Enjoy the Silence

A/N: I won't make this long.

It's something new. From me. A multi-chapter. A season 6 finale fic. An idea that finally gripped me enough to make me start writing actively again. An idea I'd like to explore, inspired by the constellation of plot factors at the end of season 6. There are a lot of finale fics out there, some breathtakingly wonderful. I'm just another passenger on this large ship, adding to the lot.

As always, any type of feedback is welcome, although I do respond better to criticism if it's constructive. In case you'd like to know more, I also may be found on tumblr under the same name.

Thank you, Meg, for your wonderful input. I am sorry for posting already, but I couldn't help myself. ;)

PART I

"The past screams louder than the future. The future is mute, but it's not deaf."
―Jarod Kintz,Seriously delirious, but not at all serious

Chapter 1

The call comes at nine in the evening. They've had nothing, literally nothing, not a single, solitary lead, and then suddenly, everything moves so fast, it makes her head spin.

It's a quick tip-off: a short, anonymous call to the local police station and a surprisingly adept chief who, for once, doesn't think he can (or doesn't want to) handle such a potentially big case on his own. Not as big as this. He makes the call to assemble his squad; better to be safe than sorry, even if he has to wait on them for a little while. He hopes beyond hope that the call was genuine. If all goes well, he could be a hero tomorrow, or who knows, maybe even get a promotion. If the call was just a prank…well, then he's fucked. But the caller did sound genuine, did seem to know a lot of details about the case. On the other hand, there had been quite a lot written about it in the papers.

The rest happens quickly. Everything is as they were told on the phone: the farmhouse contains a man and a woman, suspiciously similar in appearance to the persons pictured in the papers recently. His team makes quick work of the job, entering the house and apprehending the suspects with a minimum of resistance.

Of course, it all ends up being a little bit more complicated than that. The FBI shows up soon after to confiscate all files related to the case, but the chief isn't really interested in that anyway. What's truly at the heart of the matter here is the prisoner the couple was holding in the cellar. A single man, in bad shape, but alive.

Richard Castle, quite possibly.

As in, Richard Castle, the novelist from New York, allegedly kidnapped en route to his own wedding several months ago. What a headline this would make the next day when the local newspaper caught up to the story in the morning.

So yes, the chief is fairly proud of his accomplishment, pleased with the role he played in saving the famous murder-mystery writer from his imprisonment by two obviously deranged people. The case is quickly taken from his hands, but it's just as well. Let the FBI take it all back to New York, where it came from. As for him, he's satisfied; no officers were injured in the arrest, both the FBI and the mayor congratulated him, and his yearly review is closing in. The favorable publicity surrounding the case could only help him. Oh yes, what a successful night.

Hundreds of miles away, a phone rings and a woman picks up, scraping her long hair away from tired eyes.

"Beckett," she answers in a weary voice.

There's a man on the line, an official from the FBI. And this time…this time he truly says it. Just like that. Like it's not big deal. He tells her the news and then waits for her response, but she can't really comprehend it, can't quite cope with what it means. She's been nursing the desperate hope for so long, that by the time it's finally validated, the words just don't make sense. The voice at the other end clears its throat, gives her some brief, general information to fill the prolonging silence, and then ends the call on its own, the line going dead.

Her legs give out.

They have to wait for several hours. It takes a couple of signatures and shuffling of official documentation before the "kidnapped man" can be finally airlifted and transported to New York Presbyterian.

Time slows to a trickle, the dragging hands of the clock doing nothing to ease Beckett's mind. Not even the knowledge that Castle might still be alive and for the time being, safely in the hands of medical personnel brings her comfort. Those hours are some of the most confusing of her life, where she has a hard time catching on. Everything is so bright and loud and hurried even as time stands still, the hands of the clock still progressing at a glacial pace.

They have no idea, no one has any idea, and it's this terror of not knowing that sends their guts spiraling. They don't even have definite confirmation that it's him, not to mention what state he's in, what's happened to him. What to expect after such long of an absence from their lives and God knows what treatment, what kind of man will be returned to them. It's been nine weeks. A little over two months.

An eternity.

The only thing they know for sure is that he's alive. Alive and stable enough to be transferred back to New York, to his family, to his home. He's finally coming home.

She can't stand sitting idly while they wait for news on Castle's status, so Kate spends the time on her phone, trying to suppress the initial shock that their ordeal might finally be over by coping the only way she knows how: investigating.

She begins by calling the local police station in the county where he was found. Flagrantly using her status as an NYPD officer, she gets put through to the chief and demands details of the arrest.

The man is polite enough, even though he's rather brusque with her and guarded in what he discloses regarding the found man and the tip that lead to the arrest. However, he doesn't hold back on the details of the role he played in the capture. She has to grit her teeth, listen through his bravado and then even plant some poorly disguised compliments – "one officer to another" – to get him talking more about the case.

