Prompt from the Castle Fanfic Prompt Blog: 2x17/2x18. Castle is in her apartment when the bomb blows.
You Burn Me Up
Castle's heart is pounding against his ribcage, beating in his chest so hard that he can hear nothing but the furious thrashing as it drowns out the dial tone of the phone pressed against his ear.
He's practically stumbling over himself as he sprints towards her apartment building, shoving people out of the way in his haste to just get there faster, praying that Beckett will answer her phone, scold him for disturbing her, yell at him, whatever, so long as she picks up.
Bursting through the doors of the apartment complex, he curses when he nearly trips over a jagged tile on the floor. His shoe caught on the same place last night, although right now it feels more like several lifetimes ago, his jovial attitude and slight concern at Beckett's reaction is miles away from the fear that's holding him in its deadly grip right now.
Immediately dismissing the elevator, he opts to take the steps two at a time up to her floor, his breath releasing in shallow puffs as he keeps the droning phone pressed against his ear the entire time. He climbs up, adrenaline pushing his legs faster than they seem able to go, catching himself against the railing when he trips a couple of times, and he grits his teeth in frustration.
Get it together, he tells himself firmly, racing towards her apartment when the never ending spiral of steps finally leads him to her floor. He almost collapses in relief when he sees that her door is still intact, no obvious sign of a serial killer breaking inside to lie and wait in her apartment, catch her off guard and-
He shakes his head clear of the morbid thoughts his writer's mind provides him with and bangs his fist against her door as loudly as possible, and not caring in the slightest if he wakes up the entire apartment complex if it means ensuring her safety.
"Beckett!" he yells when she doesn't answer, slamming the weight of his body against the door. "Are you in there?"
He throws himself against the door again, making it rattle against its hinges. He'll break the damn thing down if he has to. "Beckett, can you hear me?" he tries again, fighting against the sheer panic that's starting to overtake him with her radio silence. "You need to get out!"
Suddenly, the door swings open, and he falls forward. Beckett's standing there, staring at him with narrowed eyes and pinched lips, her face flushed in anger.
He's never been so happy to see her.
He rushes forward, crowding into her, and it's only then that he realises she's wearing nothing but a bath towel wrapped hastily under her arms. It's probably not the most ideal time to be aroused, but he can't help thinking how much he wants to chase the stray droplets of water clinging to her bare skin with his tongue.
"Castle," she growls, shoving him away from her with one hand, the other keeping the terrycloth securely in place. "What the hell are you doing?"
Right. Serial killer.
"Ben Conrad isn't the killer," he pants out between breaths, following her further into her apartment, his exertion from sprinting over here finally catching up with him. "The killer's still alive."
The anger melts from her face, quickly replaced by confusion as she tries to comprehend his words, when suddenly he hears it.
Beeping. The same chilling sound they heard in Conrad's apartment.
Time freezes in a dreadful tableaux as he and Beckett stare at one another, realisation dawning on them both, the immediate rush of terror he feels reflecting back at him in the mirror of her own expression.
Goodbye, Nikki.
She ploughs into him, knocking him backwards through a doorway, and he just has the time to think 'Oh shit,' when he feels a harsh slam against his back, knocking the wind out of him and-
Nothing.
He grunts, immediately choking against the heavy, dirty air assaulting his lungs. A solid weight against his chest makes him feel heavy, and it's too hard to move anything more than a twitch of his muscles. Heat is licking at him, the smell of burning waking some primal instinct inside that tells him that as pleasant as sleep feels right now, he needs to go.
Lifting his arms, he blinks open his eyes as the memory of rushing to Beckett's apartment comes back to him. He feels around, the ceramic against his palm cool to the touch, a direct contrast to the pulsing heat he can feel waving at his skin from every other angle.
Once his vision clears, he realises he's lying on his back inside a bathtub. Beckett must have pushed them in here before the bomb went off.
Beckett.
His body jumps, filled with sudden panic, thinking that he's going to look over the tub's rim to see her body sprawled, twisted and bloody, on the ground next to him, when he notices what- or who- the weight against his chest is.
