Taking a Stab at It
She gasps, body lurching forward as the arm around her waist tightens. It draws a groan from her throat, something of pain and determination as she presses, back, wedges her hand between them to grab at the—
"Let it go!"
It's a shout, echoing through the alley, against the walls of the building on either side of her as she pitches forward again, fingers clenched tight around the knife to keep them from slipping onto the blade. Her heel wedges against his calf, the sharp point of her stiletto pulling a shout from the man behind her, the loosening of his grip and the pressure of her body against his chest sending him toppling back.
The sudden release sends her arm swinging forward, her body unsteady on her feet as she hears the shuffle of feet behind her as the boys finally catch up to her and slap cuffs on their suspect, and her hand stays tight around the blade until suddenly there's resistance.
Too much resistance.
"Ow!"
Fuck.
Her eyes slide open, her mouth already falling open, tongue curling around an apology as she draws her hand back, pulls the blade with it and hears the man in front of her sputter in pain once again.
"You stabbed me," he whines, and she winces.
But interpersonal skills have never been her forte, and her lack thereof have words tumbling from her lips that aren't an apology or an introduction or a polite questioning of how bad he perceives his injury to be.
No, it's the exact opposite of what she should say.
"What the fuck are you doing?"
He sputters again, but it's not in pain this time. It's something laced with amusement even as he clutches at the bloody spot at his hip, winces in pain as he covers the stab wound and she cringes again as he speaks.
"You stabbed me," he says, "and that's the first thing you have to say?"
"I– Sorry," she says. It's all there is to say as Ryan walks over to her, tucks the bloody knife into an evidence bag, laughing at the moment as he walks away, promising to call an ambulance for her buddy.
She swallows back the words telling him that this man is not her buddy. He's her favorite author. And the man she stabbed. But definitely not a buddy.
And the man—Mr. Castle, whose name she's not supposed to know yet—is still laughing at her through his pained winces and quiet groans of pain as the blood starts to seep through his fingers and oh shit.
She stabbed him.
"You should sit down," she says. And even though they're in a dirty alleyway and it's less than ideal, she ushers him towards one of the walls, helps him drop to the ground safely even as he moans in pain.
Against her better judgement, she finds herself crouching down next to him, her hand reaching over to settle on his shoulder and feel his tense muscles beneath her fingers.
"You know, maybe next time you see cops facing off with a suspect, you should stay out of the way," she tells him, her voice low now, laced with the guilt and sympathy that's suddenly filling her chest, replacing the thrill of a takedown with this heavy thing she's not used to, almost wishes would go away.
That has her settling on her knees next to him as she watches his eyes pop open, what looks like a smile tugging at his lips.
"You're a cop?" he breathes. "That's so cool."
She laughs at that, even though she shouldn't, her head falling forward to hide the blush that stains her cheeks with the curtain of her hair. Her hand clenches at his shoulder, and she looks up to see his eyes fall closed, the pain starting to etch across his features. And something inside her surges, this stupid, inexplicable need to distract this stranger from what is surely agonizing, from the blood dripping onto the ground by his side.
"Really? Even though I stabbed you?"
He laughs, or scoffs, or just exhales loudly, his pain stealing his breath. She isn't sure.
"For sure," he says. "The way you took him down? That was awesome."
And she's blushing again, a stupid burn at her cheeks that she's glad she can't see. Her lips part around a response that doesn't come, words lost in her chest as the boys shove their suspect into their cruiser just as the ambulance comes rushing down the street, sirens blaring.
He winces as his eyes drift open. "I'm guessing that's for me?" he says.
She shrugs. "Probably."
The smile he offers is slight, pained and insincere when it should be sincere. "So, I guess this is goodbye?" he asks.
It draws a shake of her head, a squeeze of his shoulder. "You're not getting rid of me yet, Mr. Castle," she tells him. "I'm coming with you."
And the smile that cracks his face this time actually looks genuine.