They were found in a secluded farmhouse near the woods. Two people – a man and a woman matching the descriptions of Jerry Tyson (also known as the Triple Killer) and his accomplice, Kelly Nieman – were squatting there. Both were apprehended, and both are currently being transferred to New York under the custody of the FBI, but he has no idea where exactly since the case was taken out of his hands. It's no matter, because this isn't the information Kate seeks anyway. She wants to know more about the man that was found in their custody. The man, the chief tells her, they found shackled like a dog in the cellar; unconscious, half-naked, somewhat beaten and bloodied, lying on the pile of filthy hay covering the frigid concrete floor in a thin layer. The stench of urine and filth was overwhelming, the man tells her disgustedly, they must have kept him down there the whole time.

Her stomach rolls, bile rising to the back of her throat, but she gulps it back forcibly, pressing her trembling hand to her mouth and holding her phone even tighter to her ear while the chief continues. He tells her that the man wasn't very responsive; he appeared gaunt and badly malnourished, but well, it could have been worse, he guessed, huh? Oh, and he was dirty…did he mention he was dirty as hell? He may have even been drugged for all he knows, but the chief can't really say. The FBI's team was already taking over by then and, he spits bitterly, pushing him out of the room.

So no, he can't really say what the man's state was; there was too little light and too much dirt mixed with dark, caked blood. The ambulance arrived a short while later and took the man away, but he did see something. He did catch one proper glimpse of the man as they were loading him into the bus, the chief says enthusiastically, something like boyish excitement creeping into his attempted professionalism. He distinctly remembered the man's face, and when he googled the name associated with the alleged kidnapping a couple of weeks back, he noticed that the man did look remarkably like that one Richard Castle, the missing New York writer.

Kate continues to listen mechanically to the chief's words, but she doesn't really hear them anymore, and later, after she hangs up, she realizes she didn't even thank the man. Despite how arrogant he sounded, he probably did save her fiancés life.

She's at the hospital before the transport carrying Castle even arrives, waiting at the place he'll be brought first, Martha and Alexis right there by her side. She doesn't share the details she knows with his family; not just yet, not until they learn more.

The boys stop by, and then Lanie, too. Boy, do news travels fast. They exchange a few words of comfort, her boys promising to look into the matter, to not let the FBI snatch the case completely out of their control. Beckett knows that she's going to want answers, and might not get them if the FBI takes over.

Lanie steps in close and envelops her in a warm hug, and it feels so good in the face of the huge unknowns they're facing. Beckett allows herself to break, just a tiny bit, letting a single tear run down her face; just one before she braces herself for everything that's yet to come.

Their small group sits and waits in the uncomfortable orange plastic chairs of the waiting room, their insides churning and hearts heavy in their chests, beating in steady, subdued rhythms. Because despite everything that's happened, despite the unknown, he is still alive. That's what she tells herself: he is alive and whole, and that has to count for something. For now, it has to be enough.

It's nearly 1 am when the news finally comes down that the chopper has landed. She jumps to her feet, so ready to see him, even as her palms start to sweat, but once again, it isn't as easy as that.

It takes another couple of hours of waiting until, after so many of their demands fall on deaf ears or as they are being asked for their continued understanding because "The patient is currently being examined, please have a seat, we'll notify you immediately when you can see him," somebody finally comes to see them and fill them in on what's happening.

She sent the boys and Lanie home a long time ago telling them that if there's any news, she'll notify them, reasoning than right now, there's really nothing they can do. The doctors will only talk to his immediate family anyway, and even as she thinks this, she refuses to acknowledge the fact that technically, she has no more legal claim to be there than their friends. She might be the fiancée, but she is not yet his wife, not really family. Not like his mother and daughter are. But it's absolutely without question that she stays.

It's shortly after three in the morning when the doctor shows up, when somebody finally acknowledges their presence, their right to be there. He's a young man in his thirties, thin and tall with black horn-rimmed glasses. The name tag attached to his white coat says his name is Dr. Grant, and Dr. Grant must deal with patient's families often because the first thing he does after introducing himself is tells them the thing they've been most longing to know: that the patient has been successfully identified as Richard Castle, and that for the time being and all things considered, he's doing well and appears to be medically stable.

Yet he still doesn't take them to see him. Instead, he directs the three women into a quiet, empty family room just down the hall, pointing in silence for them to sit. Kate grits her teeth, but she does as she's instructed, dropping onto the couch with a little more force than intended, her anxiety and frustration poorly concealed. The doctor takes a moment to offer them coffee or juice, which makes Kate nearly crawl out of her skin, because would he just start already?

She declines his offer with as much politeness as she can muster, fixing her eyes imploringly on the doctor who seats himself an armchair opposite the three of them squeezed onto the narrow, lumpy couch, Kate and Martha's bodies protectively framing Alexis' in the middle.

Her palms start to sweat again as he finally begins to talk, and she has to clasp them together between her thighs to stop them from shaking, her whole body a tightly wound mess of fears and emotions. She fastens her gaze on the doctor once more, forcing everything into that single look to let him know that this is not the time for procrastination or postponing the inevitable. They've waited enough, having already been to hell and back in the past couple of weeks, fearing their loved one was forever lost to them.

But they didn't lose him. He's still alive, and they want him back. They're claiming him back.

And yes. There might be more where this came from.