He relies on his intuition more than many do, and probably more than he should while working under a captain for whom evidence is everything, but his insight fails him when he returns to his apartment that night, far too tired to sense anything different about the home he'd left before dawn. There are no goosebumps to offer their warning, no tingle to suggest he's stumbled upon the unexpected. His perceptiveness may have been left at his precinct, or possibly in the lobby of his building, but one way or another, he notices nothing.
Maybe he just doesn't want to see any more.
The door is barely locked behind him when he toes off his shoes and kicks them against the wall, his jacket tossed over the stone steps to his right as he moves through the entryway. And while he's pretty sure he wants a drink, he's also pretty sure he doesn't have the energy to pour one. A long day – just the latest in several months full of them – has him shuffling forward until he can fall onto his couch, his closed eyes triggering a cascade of messy memories.
The October evening dragged up by his traitorous mind had followed a tauntingly perfect day in Southern California, the kind they put on postcards to sucker in the tourists and make other states jealous, not unlike the September day he's just survived in New York. But the sunshine had gone largely unnoticed in Los Angeles while he and his homicide team had been working an impossible case, too many hours with too many dead ends too many days in a row keeping them from appreciating the beauty in much of anything. Castle had finally decided to send them home at a reasonable hour with the hope they could all rest and regroup, and knowing Alexis had been holed up at a friend's house for most of the week, the teens obsessing over their upcoming AP exams, he hadn't been expecting to see his daughter when he stepped through his front door for his own moment of peace.
And his wife hadn't been expecting to see him.
That much had been clear from the glassy stare Meredith had offered over the naked shoulder of her director, her moan far from anything Castle had heard from her in quite some time. The stranger in their living room hadn't even had the courtesy to turn around. Castle didn't need to be a detective to know he'd lost her, probably long before that evening, and he'd supposed everything was as much his fault as hers; long hours spent with L.A.'s worst had taken their toll on him, and in turn, their marriage. A relationship that had been built upon cocktail hours and dreams had crumbled under the weight of the real world.
Whatever had happened in the immediate aftermath of his little interruption remains blurred, some primal defense mechanism that keeps him from remembering exactly how awful they were to each other, but by the following day, Meredith had checked into the Beverly Hilton and Castle had begun the search for a divorce lawyer. The split had happened as amicably as anything like it can, Alexis opting to stay with him while Meredith shrugged them off to continue chasing her Hollywood dreams. Months later, the divorce final and his daughter's junior year wrapped up, Castle had accepted a transfer to the NYPD.
There has yet to be a day he hasn't wondered why he didn't give up on his career altogether.
Sure, he had been freed from a marriage that hadn't made anyone happy in years and, with the help of his diva mother, he and Alexis had been able to move into a modest Tribeca apartment without selling a vital organ. Intelligent, self-driven, and outgoing, he'd fit in quickly with his new precinct, and Castle had even found time for a few nights on the town in between cases, the hum of the city luring him out later than anything on the west coast ever had. But none of it seemed to be enough, each morning offering very little reason to be excited about doing it all over again.
When he manages to shove the past aside once again, Castle's head lolls against the couch pillow, the satisfaction of having closed a case countered by a restlessness he wants to shake. A glance at his watch tells him he's only been home for a few minutes, if that, so he pushes himself up and heads down the short hallway to his room. He'll freshen up a bit, then go grab a drink at the bar down the street; it's better than drinking alone, but close enough that he can still return soon for some ever-elusive sleep. His practical plan, guided by logic and reason and the desire for the burn of whiskey, only unravels into something far less sound when he flips on the light, wanders toward his closet, and finally senses the disturbance. It's a tap along his spine, a chill traveling to his fingertips, and his hand is reaching for his service weapon even as he spins to see the woman standing in the doorway of his bathroom.
Her hand flinches toward her own waist for a moment, pulled there by the ache of a phantom limb, but then she stares him down and he can see nothing but a green-gold flash of fury. "Don't touch the gun. I'm a cop and this will go a lot better for you if you cooperate instead of making me clean your blood from my bedroom floor."
"I'm a cop, too, and—" Castle shakes his head and keeps a hand on the weapon, but stops before he actually draws on her. "Wait, your bedroom floor? You're in my apartment. My bedroom. If you've got a warrant for something, I'm gonna need to see that and a badge immediately."
"Detective Kate Beckett, NYPD," she snaps. "Who the hell are you?"
He pauses at her introduction, but uses his free hand to flip his badge open for her to see. "Detective Richard Castle, NYPD. And I still need some identification, Detective Beckett. Or do I get to be the one to show while you stand there and tell?"
"I think I—all my stuff is—I don't know where I put my badge. I can't seem to find any of my ID. Or my phone. Or anything else, actually."
"How convenient," he mutters, just before his eyes widen with a new thought. "This is a joke, isn't it? The guys in L.A. set this up to freak me out about New York, right? I mean, it's not their brightest idea, since I could've just shot first and asked questions later, but they probably figured I'd see a beautiful woman in my bedroom and ask her out before getting violent. So who put you up to this?"
If forced to describe the look on her face, he's not sure he could. The anger and suspicion with which she'd greeted him are still dominating, but there's confusion piercing the façade, an uncertainty lacking a voice and tumbling out as some sort of high-pitched growl instead. It's as though she's been caught in the middle of laughing, crying, and screaming, and while he can already tell he's wrong about her appearance being a prank, Castle was exactly right to call her beautiful.