They wheel him into a room, let her follow him because of the badge on her hip even though it's exactly what got them here in the first place. And because he won't let her go, his hand having somehow ended up clenched around hers, holding her close like he needs her there and she didn't put him there.
But he shouldn't need her, and she did put him there.
She tries to excuse herself, especially when they start removing his pants to get a closer look at the wound, but Castle is already on pain meds by there, his inhibitions lost and the playboy she's heard of in the news peeks through as a nurse reaches for his belt.
"Scared it'll ruin the illusion?" he says, and the nurses laugh, probably at the way she rolls her eyes even though that blush is back.
And how does he have the power to do this to her?
"What illusion?" she counters, squeezing his hand when he winces at a jostle of his leg, right below his injured hip.
"You know the illusion," he tells her. "You know who I am so you know the rumors. That I'm well endow—ow!"
His grip on her hand tightens, quiet apologies from the doctor filling the room over the sound Castle's groans. His face contorts in pain, forehead creasing and smile twisting. She tries not to look at his hip as the doctor examines the wound she left there, focuses instead on brushing sweaty hair from Castle's forehead and keeping her hand from drifting to smooth the sharp lines pain has etched across his face.
And then his face goes slack in relief as the doctor pulls away, waits for Castle to come to his senses before offering his initial assessment.
"Despite the bleeding, the wound doesn't seem to have gone all that deep. We'll have to clean it to know for sure, but I think you'll be fine with just some stitches and antibiotics, Mr. Castle."
The relief draws at her heart, lifts it until a smile breaks across her face and her eyes fall closed and her free hand comes up to smother an inappropriate laugh that threatens to break through. And her other hand curls tighter around his when he clutches at her, draws her closer.
"Looks like you didn't do any lasting damage, detective," he tells her, his voice soft like he's trying to comfort her even though he's the one lying in a hospital bed with a stab wound at his hip. "So you can stop worrying so much, feeling so guilty."
She glares, even though her hand is still held tight in his and she knows he's right. "I'm just glad you're going to be okay," she tells him.
"Aw," he breathes. "I'm so glad you care."
And she does. But he doesn't need to know that.
"I'm just glad I get to avoid the paperwork I would have had to do had the injury been any worse," she counters, smiling at the laughter that falls from his lips. "But you not dying is an advantage too, I guess."
He squeezes her hand once more, drawing it closer as his eyes stay locked on hers and she almost can't believe that she only met him a couple hours ago. That after years of building a wall around her heart, an accidental stabbing and a trip to the hospital already has her heart fluttering with stupid attraction to this man, idiotic schoolgirl affection.
"Detective?"
She blinks, nods her head in a silent demand for him to continue.
A grin spreads across his face, his eyes staying locked on hers. "Just so you know, the rumors are in no way an illusion."
He doesn't let go of her hand until the stitches are done and covered with a gauze bandage and the boys have brought him a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt from the precinct, Montgomery having called to offer the Twelfth's sincerest apologies for the accident. Castle accepts them quickly, promising that he's aware it was an accident and he has no issues with the NYPD.
He stares at her through the entire phone call, like he knows she needs his forgiveness far more than Montgomery and the NYPD do.
The boys are still teasing her when they leave, shortly after she promises them that she'll escort Castle home and make sure he's settled.
The pain meds they gave Castle still have him loopy and overly-talkative when he signs the discharge paperwork, his antibiotics in one hand and the printed orders of how to dress his wound for the next week or so clenched in the other.
"So you're my ride?" he says.
She nods, watches his smile widen and tries to tamper the one that draws at the corners of her own mouth. Instead, she reaches for him, helps him stand from the gurney, watching his face contort with a wince as the movement of his injured hip. And his steps are slow as she leads him from the ER, to the elevator, and then to her cruiser.
His arm stays wrapped around her shoulder the whole time, even though she's sure he could walk without the extra support.
And she can't bring herself to move it.
So she piles him into her car, careful not to jostle his injury as she does, and slides into her own seat, turning to glance at him as she turns the key in the ignition. His eyes are closed, his head pressed against the headrest, arm resting on the console between them. Her fingers clench around the steering wheel as she looks away, forces the butterflies in her stomach to go away.
