he doesn't have to stop, doesn't have to stand still. He careers down the stairs, not stopping as he stumbles on them, not stopping as he slams into the walls at the turns, not focused enough to slow down, plus this way he won't notice the blinding pain in his ankle if it has to share the attention with both his shoulders.
When he reaches the bottom he stops breathing, refusing the lungs screaming for air, refusing to provide his muscles with the oxygen they crave, the oxygen they need for him to keep moving. But he's still headed to his car, only jogging so he can listen. He can hear the movement of what he is assuming is her coat, no other sound is obvious. That is probably a good thing. Though he would like to be able to hear her breathing, be assured she is in fact the one moving and not something sinister.
He knows he's reached the car before he realises it with his eyes. The phone goes dead. It almost gives him a heart attack. But then he sees the car, unlocks it so he can cram himself inside and check she is in fact alright. Check nothing has happened in the time his Bluetooth locked to his car and the time it took him to clamber in and turn the ignition on. He really needs to work out how to change the damn settings.
The shuffles continue and he's already reversing, ready to plant his foot and not let up, not let up until he pulls up as close as possible to her apartment.
He keeps running his fingers through his hair. He's crossed two intersections, two junctions in the many separating them. He has caught both lights. At this rate he'll be lucky to make it there by Christmas.
She won't be impressed if he gets fifteen traffic infringements. Not even his position as her partner would save his licence, he doubts she may be able to keep him from jail though.
Then the light is green and he is off again, catching a few greens and pressing his foot down harder.
The shuffling stops, the sound of the material of her clothes brushing against the phone. It goes silent. He stops breathing. He needs every sense focused on the call, on a sense she is there, that nothing has happened.
Then he hears her breathing. Soft gasps but hard, like she's fighting to stay in control. She can probably hear that he's in the car.
"All clear." Her voice resonates through his car. He wants to crush her in his arms, press her against his chest and check she's still breathing, check this isn't some cruel rouse. But he can't. He isn't even the remote vicinity of that ability. But he does let out a full sigh, releasing the breath of air he hadn't know he was still holding. He focuses his intent on the road, the sooner he gets there the better.
"You're okay?" he asks, realising he neglected to ask the obvious, somehow finding the words in his haze of relief and intent on the road. Her voice has made him move faster, not too much but just enough that the next light a few intersections later has him tapping incessantly on the wheel as he awaits her response. He has contemplated running the red, ducking through at the last second, ignoring the warning light. But he knows she'll kill him if he does.
So he doesn't. He just waits for her response.
"Yeah, I," she starts, stops then starts again. "I'm sorry, I know I scared you. Really I'm fine. You should go back to bed. You'll wear a hole in the floor if you don't stop pacing. I can hear you from here." She sounds like she's smiling. It eats him alive. He can hear her moving through the apartment, no doubt checking the doors and windows, turning that deadbolt.
He needs to see her. "I'm on my way," he says distractedly. Finally he's turning the corner, now only a block from her apartment. He can almost feel her presence, her voice on the phone, her breathing surrounding him. It is the closest to her he's ever felt, especially with her still so far away. It's like she's on every side of his body, breathing in his ear.
"I'm fine Castle, go home to Alexis." It sounds like an order, but it's empty. He isn't sure why. Maybe she's been too shocked, too jolted for it to be assertive. Maybe he is just ignorant to the threat in her voice, the warning in her tone.
"I've already parked the car, Kate." He has, it's not a lie. He hadn't bothered to respond to her as he cross the last few intersections, turned around, finding a spot across the street and along a little from the entrance to her building. He wondered if he would have been that lucky if the circumstances were different, if he had actually needed to rush to get to her.
But right now his rush is otherwise motivated. He needs to see her, needs to check she's breathing then he will turn on his heel and go home. He will. He might check her apartment himself first though, put his mind at ease. It'll give her enough ammunition to use against him for a lifetime. He is more than happy for that to happen. It means she'll get a lifetime. If she is still teasing him when he is old and past-it, he can cope with that, as long as she's there.
He puts the phone in his pocket. She'll listen to the dead air after he closes the car door then it will turn over to his pocket. He knows she'll hang up, knows she won't listen to the brush of his clothes over the phone. She will be reminded, it will resound within her that that's what he listened to for ten minutes as she checked every inch of her apartment. Maybe she will keep it pressed to her cheek, dumfounded that he's headed upstairs, coming to find her, to check on her.
When he raises his hand to knock the deadbolt kicks over and it's already opening, like she was standing behind the peephole, watching or maybe just listening to his footfalls coming up the hall. When she pops her head around the door he stops breathing again.