"Beckett," he lets out a choking breath, pushing himself backwards so that he can rise up slightly and lean against his elbows. "You're alive."
The movement jars her enough that she shifts on top of him, coughing as she regains consciousness, and when he reaches out to steady her, he meets skin. Naked skin.
"Oh, and you're naked."
"Castle," she gasps, opening her eyes only to find him staring face-to-face with her, wearing a smug grin that he can't help even in a situation as dire and utterly inappropriate as this one. "Turn around."
"I can't, you're on top of me," he coughs around his words, his body reacting against the feel of her bare skin pressed against him, a different and much more pleasant kind of heat warming him from the inside out.
She splutters, trying to shift above him, probably attempting to cover herself up, though she's only succeeding making her state of undress more obvious to his nerve endings.
"Castle," she huffs, burying her head against his chest when she realises that the situation is hopeless. He sees the smoke rising above them towards the tattered remains of her ceiling beams. They should probably get out of here. "Hand me a towel."
He lifts himself up onto his elbows again, the muscles in his arms straining against the effort, looking over the edge of the bathtub whilst trying to keep his eyes averted from his partner on top of him.
Oh God, it's worse than he thought. The remains of her bathroom have been painted in a sheet of grey and black, soot and burnt edges all that's left of the room that was likely a place of sanctuary for the detective. Ceiling beams have collapsed around them, orange flames licking objects as they spread around the room. Unfortunately, he sees that her towels are included in the things that have fallen victim to fire damage.
"Your towels are on fire."
She groans from where she's buried against his chest, shielding herself from exposure and he resists looking down at her, opting instead to risk a reassuring squeeze to her arm wrapped tightly around him, glad when she loses some of the tension at his touch.
"What about the bathrobe?"
He scans the room again, hoping for her sake that there's something salvageable to cover her up, but he quickly spots the flames burning from the singed robe hanging against what used to be her door.
"I uh," he hedges, looking for something, anything, but coming up empty. "Do you have anything to wear that's not flammable?"
She shoves at him again, yelping out his name, and he realises that he's turned around and accidently gotten an eyeful. He's certain that the glorious image of the curve of her ass is going to be forever ingrained in his brain. "Sorry," he grunts, dropping backwards and feeling the pain shooting up his back when he hits the ceramic bottom of the tub again.
She lifts her head hesitantly to look at him, concern shining in her eyes as she stares down. The flames are burning behind her, giving her an orange halo glowing around her head. Ash smudges against the pale of her cheeks, and he can't help but think that she looks like some kind of dark angel, a hauntingly beautiful sight that has him losing himself in the vision she creates.
"Are you alright?" she asks, brushing a hand over his forehead tentatively, stroking the strands of his hair back, and he hisses, forced back to reality at the sting he feels. "You've got a nasty cut here." She's trying not to cough around her words, her throat likely protesting against the dust and smoke polluting the air around them.
"I think I might have a bit of concussion," he admits, feeling the knot throbbing on the back of his head. He must have whacked it when the force of the explosion threw them down, which would explain the raw throb of bruises on his back as well. "I can see four of your boobs instead of two."
Her eyes widen and her face flushes scarlet, jaw dropping open as she quickly looks down. She doesn't see anything though, still fully covered from being pressed against his body, and she glares at him. "Not funny."
"Kind of funny," he grins at her. The airs getting thicker around them, breathing starting to require a bit more effort. He wants to get them out of here. "But in all seriousness, your apartment is on fire, so this may not be the best time for modesty."
She bites her lip, close enough for him to imagine leaning forward and soothing the skin with his tongue, and she quickly flicks her gaze down. "Give me your shirt?"
The question is phrased hesitantly, and he suddenly realises that he must have lost his jacket in the blast. Well, if she's going to leave half naked, it's only a fair compromise if he does as well.
"Okay," he nods, pushing himself up. "I'm going to need you to climb off me though, can you move?"
"Yeah," she says, shifting her weight so that she's no longer straddling him, and he feels the vibrations all the way down to his nerve endings. "Don't look." she tells him sternly.
