Title: Devil's Advocate

Author: wrldpossibility

Fandom: Castle

Chapter: 1/?

Characters: Castle, Beckett, ensemble

Rating: PG-13

Spoilers: Through S3

Author's Note:So I was thinking (without giving away specific S3 spoilers in this note): what if Castle had acted an instant faster in the cemetery during the season finale? What if their roles in that final scene had been reversed (hence the title of this fic)? Devil's Advocate picks up in the final minute of the finale, and follows a somewhat AU thread from there. (Oh, and don't worry; I've have a beta by the next chapter.)

Chapter 1

The last thing Kate remembers thinking is that the sun, though directly overhead, is somehow suddenly in her eyes. She blinks it away, just as she sees Castle-first in her peripheral vision, then right in front of her-inexplicably lunging, then outright leaping, knocking into her with the force of a freight train. She falls, and he falls with her, just as she hears the crack of a long-range rifle shot penetrate the quiet of the cemetery. Her head hits the grass heavily, Castle still heavier on top of her, as screams ring out everywhere. Somewhere behind her, Esposito shouts, and there's a confused chorus of scraping metal and footfalls as the rows of metal folding chairs are knocked over, weapons are drawn and cocked, and officers take chase somewhere across the lawn in front of her.

She tries to shout to demand to know what's happened, but Castle's knocked the breath out of her lungs. His arm is slung over her cheek and ear, which are pressed to the ground, and it's when she tries to move it that she sees the blood.

It takes her less than two seconds of rapid self-inventory to know it's not hers. Instead of relief, raw dread shoots through her like adrenaline, and she's able to twist out from under Castle in one graceless movement that triggers a low groan. His eyes focus on hers briefly as she leans over him, one hand already tugging at the collar of his shirt, the other deep in the grass, bracing her weight above him. "Castle!" Nothing. "CAStle!"

He just stares, his eyes half-lidded. She wants to shake him, slap him, anything to bring some recognition to his face, but he seems caught in a frozen moment of some private certainty. She leans into him, her fingers working the shirt button at his collar, fumbling, ripping. "Rick, you listen to me! You answer me!"

Other people are saying his name now as well, and hers, and pressing closer, but she's already found the source of the blood flow and ripped the shirt partway from his body, her white-gloved hands pressed to the entry wound high on his shoulder. Another few inches, and the bullet would have embedded into his neck.

The blood is seeping between the fingers of her gloves, but it's already lessening. Were this anyone else beneath her, she'd know this isn't a critical injury, but this is Castle and she knows nothing of the sort. His eyes are closing, his head turning away from her on the rebound of a grimace, and she tips it back toward her, the imprint of her fingers staining his chin crimson even through her gloves. "You stay with me," she tells him, low in his ear, an order. Someone behind her is touching her arm, trying to guide her away, but she locks her knees tightly around Castle and brings her hands back to his face. "Rick." Still a demand, but somewhat softer. She's changing tactics faster than with a suspect in interrogation. His eyes close completely, and she grips his forearms, hard. "Rick!" Her mouth is at his ear again; she can feel the shudder of his breath against her cheek. "Listen to me: I love you."

She's not even surprised. Shouldshe be? She doesn't know. She doesn't care. "I love you. Do you hear me?" He'd call that a rhetorical question, and a bad one at that, but she's past caring about semantics. She's past pride, and she's over egotism. She's both numb and exquisitely alive.

"I love you."

She's 99% sure he didn't hear her, but the remaining 1% left to chance is enough to send a current of anticipation to join the fear coursing through Kate's body as she jogs through the automatic bay doors at New York-Presbyterian, Esposito at her side. Ryan's running the single round extracted from Castle's shoulder through ballistics, but as far as she's concerned, it's an exercise in futility. They all know who was behind that shot.

And they all know it was meant for her.

Castle has pulled through surgery without incident, and is now safely ensconced in recovery. When she checks in at the main desk by the OR, she's told that the armed guard is thanks to the NYPD, but guesses that somehow, Castle has managed to secure the private room all by himself. "Probably mustered the strength to hand over a platinum MasterCard in pre-op," she tells Esposito. He frowns as if to say what the hell is wrong with you, woman?and she almost smiles. If he'd had the balls to call her on it, she'd have told him it helps to remain cynical at times like this-keeps her to a familiar routine (or just keeps up pretenses).

Esposito stops to brief the uniforms positioned at the recovery unit entrance, and she hears him say, "Beckett, you wanna ask them-" before she's through the door and gone. Inside the unit, a nurses station stands sentinel, a single R.N. filing something at the desk. "I need to see Richard Castle." For some reason, it doesn't even occur to her to flash her badge.

The nurse just eyes her tiredly. "Immediate family only."

She presents it now, fumbling with it at her belt. She feels off-balance and clumsy, suddenly reduced to a rookie. She's still in her dress blues, sans the gloves and hat. Castle's blood is a darker blue against the fabric on her sleeve.

The nurse is no more impressed than before. "I have a list. Family only. Name?"

Kate shakes her head and clenches her jaw. This isn't a question; it's a challenge. And it looks like they're both in luck, because Kate is soready to kick somebody's ass. She leans into the desk, hands braced on the counter, and delivers her favorite line with cold-hard articulation. "NY-PD." She has every intention of leaving it at that-that's all this woman needs to know-but after a five second stare down, she can't help herself. She breathes hard out her nose. "Kate Beckett." To her horror, this admission comes packaged with a rush of vulnerability-chased by a rising hopefulness-which, in her experience, is often the same thing.

"Not on the list."

"Then there's been a mistake." Both Kate and the nurse turn toward the recovery room door. Martha is wearing the same clothes she'd worn to the funeral too, her black silk scarf askew, but otherwise the picture of steady grace. She approaches the desk and cranes her neck to get a glimpse of the computer screen angled away from them both. "Katherine Beckett." Her hand gestures toward the monitor impatiently, the bangles on her wrist jangling. "Yes, yes...add her on."

The nurse frowns. "Mr. Castle's doctors clearly instructed there was to be no questioning. No police."

"Don't be ridiculous. She's not here in any official capacity."

Is it that obvious? Clearly it is: had she been doing her job, she'd have debriefed first, maybe even returned home to change into street clothes. She'd have gone by the book, followed protocol, and checked in with ballistics. She'd have stayed in the bay to question the uniforms with Esposito, and she sure as hell would have pushed her way right past this R.N. Instead, she's standing here like a goddamned victim who doesn't remember how to move her feet, and she's suddenly so grateful to Martha, her throat's closing up. She can't even thank her.

"Go on, then," Martha prompts, tipping her chin toward the direction of the room. "He's awake."