"You okay?" he asks, he can hear the hitch in his voice, hear the emotion he isn't bothering to restrain. This could have been so much, this could have changed everything. Someone could have been lying in wait, waiting to pounce on her, while she slept. Then his eyes are scanning the room, taking in every nook and crevice, even the ones too small to possibly conceal a person. It is involuntary. He has to be certain.
"I'm fine. I think I locked the door when it wasn't quite tight in the frame. I have to slam it closed now before I lock it. I think I forgot this morning in the rush." Her voice is filling the room, but he doesn't hear it. He is already headed along the hallway leading to her room, eyes scanning the other rooms as he passes.
When he reaches her room he stops in the doorway, eyes scanning intently, ears pricked to hear the slightest sound. But he doesn't enter. He can't peer into this space too closely. He trusts now she's checked and is about to tear his gaze from her bedspread when she touches his back. She presses her hands flat against the small of his back then slides them up, over his shoulder blades, digging her thumbs along the muscles which flank his spine, applying enough pressure to unhunch his shoulders and make him lift a hand, to run it through his hair again. Then she's as high as his shoulders, both hands gripping the still tense muscles, her grip urging him to calm down while her thumbs linger at the top of his spine. He realises she probably is also trying to find the words to apologise.
"Kate," is all he can mutter as he turns, crushes his arms around her waist, pulling her against his chest, she's so close she doesn't even have to step forwards. Then he feels her crush his neck, tugging him down to her level a little to rest her chin on his shoulder, so he hunches over her, slipping his arms down her back as he does. Then he's got his arms firmly around her hips. She breaths in his ear, then he's lifting her off the ground, pressing her chest against his completely. Not high, just enough that to keep herself grounded she's pressing her toes onto the very tops of his shoes, groping with the phalanges for a foothold.
"I'm fine," she says, hand at the back of his neck. He just pulls her closer. "Really," she promises. Maybe he shouldn't have crushed her against his chest, hugged her so tight he's lifted her off the ground. But then she breathes against his ear again and he grips her sweatshirt between his fingers. Then it strikes him.
Apparently she's changed. She had to have been just home from the precinct when she called, when she needed him. He hadn't been home long himself. He has to wonder when she did it though. Was he on the phone? It makes him give a half groan and lift her higher, pulling her closer, forearms supporting her so he doesn't have to put her down, so he won't drop her. The groan isn't at the thought of her undressing while she listens to him speak or speaks herself. Though the thought of her in a semi-dressed or undressed state is more than enough to cause him to groan, this time it wasn't the cause. It is the intimacy of the moment. Like its old habit. You don't just change when you're on the phone with anyone. He realises she was unusually quiet after she told him it was all clear, before he told her he was on his way.
He realises she's probably waiting for an explanation. "I know. I just need…" He doesn't know what exactly he needs. Well he knows he needs to hold her, but he can't tell her that. He needed to be here, to check on her, to comfort her if she needed it. but now she's comforting him. "Are you okay?" He hopes she understands he's not asking about her current state, the fact there is no one in her apartment lying in wait for her but more if it has rattled her and if so how much. He knows it's a how much type question by the way she's got her face pressed into his neck, buried in the hood of his sweatshirt as it gathers at his neck, letting him hold her like this.
Then her toes get a grip and she's standing on his feet now, pressing the tongue of his shoe into his foot, he realises they're undone and that it hurts when she stands on his left foot. He shuffles the offending appendage and she puts both feet onto his right foot, shifting her weight against his chest to balance.
He flexes his ankle and puts his foot back to the floor, judging by the stiffness of the movement it's a little swollen. It can't be too serious though it doesn't hurt to walk on, he'll just have to ice it when he gets back home and keep his weight off it.
Then she moves to step back across, considering that her weight is pressed against his one foot. Considerate, but he slides his hands up her waist, drawing back a little to talk to her, tell her.
"You okay?" she mutters, head turned on his shoulder to look up at him.
"I thinking I rolled my ankle on the stairs," he says it softly, not needing to be louder with their proximity. Then he rests his chin against her hair. "Its fine," he assures.
But she's pulling away, sliding the few inches down his body, stepping off his uninjured foot. Except he keeps his arms locked around her, discontent at the thought of her withdrawal, at least another minute. He didn't know that would be the last minute.
"I'll get some ice, hobble over to the couch crip." She's got her hands on his arms, prying his fingers from their grip on his forearm as she teases lightly, an attempt at distraction he knows. He relinquishes his hold on her, but catches a wrist in his hand, not ready to lose contact completely. He watches her regard him as he slides his fingers across the skin before she's stepped back and is tugging him forward. It's a wordless command to follow her to the kitchen, the couch or wherever she is leading him. He will follow her anywhere she'll let him.