"Nobody put me up to anything. I came home to my apartment and found that it's all different. The living room, kitchen…everything." She sighs, but sears him with a glance when he starts to step toward her. "I ended up in here, like it was going to be any better, and then you showed up. So what is this? Am I being set up so none of us talk? Conveniently insane and easily discredited? If you wanted to kill me, you would have, so I assume you think I'll be a pawn instead? Part of an ongoing game, just like Montgomery was?"
The way she's abusing her lower lip has him looking for blood, but there's something honest about it, a vulnerability that makes him doubt she's lying about anything as she spits accusation after accusation. She could be insane, or just a really confused colleague of his, but one way or another Castle's pretty sure she believes everything she's said since he found her. A mostly innocent perusal of her body, clad in a simple white t-shirt and jeans, suggests that she isn't hiding much of anything that could harm him and he feels as safe as anyone could while confronting a stranger in his bedroom.
"Okay, let's just keep talking and figure this out," he pleas, hands up as though she'll be so easily assuaged "My gun will stay holstered, and I won't get close enough to touch you, but we do need to solve whatever little mystery has developed in the apartment both of us think is ours."
She rolls her eyes, but gestures for him to continue. "Go right ahead, Castle. Start at the beginning and explain how you found yourself in the middle of this nightmare."
"Hey, don't you think you should be the one to—" One look at her has him swallowing the remainder of his question, his hand combing through his hair; he's not sure anyone could write a scenario as ridiculous as this. "Okay, fine. Um, I lived in California until a few months ago, when I accepted a transfer to the NYPD. My mother has lived in Manhattan for decades and has the money and connections to show for it, so she helped get this apartment for my daughter and me. Now Alexis and I live here and this is my furniture and my bedroom. I work homicide out of the 1st, I've had a really long day, but you're here and I don't understand why. Are you sure you're in the right place?"
With another eye roll, Beckett rattles off his address, the mailbox number, and the name of the super, all of which could have researched with relative ease. She throws him, though, when she's able to tell him about a particularly obnoxious squeaky floorboard in the living room and a chip on the side of his bathroom sink. Her arms are crossed in front of her now, defensive and weary, prepared to fight and surrender at precisely the same time.
"I've lived here since my previous apartment blew up over a year ago after some random perv thought I was interesting enough to fixate upon. I've worked homicide out of the 12th for much longer than that, but things have been messed up there lately. A cold case warmed up and the conspiracy hit too close to home, and I really don't feel like rehashing that if you don't already know the story and want to silence me for my part in it."
There's pain bubbling in her chest and he swears he can almost see it. "Pretty sure I don't know the story, and I wouldn't dream of silencing you."
"Suffice it to say my mom and my captain were murdered and the same people responsible wanted me dead. But I'm still here, so once I figure out where all my shit is, I'll be picking up the investigation and getting justice."
"That's a risky declaration if you still think I'm involved somehow." Castle's stalling now, something about the details she's shared starting to tug at him, needing him to pay better attention.
"Like I said, if you were planning to shoot me, you would have done it already," she explains. "And I don't think my plans to keep searching for the people responsible would come as a shock to anyone, so I'm not exactly divulging major intel. That said, I'm starting to doubt you're part of a greater conspiracy than having moved into my apartment while I was out."
"I can be rather charming."
"Yes, that must be it. Now if you and your stunning personality can help figure out what's going on, I'd really appreciate it."
Her smirk is nothing less than derisive, but it doesn't register for long, his focus now on the phone he's pulled from his pocket. Castle feels his heart rate kick up, the adrenaline unexpectedly hot, and he barely notices that Beckett is still talking.
"Are you calling the 12th to check up on me? I don't know why I didn't think of that sooner, but that's good. Ask for my—oh, I don't know who's running things right now, but ask for Detective Ryan or Esposito. One of them can help us sort this out. And I should probably talk to someone at the 1st about you. What's your captain's name?"
He's looking at her again, studying her face – hell, her entire body – for some sign that what he's just read is correct, why her name is familiar for all the wrong reasons.
"Back up, Beckett," he says, somehow far more intrigued than scared. "What were you saying before?"
"Detectives Ryan and Esposito. They're my team and they can help us."
Castle shakes his head. "No, earlier. About your mother and your captain being killed. Montgomery, right?"
"Yeah, they were murdered, years apart. I got too involved and was shot by a sniper at Captain Montgomery's funeral, but I'm not backing off. I've fought this battle for too long and I'm not about to—"
"Stop." He's careful not to spook her as he moves close, though that's probably a crazy thought to have. Then again, all his thoughts feel a little crazy right now. But he turns his phone toward her and lets her read the headlines he's found.
Her mouth falls open, but the words never come. It's up to him to break the silence.
"Beckett, the people behind those murders didn't just want you dead. You are dead."
A/N: I was inspired entirely by a gifset you can find at (modified link) leopoldjamesfitzs dot tumbl r dot com slash post slash 115922205455 and I appreciate that she allowed me to run with the idea here. Viewing the gifset will also give you all a glimpse at how this story ends, so spoiler warnings apply.