He closes his eyes and relaxes back against the pillows, listens to the gentle sound of the shower, tries to imagine anything other than the stream of water sluicing over the planes and angles of Beckett's body. It doesn't work.
After a moment, he decides movement is the better option - he pulls on boxers and jeans, turns on his phone, sends off a quick text to Esposito to tell him they're in room 32. There are eleven voicemails now. He can't help but click over to them. Three from Martha. Nine from Alexis. Somehow his thumb is suddenly hovering over the most recent message, and he's hitting play and listening to his daughter's voice, breathy and strained:
"Hi, Dad. We're at the airport now. We're about to get on the plane to California, so, um, if you get this, my phone'll probably be off. I just – can you let me know you're okay? I want to be understanding. I guess – I think - I understand. But maybe – it's not too late. For you to come with us." Her voice breaks. "I just really miss you," she says, and then there's a too-definite click to silence.
He needs to call. Needs to tell her he's okay. But his throat is clogged and he's having trouble swallowing, unable to draw in all the air he wants. He taps out a text through blurry vision – We're fine and safe. Have fun in California, and don't worry. I love you.
He turns off the phone and sits there, staring blindly at the blank screen, inhaling, counting to three, exhaling, until his breathing finally slows into a steady rhythm, until the dampness from the tears dries and he's left feeling hollow, feeling empty.
"Oh, Castle," he hears, a quiet whisper from the doorway to the bathroom, and he tilts to see her standing there with wet hair, a towel wrapped around her torso, ending just at the top of the smooth length of her thighs. He doesn't know how she can tell so much just from the slump of his shoulders.
"M'okay," he murmurs, his voice sounding too heavy even to his own ears.
She knots the towel deftly, walks over to stand next to the bed, tugs him against her so that his shoulder is pressed into her stomach and his head is resting at the jut of her ribcage. Her arms wrap around his far bicep, drawing him into her, and beneath the scratchy terrycloth he can hear the reassuring, constant thump of her heart.
He's not sure how long he sits, his body canted into hers, her fingers tracing quiet circles up from his elbow to his shoulder and back down, but finally he feels some of the grief leave him, melt into a wonder at the presence of the woman standing warm and solid and alive beside him. "Just - texted Espo," he says in explanation, finally able to tilt his head up to meet her gaze.
She stares down at him with too much understanding. "They get on the plane?"
"Yeah," he says, the word nearly hidden on his exhale.
She's opening her mouth to say something, her arms still warm and steady and gentle around him, but a loud rap on the door has her jumping, looking wildly at the dresser the room for a heartbeat – for her gun, he thinks, a gun she doesn't have. "Stay here," she growls, walking over to look through the peephole, but then she's sighing in relief and unchaining the deadbolt and letting an exhausted Esposito, carrying a decent-sized duffle bag, into their room.
He grins tiredly at her. "Nice outfit, Beckett. You dress up special for me?"
"Shut up, Espo," she says, none of the usual bite in her voice.
Castle suddenly realizes he's not wearing a shirt, and Esposito's smirk has as much to do with the two of them together in their states of undress as it does with Beckett parading around in a towel. "Congrats," the detective says, a layer of sincerity underneath the omnipresent snark.
Castle's not sure where she'll go with it, but Beckett just quirks a half smile at him, murmurs "thanks," and collects her clothes. Even from the bed, he can see they're dirty, stiff from the rain and the long drive, and she furrows her brow in consternation as her fingers clench around the fabric.
"Just," Castle says, and this would not be awkward at all if Esposito wasn't standing in the doorway, staring at them with a too-knowing smile. He shifts off the bed, takes out boxers and a t-shirt from his bag, and passes them to her.
"You need me to step outside?" Esposito asks, his tone implying that she'll be doing more than just getting dressed.
She yanks the clothes from Castle's hands, shoots Esposito a glare, steps into the bathroom. Castle uses the opportunity to tug a shirt over his head, tamping down on the worry that flutters along the edges of his consciousness at Esposito's tense stance.
"You okay?" he finally asks, but the cop just shakes his head and remains, silent and stoic, near the door.
Castle can't stop the pang of arousal deep within him as he sees Beckett emerge from the bathroom, his boxers slung low on her hips, his shirt hanging off her thin frame, and for a brief second he can't help but curse Esposito for showing up so early.
There's a couple rickety chairs in the corner of the room. Esposito pulls them both out, sits on one while Beckett folds onto the other and Castle perches on the bed.
She opens her mouth to say something, but she's cut off. "I was gonna try and convince you to come back," Esposito says. "I had all my arguments planned out - how much safer Manhattan is, the kind of protection we could get you – hell, even Castle's family." Castle swallows at that, and Esposito shoots him a look that's not unkind.
"You don't want to convince us anymore," Beckett says, voice flat, like she already knows the punchline.
