Serenity
She'd been working this assignment for weeks, working alone undercover, investigating a suspected mob hit on a popular mayoral candidate.
Working solo in the Bronx was rife with psychological and physical dangers. It had been far easier to use her looks as a tool to gain entrance to suspects' bars and clubs when she'd known backup was outside. She negotiated the fine line between flirty and elusive, aware every single second that it was only her acting ability that would make the difference between success and failure for this investigation, and between life and death for her. That wall inside, that poker face; sometimes they worked to her advantage. She could close herself off, barricading her essential self inside a little box deep inside, and play the part she needed to, in order to bring murderers to justice, and bring some peace to the woman's family.
If not me, then who?
Beckett had always done her homework. She knew what she was getting into, had sought advice from colleagues in the organised crime unit, and had a good idea of her suspects' patterns and behaviors. She never stayed with any of them for too long. Usually, this was enough.
I'm prepared. I can take it. Whatever they say or do, it's not personal. You have to look at the bigger picture.
Sometimes, it wasn't enough. Sometimes they got suspicious. And when they did, their reaction was instant, brutal, and designed to send a message. There was no point in trying to fight back too much; it would only drive them to greater violence. In a physical fight with at least one man two or three times her weight and strength, there was a limit to what she could do, and just count herself lucky to get out alive. Usually she received a straightforward beating – once the man's pride and reputation had been re-established, he simply threw her out on the street. Twice, though, she had been lucky that they had let her go at all, and didn't simply dump her body on the precinct's doorstep with barely enough intact to allow Lanie to identify her.
Mom.
A few times in the past weeks, Beckett had gone back to the precinct to check her messages and update Montgomery on her progress. He had looked at her in that way, questioned whether she was coping all right, and clearly not believed her assurances. But she had been determined to see this through, and he knew better than to try and stop her.
There had been no light relief. Castle hadn't been coming into the station either, because she wasn't there. He'd taken the downtime to work on his book, but had texted or left a message on her voicemail every day. Silly messages at first, though clearly fishing for reassurance that she was okay. In the beginning, before things got too heavy with the suspects, she'd always replied, but lately it was all she could do to get herself home, hands shaking as she poured a big glass of wine and recalled the risks she'd taken; how lucky she was to be alive; whether she would be so fortunate the next day.
Had she become so reckless? When had this passion – obsession – to bring what measure of peace she could to the families of murder victims overtaken her own sense of self-preservation?
It seemed so the next day, when she got a bit carried away, a bit too probing in her questions. The suspect, D'Angelo, lashed out with fists and feet, and finally something she hadn't even seen, but which slammed into her with so much force that she couldn't even make a noise for the pain of it. That was the moment she got really scared. They threw her in the back of a car, across the knees of two other men who invited her to suck them off while she was down there, and screeched out into the early evening traffic. Heart pounding so hard it almost hurt, trying to control her breathing, she feigned unconsciousness, a tactic as primitive as any prey playing dead. Fear was starting to override her ability to think calmly enough to come up with a way out of this, and she couldn't let that happen, but there was nothing she could do until they got out of the car.
This is it, they're going to kill me. No more second chances. Oh God. Castle. Dad.
She had nothing on her to enable her to contact Castle – and even in her fog she wondered that he was the first person she thought of. She tasted blood, and rode a wave of anger and frustration for her own weakness and failure, and of sadness and regret that there would be no goodbyes, no closure for the people she loved; they would probably never even find her body. What her dad would have to go through a second time...
The car door flew open, and cruel hands grabbed her. Everything was a blur then, all rushing wind, speed, force of impact, pain, and darkness.
Siren, red, blue. Tyres crunching on gravel, people walking towards her.
Shit, shit, they've come back for me. Something about it didn't feel quite right, but she couldn't register what it was, and she did what she had to.
Take it easy, take – Uh oh, look here. Watch her left side, Stan.
A woman's voice.
They pinned her to the ground and spoke to her calmly for a while, soothing murmurs at the edge of her consciousness.
Easy, Detective Beckett. We're taking you to Saint Anthony's. We've called your commander at the 12th.
I don't think she heard you. She's panicking. Let up, Stan, see if that helps.
Shit! Ow.