She's just going to drive him home. That's all. And then she's never going to see him again.
And yet…
"You sure you're okay?"
He turns to face her, a small smile cracking across his face. "I'll be fine. Probably won't be able to walk all that much until it heals, though," he answers. "Gina will be happy."
She swallows. "Gina?" she says. "Your girlfriend?"
There's no response, not immediately, and the silence draws her attention as soon as the car slows to a stop, has her turning to find him grinning at her, an amused glint in his eyes.
"Jealous, Detective Beckett?"
A scoff breaks free from her chest, but words of denial stay caught.
"She's not my girlfriend," he adds. "My publisher, actually. More sitting means I'll have less ways to procrastinate finishing the manuscript for my new book."
And there's another pause, when she doesn't know just what to say because his words sound too much like reassurance and there seems to be some weight lifting from her shoulders and no, no, no. She is not supposed to like him.
She wasn't supposed to stab him, either, though.
"So don't worry, Beckett," he says. "You still have a shot."
When she knocks at his door, it's a young girl with fiery red hair that answers, her movements too quick and worry shining in piercing blue eyes and even though Kate's never met the girl, it only takes her a second to figure out who it is.
Especially when she watches the teen launch herself into Castle's arms, her exclamation of dad dying on her lips as he wraps his arms around his daughter.
Her hand finds her badge as she watches, fingers fidgeting to occupy themselves as the silence of family reunion drags on, until Alexis pushes him away with a furrowed brow and disapproving scowl.
"Where in the world were you?"
He cringes, and she can't tell if it's in pain or embarrassment or some mixture of both, but his eyes pop open when his daughter squeezes his arm, silently asks him for an answer. "I was, uh, at the hospital, getting stitches after Detective Beckett here," he pauses, motions to her with a smile and her cheeks warm with a blush, "stabbed me."
"Stabbed?"
She's the one that winces this time, cowering from his daughter's stare as the redhead's attention turns from Castle to her, fire in her eyes that almost matches the bright color of her hair.
"You stabbed him?"
A lump forms in her throat, butterflies in her stomach as her mouth opens around silence and she nods dumbly, only to watch anger solidify across the teen's face.
And Castle's the one that fills the silence.
"It was an accident, Pumpkin," he says. "She was trying to get a knife away from a suspect and I got too close, and well…got myself stabbed in the hip. But don't worry, it was a rather superficial wound. I just needed a few stitches and pain meds and in a week or so I should be good as new."
The girl stares, at him, then at her.
"Don't be mad at Detective Beckett, Alexis. It wasn't her fault," he continues. "And she stayed with me the entire time, let me hold her hand through the pain."
His daughter—Alexis—laughs at that, turns towards her.
"You promise it was an accident?" she asks, and Kate nods her response. "Okay, then, thank you for staying with him. Dad can be a real baby when it comes to pain."
Castle squeaks in indignation, and the sound draws a laugh from both her and Alexis.
"Just for that, daughter," he says. "we are getting extra anchovies on our pizza."
Alexis groans in disgust, squirming away from her father's hand, threatening to tickle her, and running back into the loft instead, shouting about how they won't get any anchovies if she's the one that orders the phone.
And she finds herself lingering at his door, laughing, finding stupid joy in his family interactions even though she shouldn't be here anymore.
But then he's turning towards her, reaching out to catch her by the wrist, his thumb circling the jut of bone there as he pulls her closer to him, offering her a smile that could develop the power to melt her heart.
No, she is not supposed to feel this way. But—
"Would you like to stay?" he asks. "Alexis won't mind, and you can think of it as a thank you for holding my hand through the painful parts."
And she shouldn't. She really, really shouldn't.
But she says yes.
Dinner bleeds into dessert, and then his daughter is excusing herself to do homework and she should be excusing herself, leaving with a simple thank you for dinner and well wishes for his recovery. And then she would never see him again, never have to face why there seems to be butterflies in her stomach and why she doesn't want to leave his presence.