"I won't," he promises, closing his eyes as he sits up, feeling the dull throbs of places he's hit while he pulls his shirt over his head. "Not looking."
He hands it to her, one palm placed firmly over his eyes, and he can suddenly feel the heat radiating from their surroundings, warmer against his bare skin. "Okay?" he asks, checking before opening his eyes again.
At her consent, he does so, forcing himself to climb out of the tub, clumsy with dizziness thanks to his suspected concussion. She doesn't follow him right away, and he turns back to help her out.
She's staring up at him, eyes fixated on his now bare chest as she drowns in the too large material of his shirt, but she soon catches herself, shaking her head and surprisingly accepts the hand he's holding out for her. He smirks to himself. She was totally checking him out.
Beckett limps across the floor next to him, the short hem of his shirt leaving most of her legs exposed to the heat, and he steadies her. "Can you walk?"
"Yeah, just a little banged up." She must have taken the brunt force of the blow, being closest to the blast when it went off. A sense of dread waves over him as he realises that he nearly didn't make it to her in time.
They manage to get out of her apartment, wary of the groaning beams still precariously holding the place up, and he finds himself grieving the life she's just lost here, all the mementos, photographs and other things with sentimental value that money can't replace, all destroyed in the blink of an eye.
But she's still alive, he tells himself. Nothing else matters so long as she's still alive.
The hall outside is scattered with glass and sharp pieces of metal, debris that makes it difficult for her to walk with no shoes, the bottoms of her feet probably already painfully blistered and cut up from stubbornly walking across her own floor. Maybe he can lift her. His back should hold up long enough to get her out of here safely.
"Let me-"
She interrupts him immediately, reading his thoughts. "I am walking out of here on my own two feet, Castle." she says decisively, shaking off his attempts to lift her up bridal style.
He sighs, using his own shoed feet to kick the debris away and make a clean enough path for her to walk through, hopefully only causing minimal damage. He notes absently that the complex seems to be empty. With the main damage occurring within Beckett's apartment, he can only hope that everyone else managed to safely evacuate the building.
They trudge towards the stairwell, and the shards of smashed glass dangerously littering the floor pull him to a stop. Beckett throws him a look, stubborn determination clear on her face.
He shakes his head. "There is no way in hell you're going to make it down those steps without mangling your feet," he tells her, sending her a pointed look as she assesses the damage herself, peering over the hand railing. A low creak from behind them is a harsh reminder that this part of the building could possibly give way at any moment, and he sees the harshness of her features melt, giving in to the reality of the situation.
"What about your back?" she asks, touching the bare skin lightly, and he winces at the pain that flares from her tentative touch. Not exactly the reaction he imagined his body having from Kate Beckett touching his naked skin for the first time.
"Bearable," he tells her shortly, bending down to brace himself and lift her. "But if the floor collapses with us still up here, then it probably won't be."
Hesitating for a moment more, she relents, reaching up to wrap her arms around his neck, and he takes her weight with ease, lifting her off the floor. Cautiously, he starts down the stairs, careful to avoid jostling her too much, but he can't help trying to rush and get them safely outside.
She whacks his chest lightly when his hand slips a little too far up her thigh under the hem of his shirt, but even in the dim, smoky light of the stairwell, he can still see the smirk gracing her lips, her eyebrow raised at him. "Watch it, Bud."
He huffs out an amused laugh, but the raspy quality of both their voices tells him that the smoke has probably started to affect them. "Sorry," he says, but he doesn't really feel all that apologetic about the silky feel of her skin against him.
"Make sure you put me down before we get out," she tells him firmly, gripping onto his bicep as he jumps down the bottom step.
"I will," he promises, knowing that he can at least give her the dignity of walking out of here herself. "And I'll make sure to let you know if you accidently flash anyone."
She chuckles lightly, her face pressed into his neck, and he swears that he can feel her lightly stroking the hair at his nape where her arm is loosely circling, clinging onto him. It makes him feel lighter, and he suddenly knows with a certain clarity that, whatever happens next, they'll get through this.
"My hero," she sighs, smiling against him.
A/N: Here's another one for you guys. Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed it!