She wrestled with them a few more seconds, but the pressure on her arms and legs increased, and their technique was good.
Still got some fight in you. That's good, Detective. That's real good. The voice was still calm and kind.
She wondered why they didn't put her at a disadvantage by turning her onto her stomach. Beneath her, the asphalt still glowed warm from the heat of the day. It smelled hot, like when she used to play out in the street on summer evenings.
She blinked, took a deep breath, and gasped with the pain of it. She looked up at the top of buildings, and telephone wires silhouetted against the sky. They were talking again.
Stan had that black eye coming. He's been annoying me all day.
The voice was kind, and she was instinctively drawn to it, really seeing them for the first time. Uniforms. Were they looking for her? She tried to focus on them. An African-American female cop and a big, pasty-looking guy.
"I'm sorry."
The big cop's expression softened, but he didn't loosen his hold. "S'okay, Detective."
"Listen, Kate," said the female cop, "Your captain got word something was going down with your assignment. He put an APB out on you today. We've got officers in pursuit of your suspects. We're gonna get you up off the ground and into the car, and get you to the hospital." She smiled. "If we let you up, you gonna come quietly this time?"
She licked her lips and tasted blood. Tried to speak, failed, and tried again. "Home."
"Can't do that, Detective – "
They argued, but she insisted. She felt guilty, unprofessional, for allowing stress and confusion to get the better of her, and for yelling at them; they were only trying to help, trying to follow procedure. She heard them on the phone with Montgomery again. He must have told them to do what she said, because they helped her into the car and up to her apartment. They really didn't want to leave. She thanked them, apologizing again to the one she'd punched. Stan, wasn't it? His eye was already swollen and purpling.
She closed the door behind them, then lowered herself onto the couch in agonising increments, and stayed there. It was hot in the apartment, but the cramping, seizing pain in her side when she moved meant taking her light jacket off was not an option. She tried to control her breathing, to minimise the pain in her side. Her hands were clammy and shaking, and the edges of her vision kept blackening. As daylight faded, it became harder to tell where consciousness met reality.
A knock on the door made her jump. Then she heard Castle's muffled voice calling her name. She hesitated too long trying to think of something to say that would keep him from seeing her like this. She heard him talking to someone in the hallway, and the door opened a crack.
"Detective?" came the voice of the female uniform who'd helped her in, and she realized with a jolt that they'd never left. They'd been outside the door all this time. She was grateful. "There's a man here to see you, a Mr. Castle. Your commander told me to let him in. Is that okay?"
"Yeah," she whispered, though she wasn't at all sure it was okay for him to see her like this.
"Thanks, I'll take it from here," said Castle. She heard the door close, and the locks sliding into place.
"Kate?"
Kate. Must be bad, if he was calling her that. She wondered what they'd told him. She could hear the questions in his voice.
He stepped nearer. "I'm going to turn the light on, okay?"
She nodded, failed at the first attempt to say yes, but made it on the second. She braced herself for any number of reactions.
The lamp on the table beside the couch came on, and Castle moved around to kneel in front of her. He didn't speak, and didn't have to. Care, concern, horror and outrage played across his features. He had a terrible poker face.
"Hey." He reached out and took her wrist, holding it firmly. Now he knew exactly how much her hands were shaking, but he didn't comment on it. His fingers pressed into her pulse point, and he looked at his watch while he counted off.
Self-conscious, she muttered, "Didn't know you had a medical degree."
"There's a lot you don't know about me." He rose up on his knees and pressed a cool hand to her forehead. "For instance, you have no idea how I felt when Montgomery called. He said you were badly hurt, but no one knew exactly how badly. He said if you were as bad as the uniforms said, I should get you to the hospital and call the 20th for backup if you were half as stubborn about it as he bet you would be. "
She glared at him, daring him to try it. "No, Rick." He didn't back down, and she was the first to look away.
"Beckett, you're in shock. I really think you should go to the hospital – ," he held up a hand to stall her protest – "But I know you won't, at least, not tonight, so I got this from Esposito." He reached down and picked up a huge first aid box from the floor. "It was the biggest one they had at the station."