Still, when he offers her a glass of wine even though he can't have any, she finds the will to say no, push herself from her chair.
And then she somehow finds herself on his couch, sitting across from him with nothing but her legs and an empty cushion between them, a glass of water in her hand.
"Can I ask you something?" she says.
He smiles, nods his head. "Of course."
She takes another sip of her water, hands curling around the cool glass, holding it against her chest. "Earlier, when I stabbed you, what were you doing so close?" she asks, the words almost a whisper even though she knows they're nothing to be ashamed of, nothing for which he'll judge her.
Because she watches him shrug, like it's nothing, the smile that comes across his face looking almost shy. "I didn't know you were a cop and I thought he was trying to hurt you," he says. "So I figured I would offer my help, but then you got the knife from him and, well, you know." He punctuates it with a chuckle, a motion to his injury.
It makes her cheeks burn, her head dipping to hide it once again. "Yeah," she breathes. "I really am sorry about that, you know. I had no idea you were there and by the time I did–"
"Kate."
She looks back up at him, catches the smile in his eyes.
And then he's holding his hand out towards her, fingers outstretched. His smile stays wide, hopeful, as he shifts slightly. His face contorts and she winces for him, watches until the joy, the hope, returns to his eyes.
"Want to come closer?" he asks. "I would come to you, but–"
She shifts, lifting onto her knees. One hand reaches over to set her glass on the coffee table, the other curls around his fingers until he's squeezing her hand, using his grip to draw her even closer. Her knees end up pressed against his thigh, the empty cushion that was between them now holding her weight as his thumb drifts over hers, his gaze locked on her as she squeezes his hand in return, asks him to continue without saying a word.
"This really isn't your fault," he promises. "I could never blame you. And even if I did, everything you did afterwards. the accompanying me to the hospital and holding my hand the whole time, driving me home and staying for supper with my daughter, all that outweighs a superficial injury to my hip."
She nods. His smile widens.
"Besides, I'm not all that upset about the stabbing, anyway?"
"You're not?" she breathes, laughter ringing in her voice, even to her own ears. "Why?"
He grins. "Well, it did give me the perfect reason to spend the whole evening with this really hot cop," he answers, drawing a giggle from her throat even though she doesn't giggle. "And I think I might be lucky enough to get to see her again."
She laughs again, because it's definitely not a giggle. "Oh? You do?"
"I do." He nods. "So, Kate, can I ask you a question now?"
Butterflies flare in her stomach again, the way she bites her lip being a feeble attempt to smother the smile that threatens to reveal her answer before he even asks. And she nods.
He pulls her even closer, squeezes her hand a final time. "May I take you on a date?"
And she shouldn't.
She's just the cop who stabbed him, let her guilt drag her to the hospital with him until she somehow ended up in his living room with him staring at her like he could feel things for her that she can't even think about.
Her heart is racing like she might be able to feel those same unthinkable things for him.
And she shouldn't.
But she says yes.
The night ends with him holding her hand and daring to lean in to press a kiss to her cheek, make her blood flare and bloom in her face as she thanks him for his forgiveness, accepts his promises to call and plan their date within the next few days.
Then the door is closing behind her, the parting smile on his face mirrored on her own as she lets herself sink against the hallway wall, draw her phone from her pocket to see his new contact page staring up at her.
She forces back the giddy smile on her face, closes the app to open her messages instead and find the unanswered one Lanie sent during one of the few moments of the evening she was away from Castle.
You stabbed a guy?!
A laugh escapes her throat, her fingers already typing out her response as she pushes herself from the wall and starts towards the elevator.
Lanie won't believe this.
And he still asked me out.
This idea came from a tweet by the TextsFromLastNight Twitter, and I rolled with it and, well, this happened. Hope you enjoyed! As always, a huge thank you goes to Lindsey for beta'ing this for me, and to Cathey for the title suggestion.