His concern warmed her deep in that little box inside that her poker face protected, and she did feel guilty for making everyone worry, but the last thing she was going to be needing tonight was an audience. Somehow she managed to get herself up off the couch and to the door, keeping her back to him so that he couldn't see what it cost her. "Thanks, Castle. You can leave it on the counter. I'll use it in a little bit." She undid the sliding bolts on the door, the implied you can go now perfectly clear.
He stood up, and his expression left no doubt that she was going to have a fight on her hands. "Okay then; I'll go." She could figure out where once she was out there, and opened the door.
Suddenly she felt him there behind her, and a second later, the door was shut and his forearm was pressing across her shoulder blades, pushing her gently but firmly against the wall. He applied no great pressure apart from the first moment when she reflexively pushed back. When she gasped with the pain of it, he let up instantly, apologising, but didn't release her completely.
"Castle," she cursed the unsteadiness of her voice, as the room tilted on the edge of exhaustion and pain and reaction to the events of the day. The shaking was worse now; she had to get rid of him. "Please, you have to go, I can't – "
"Shh, Kate. I've got you."
And then his hand, warm and strong, wrapped around her right wrist and brought it behind her back. The cool, unyielding steel of a handcuff closed around it and clicked into the lock. There was enough time to resist before he did the same with her left wrist, but to her own bafflement, and, she suspected, his very great surprise, she didn't.
He turned her to face him. Embarrassed by her submission, she avoided eye contact until he took her chin and tipped it up. His eyes were still roaming the cuts and bruises on her face. She tried to pull away, but he held on.
"Kate. Just listen. Those cuffs aren't going to be tolerable for long in your condition. I'm going to take them off. I just wanted to show you how serious I am about keeping you safe, even if it's just from yourself. Just for tonight. Will you let me do that?"
His eyes searched hers, all kindness and concern and in-charge, and there for her in a way no one had been for years. Since her family had been blown apart, and since Royce had departed her life. This was a more emotionally fraught situation than any she'd faced in the line of duty.
She nodded, breaking eye contact again, still shocked that he'd felt it necessary to make his point in such an extreme way.
He moved behind her again and fumbled with the lock.
"You're not going to take me down once these come off, are you?"
She could hear the grin in his voice, and had to smile herself, for the first time that day. Or in many days. "Not tonight, Castle." It felt so good to be able to joke again. As soon as her hands were free, she started tugging at her jacket cuffs.
"Let me." He eased the jacket down her arms, and off. His eyes were fixed on her filthy, bloodsoaked shirt, and his fingers gently moved the material aside to expose the bruised and bleeding areas around her collarbone and shoulders, almost but not quite touching her side.
"It looks worse than it is," she said, backing out of his reach.
He looked at her steadily. "Are you sure about that?"
Suddenly a wave of nausea rose up and she only just made it to the bathroom and kicked the door shut behind her before dry heaving into the toilet for... she didn't know how long. Only that after a while he knocked on the door and opened it without waiting for a response. Embarrassed, she flushed the toilet and collapsed back against the wall.
He took a washcloth from beside the sink and wet it, then knelt in front of her and pressed it to her clammy forehead and the back of her neck. "Bad day, huh."
She nodded.
"There's another thing Lanie wanted me to do, and since you've been throwing up, I think maybe I should." He gently felt all around her head, his fingers raking through her hair.
"What're you looking for?"
"Lumps. Bumps. Blood. All that good stuff."
He took a penlight from his pocket, and gently braced his hand against her forehead. His thumb held her eyes open while he blinded her first in her left eye, and then in her right.
"Ow, Castle."
"Sorry," he said, releasing her.
She rubbed her eyes. "Do you know what you're looking for?"
"Please, you only need to watch television. Pupils equal and reactive. Hopefully no concussion."
"I don't remember hitting my head."
"Well, you wouldn't, if you hit it hard enough."
"Good point," she conceded.
"There's a nasty bruise right here though," he said, indicating an area on his own temple.
For a moment, she was back there, feeling the sickening power of D'Angelo's fist as it connected with her skull.
"Beckett?"
She opened her eyes and looked into his blue ones. Shake it off. "It's okay."
"Could you handle a drink of water?"
She nodded, and he went to fill a glass. He returned with the drink and the first aid kit. "Sip it slowly." He watched and waited while she did, then took the glass and put it on the counter by the sink.
He was a good friend. "You're not bad at this, Castle."
"I'm having flashbacks to the time Esposito ate that unfortunate kebab from a street vendor." When she managed a smile, he said, "Shall we get you off that floor, or do you need to stay there a little longer?"
She considered. "No, I want to get up." No sooner did she move to do so, than he was behind her with his arms under hers, and had her on her feet. For a moment the pain in her side made her nauseous again, but it settled, and she staggered out into the hall.
"Bedroom," he prompted, when she paused.
"Castle."
"Let's go." He took her elbow in one hand and the first aid kit in the other.
***
She headed for the sanctuary of her bed at last, but he picked up the stool by the dressing table, and set it over near the lamp.
"Can you sit here for a minute?"
"What for?"
"It'll be easier for me to see."
He made no jokes, and said no more about what was coming than could be helped, and for that she was grateful. This was beyond awkward as it was.
She sat, shifting uncomfortably, her entire left side throbbing simply from the act of remaining upright. He retrieved a chair from the hallway and sat facing her. After an appraising moment of eye contact, he reached up and started unbuttoning her shirt.
She grabbed his wrists, stalling him. "Whoa..."
He dropped his hands and leaned back in his chair, giving her some space. "Beckett, you need some taking care of tonight. Remember a long time ago I told you I'm a wiseass, not a jackass?"
She nodded.
"Well then. I care about you, Kate. Do you really think I'd want you to feel embarrassed, or threatened, after everything you've... hell, that we've been through?"
"Of course not. It's just... hard for me."
"I know. It's not exactly easy for me, either. But I also know that if our situations were reversed, and I was badly hurt and couldn't do what needed to be done for myself, you'd help me out. Wouldn't you?"
"Of course." But he already had a support staff, with his mother and daughter, and she had no one. Even as she thought it, she realised that was wrong, she had him, and she should start getting used to it, because it was a good thing. And she should be grateful for it. "Okay, Rick. Sorry."
He reached up and finished undoing her buttons. "Do you want to keep the shirt on?"
She nodded, and he got off the chair to kneel right beside her.
"I'm just going to move it around a little, so I can see. If I'm going to touch you, I'll tell you first. Okay?"
"Okay." She braced herself. She sat there in a daze, her right arm hugging her aching stomach, carefully not looking down as he opened her shirt. Immediately, his attention was fixed on her side. She allowed herself a glance at his face, and saw nothing but concentration and concern. He moved around to kneel on her left side, and she stiffened.
He looked up. "What happened here?"
"A beating on top of a beating, and then landing on it at forty miles an hour after being thrown from a moving car."
"Christ." He sat back on his heels, looking overwhelmed. "I don't want to hurt you."
"It's okay, Rick. You won't make it worse." When he looked at her, she said, "It really hurts. Anything you can do; it's okay."
That seemed to strengthen him. "Okay." He nodded, resolved. "I know I said you could keep your shirt on, but this part is actually sticking to you. Some warm water should get it off." He got up and disappeared into the hall, and she heard the bathroom sink running.
He returned with a basin of water and put it down on the floor beside her. Delving into the first aid kit, he opened a package of surgical gloves and pulled them on. To her amazement, he made no jokes about it. He held up a washcloth. "Is it all right if this gets ruined?"
She nodded.
He dabbed very gently at her side, until the sodden, bloodsoaked shirt came away, and he helped her ease her left arm out of it. There was no point adding to the misery by keeping it on. It still hung off her right shoulder, though; affording some measure of modesty and psychological comfort. Her bra was torn, but there was no way that was coming off right now.
He showed her a hand. "Touching now. Very gently."
Before she had time to think about it, his fingers were gently tracing the curve of her ribs, pressing here and there, apologising when she flinched or screwed her eyes shut her eyes against the pain. When he finally reached the epicentre of it all and lightly prodded, she swallowed a yell, grabbed his shoulder, and squeezed it hard.
He winced. "Sorry. My guess is, something's fractured. At least." He made a game attempt at a grin, "And that's just my shoulder. Lanie said if there was anything like this, I had to either get you to the hospital, or else bring you in to see her in the morning so she can take some X-rays."
"Her. In the morning."
He gauged her expression. "All right, then." He prodded around a bit more. "There's some grit from the road embedded here in your side, and in your upper arm and shoulder as well."
Glancing up, he said, "Want me to try and get it out?"
"If you can."
"Hold on."
He went to the bathroom and replaced the water in the basin, then fished around in the first aid kit. There was a lot of rustling of plastic packages and a strong smell of antiseptic. He pulled on a new pair of surgical gloves.
"Just need to clean it up a little first."
The antiseptic on her raw abrasions was like a flaming brand. At first all she could do was close her eyes and try to breathe through it. She barely even noticed when he started tweezing out the little stones. His digging pointy tweezers into the wounds was sickening, but the fact was, the pain meant that she was alive, she was here. She'd survived. And it meant that someone – that he – was here; that he cared enough to do this for her, and that made it bearable.
The tweezers bit deep, tears blurred her vision, and she made no sound.
He looked up at her. "Go ahead and yell, Beckett," he said. "I would."
"Had worse...," she managed, "when I was a rookie." This was not strictly true, but she didn't miss those days, when she lacked both knowledge and technique. The learning curve had been steep and, at times, painful.
"See, this is why I became a writer, not a cop. And I thought it was bad when I fell off my skateboard onto my bare knees," he said, not slowing down, trying to get through this as quickly as possible. "I stopped crying when Alexis brought me ice cream." She smiled, because laughing hurt too much.
After what felt like a very long time, he sat back on his heels with a sigh of relief. He cleaned up the whole area as best he could and taped a large dressing over it. "Done. You are now an asphalt-free zone." He wiped his sweaty forehead with the back of his wrist and smiled up at her as he tried to discreetly peel off gloves now covered in blood.
She reached out and squeezed his shoulder again, drawing comfort in the warm, solid presence of him. "Thanks, Rick. Really. I'm sorry about this."
He shrugged this off and went to take her hand, but stopped when he saw her raw and swollen knuckles. "Don't thank me yet; we're far from done. How's your stomach? I can give you some painkillers, but they're strong. You should eat something to go with them."
"There's granola bars in the kitchen cupboard."
He retrieved them, and a new glass of water. She ate slowly, cautiously. He didn't need to see her throw up again. It was okay. She took the two little white pills he offered. "Small."
"Small, yes, but potent." Off her blank look, he added, "Jack Nicholson, 'The Witches of Eastwick'." He took an antiseptic wipe out of the container. "I'm just going to go around and clean things up a bit, okay?"
She nodded. He worked as quickly and gently as he could around all the areas that were available to him. She was still sitting hunched forward, with her arm defensively hugging her stomach.
He came back around in front of her, and gently said, "Just sit up as straight as you can and move your arm out of the way."
Heat rushed to her cheeks, even now. "Castle – " The room tipped, and he caught her as she fell forward. Before she knew it, he'd helped her off with what little of the shirt had stayed on, and she was lying on her back on cool sheets. He moved to the end of the bed, undid her boots and pulled them off, and then her socks. "I'm tired," she whispered.
"I know." He turned on the bedside lamp.
"Thirsty." Exhausted, drugged, and dazed from the pain, she barely realised he'd disappeared before he was back, holding a glass of cold, sweet orange juice. The condensation ran down her wrist. He helped her hold the glass while she drank gratefully. He took the glass away. She closed her eyes and instantly fell asleep.
She came back to herself with a gasp, feeling hands on her, seeking out pain. His hand came down on her good shoulder, gently but effectively holding her down. "Easy, Kate. It's just me. Just you and me." As she relaxed, he resumed his cautious examination, not touching anywhere alarming, but close.
"Lanie tell you what to do?" she questioned, trying to cover the utter weirdness of the situation.
"Matter of fact, she did." He reached down into the first aid kit on the floor and hefted out a book. "She even gave me a manual; sort of a 'User's Guide to Injured Detectives'. Unfortunately, I didn't have time to read it on the way over." His expression shifted from light to dark. "I did take a look at the chapter on internal injuries, what to watch out for. Basically, Lanie and I wanted to make sure I didn't miss anything that couldn't wait for a doctor."
She nodded. "I'm grateful, Rick."
"That's what friends are for."
If he felt her flinch, he didn't comment on it.
His hand was still moving over her, carefully feeling out her injuries. As uncomfortable as it was, and it was, she was conscious of a growing sense of ease, of being cared for, of safety with him.
He opened a white tube and started working some funny-smelling white cream into the throbbing heat in her shoulder, her upper chest, and anywhere he could get at bruised or swollen areas. "This'll help take the inflammation down. Not as good as what you'd get in the hospital, of course, but the best we can do tonight."
She closed her eyes and let him work, realising as she did so that this had taken, and he had earnt, a great deal of trust. "I'd rather be here... with you. I've missed you." Cowardly, she kept her eyes closed as she said this, but she could have sworn she could feel his happiness crackling in the air.
His hand briefly squeezed her good shoulder. "I've missed you too." There was a pause. "Do you know there's a bruise showing the imprint of a fist and a ring right here?" he enquired, his fingers ghosting over her stomach, working the cream in.
She tried very hard not to grab his hands and push them away, to fight down her vulnerability, to just lie there and let him do this for her. "I deliberately haven't looked."
"You haven't?"
Choosing her words, she admitted, "Every one of these injuries is evidence of a moment when I did something wrong; when I slipped, let my guard down; when someone saw through me."
He shook his head. "Beckett, every one of these injuries is evidence of a time when you were brave as hell in the line of duty, bringing a little more justice into this world."
She closed her eyes again, so that he wouldn't see the tears.
"I believe that. I hope you can believe it too, because it's true."
Then his hands were at her waist, unbuckling her belt, unfastening the first couple of buttons of her jeans. Her eyes popped open and she started to push herself up on her elbows, until the pain and his outstretched arm stopped her, and she had to drop back, cursing herself. "What – "
His eyes rose to meet hers, unwavering. "There's some nasty bruising here," his fingers swirled in the air over the area covered by her jeans. He paused, considering his words. "Did they..."
"No." Though she'd been conscious of the potential for it every single moment. It was a risk she'd had to take.
He stared at her, unblinking.
"No. They didn't."
Still he didn't look away.
"So long as you're down there, do you wanna see my tattoo?"
He blinked, and said softly, "Kate."
She looked him dead in the eye. "They didn't assault me. I was kicked, and punched, and hit with I don't know what, a baseball bat maybe, or a pool cue, but I wasn't raped."
Still he didn't budge right away. "All right. But if you had been, you know you could tell me. Or I could wait outside while you use my cell to call Lanie."
"It's okay, Rick. I appreciate the concern, I do, but it didn't happen. I would have gone to the hospital if it did. I would. Now, look at this." To break the tension, she reached down and opened her jeans more than he had, pushing her underwear down just far enough that he could see the bright yellow and orange tattoo on her hip, with I aim to misbehave written in swirly script around the pictographs.
His mouth fell open. "Oh my God! Serenity! The characters for serenity that the mighty Joss Whedon used on his epic tv series, may it rest in peace but enjoy numerous revivals! You're a Browncoat!" He grinned up at her. "You aim to misbehave, huh?"
She laughed as much as the pain would allow. "When the time is right, Castle."
His eyes twinkled. "Wanna see mine?"
"Your what?"
He gave her a look. "Tattoo."
At this point... what the hell. "Sure."
He stood up and began unbuckling his belt. "Ready for this?"
"Um, that depends..."
He turned his back and worked his jeans and boxer briefs down just far enough to show her that he had the same Chinese character boldly inked in oranges and yellows, high up on his butt. His was adorned with a little spaceship flying over it, toward the viewer. "Yours is much daintier and more girly than mine," he allowed.
She laughed. "The little ship is a nice touch. You know, you do kinda look like Mal Reynolds." She looked at him appraisingly. "More than kinda, actually."
"I get that a lot. I take it as a compliment."
"You looked great in that Halloween costume. Very... careful, Kate, authentic."
He looked inordinately pleased with himself. "Really?"
She grinned. "Yes, Captain."
His grin could not possibly get any broader. "I'm going to attribute that to good taste on your part, and not simply the powerful drugs coursing through your system."
They were edging into dangerous territory, and she felt the wall coming up again, but tried to keep it in check.
He fastened his jeans and went over to her closet. He opened it, grabbed a t-shirt, and handed it to her. "We can try to put it on you, but I think it's really going to hurt."
She covered her chest with it, not that there seemed much point now. "It's okay like this."
He perched beside her on the bed and dragged the first aid kit closer. "Okay, Slugger. Let's see those knuckles."
More antiseptic, more bandages. His gentle ministrations soothed her, and she started to doze again. A bag of ice on her hand brought her back. He mumbled something. "What was that?"
A pause. "I wish I'd been there."
He felt guilty? She took his hand and squeezed it. "To tell you the truth, I'm glad you weren't." Off his look, she added, "I don't mean it like that. I just mean, I wouldn't want you to get hurt. They probably would've killed you; killed both of us, if you were there. The way I did it was the only way to even attempt to get in there with them. They're still sexist enough not to expect a female cop."
"Was it worth it?" he asked softly.
"It was. In my bag is a recording of a conversation D'Angelo had with a buddy. He had a few drinks and bragged about killing the Councillor. It's all we need to go in and arrest him."
"Good job, Detective. But I mean, was it really worth the cost to you?"
"It's what I signed up for, Castle. Occupational hazard. Soldiers don't go into battle not expecting to fight."
"Is that how you see all this? A war?"
"Yes. Every day a new battle."
"In a war that never ends."
"That's why we can't ever give up. We can't let them win."
"Would you feel this way if your mother hadn't been killed?"
She looked at him. "If my mother hadn't been killed, I wouldn't be a cop. That's the way life is. Things happen, and they change you. Change your plans, change your priorities... Change your self."
He nodded. "Just so long as you don't lose your self in the process. Live to fight another day, Kate. Can you please try to remember that?"
"I'll remember."
His hand came down on her forehead again, and she closed her eyes. He was good at this. No doubt he'd had practice with Alexis.
"Still warm, maybe a little better than it was earlier." He reached into his pocket and pulled out his iPhone. "S'cuse me a second, I promised to check in with Montgomery. And Esposito and Ryan." He smiled. "And Lanie. And Mother. And Alexis." He must have gone out into the living room, because she couldn't hear what he told them.
She looked at the clock beside the bed. He'd been there for hours.
He reappeared shortly, jamming his cell back in his pocket. "They all send their love. Lanie says she's coming over to take care of you tomorrow, and she doesn't care what you have to say about it."
She smiled. "Thanks. Look, Rick, it's late, and I'm okay, thanks to you." She patted his arm. "You should go home and get some rest."
"Not a chance. If you want me out, you'll have to manhandle me out yourself."
"Don't make me laugh, it hurts too much. I just... I don't want to..."
"And what if your fever spikes in the night, and you start making prank calls to Montgomery? What if you feel sick again? Or you do have a concussion after all? As we've established, I don't have a medical degree. And what if – "
"Castle – "
"What if they come here looking for you?"
"Who?"
"Those mob guys."
"They don't know where I live."
"You don't know that for sure."
She closed her eyes. "Thanks for that; I needed something else to worry about."
"You don't have to worry about it. I'm here."
She opened her eyes and threw him a grin. "You against the mob?"
"I've seen The Sopranos."
"And what did you learn from that, that made you think you could deal with them?"
He shrugged. "I'd have the element of surprise. They'd never expect me. I'd be a third-act twist. Anyway," he kicked off his shoes, "I'm staying." He cleared up the first aid mess and looked around the bedroom for a comfortable chair.
She indicated the other side of the bed. "Lie down, Rick. It's okay. I don't want you to be uncomfortable."
"You sure?" He was suppressing his joy; it was so obvious.
She smiled. "Yeah." A sudden pain seized her side; she closed her eyes and held her breath through it. When it passed, he joined her on the bed, moving slowly so as not to jar her. She could sleep for a week; the pain and reaction had exhausted her last reserves.
He folded his arms behind his head and let out a long exhalation. "Would you like me to tell you a story?"
"A Nikki Heat story?"
He grinned. "Not this time. No, this is a story about a ruggedly handsome space cowboy and his crew, and an adventure they had aboard a little ship called Serenity..."
And so the horrors of the past weeks began to recede as her favorite author spun a yarn just for her. It was exciting enough to hold her attention, with love and loyalty and the bonds of friendship winning the day. His voice, warm and rumbling, was the last thing she heard that night.
End.