"Ryan called me, middle of last night. Demming called him because he was at the 12th late and noticed a report about a routine attempted B & E – he only paused at it because the owner listed was you, Beckett." Castle feels his chest start to constrict. "Cop that was on it said it has been deprioritized, nothing of value was taken and it was just paperwork to file, but Demming tried to call you, make sure you didn't need anyone to swing by. When he couldn't reach you, he got ahold of Ryan, who went straight to your apartment."
"How bad?" Beckett asks, her voice not even really a question, like she's been expecting this. Castle supposes she has, wonders why she couldn't have prepared him for it, too, why every piece of new information socks him in the gut, bowls him over.
"It's a wreck, Beckett. Tables and chairs and couches overturned, pillows ripped apart – not sure what's missing, but your computer's definitely not there anymore."
She blinks, swallows. "There's a makeshift murder board on the living room windows. A box of files under my bed. Maybe – someone should check and see if they're still there."
Esposito nods, tapping out a text before he continues. "Thing is, Ryan talked to one of the neighbors, who said he'd called the cops when he'd heard some noises and saw a man wearing a hood and dark sunglasses leaving your apartment."
"So why was it processed as a routine attempt?" Castle asks.
Esposito snaps, nods. "I don't know what's going on. I don't know if anyone went by there, or who talked to who, or how this whole thing fits together. But I do know there's a very limited number of people you can trust, Beckett."
She sighs, looking suddenly so very tired. "I know," she says, voice low. "You heard from Gates yet?" Esposito shakes his head, looking supremely uncomfortable. "You talk to Ryan?" He starts to answer, but she cuts him off. "About anything besides the break in."
"No," he says.
She reaches up, pinches the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger, takes a deep breath. "It was my fault," she murmurs. "You trusted me, you trusted me unquestioningly, and I did it all wrong."
Esposito shrugs. "No," he starts, but she stares at him with red-rimmed eyes and he changes tacks. "Look, it doesn't matter. I got your back. No matter what."
"I never wanted to put you in this position."
"Wouldn't want it to be anyone else," Esposito replies quickly, then shrugs a short apology as his eyes flick over her. "If you'd told me about the wardrobe malfunction I would have tried to figure something out."
"Castle Chic is the next big thing," Castle murmurs. He gets a muted glare from both of them for that.
"Not a priority," Beckett says, glancing from Esposito to the duffle sitting at his feet.
He lifts the bag, unzipping a section of it. "I met up with Martha at two am – arranged to have some cops with them until their plane took off, and security's going to meet them when they land, just to cover our bases. There's a hundred thou in this duffle. More won't be an issue - you have the offshore account that'll be hard to trace. I couldn't swing passable enough passports, but here's licenses."
"Samuel Chesterton from Illinois," Castle mutters incredulously. It's a decent license. It has a picture nearly identical to his current one. "Really?"
"Callie Chesterton, also from Illinois," Beckett says, looking up from her own ID and shooting Esposito a glare that promises imminent doom.
"Run," Castle whispers at Esposito, whose eyes flick briefly around the room, possibly checking the potential escape routes.
"Look, I figured it would just be easier, with you two traveling together and everything," he says. At Beckett's glare, he adds, "Also, I thought it would be a little funny."
"I don't mind at all," Castle says smugly.
Esposito sinks a little further into his chair, reaches into his pocket and pulls out two battered gold bands and a ring with a tiny row of inlaid diamonds.
"I absolutely know you are not serious," Beckett growls, sounding almost like her old self. He can nearly picture them back in the precinct, if he squints and looks at the whole scene sideways and forgets about the drab motel room, except that Beckett's hair is damp and her feet are bare and she's wearing nothing but his boxers and his too-large t-shirt.
Esposito, however, has quieted, stilled, suddenly radiating just how very serious he is. "I just - I don't know what they're looking for. But until you can come home, I thought – anything to shake up the situation a little. A married couple from Illinois might pass more under the radar, might not pop quite as quickly with whoever's looking for you."
She sighs, reaches out and grabs the rings from his palm, tapping his finger with her knuckle gently as she withdraws, an odd kind of thanks. "No, this is good. I wouldn't have thought of it, but it's – it's an easy cover."
"I won't mind practicing at all," Castle adds. It's a halfhearted attempt to draw them all out of it, and nobody smiles, but Beckett' eyes lighten just a fraction.
"Burner phone," Esposito says, passing a chunky Motorola from his pocket. He reaches into the duffel, emerging with two sleek, identical Glocks. "They're pretty standard," he says. "But not bad for short notice." Castle doesn't ask, doesn't want to know, how he got the fake ids and the burner phone and two handguns in the middle of the night.
Beckett sighs, shoulders loosening a fraction of an inch, as she wraps her hand around the gun and passes the other one to Castle. It feels cold, oddly heavy, the weight of the trust she's placing in him. "It's perfect," she murmurs. "This is…" she trails off, shrugging, glancing down at her lap. In one hand, she clutches the severe contours of a handgun, in the other, a pair of battered wedding rings.
"We owe you," Castle tries to say, but it sounds so empty, so hollow; it's such little thanks for their one current lifeline to Manhattan.
"Stay safe and we'll call it even," Esposito says.
"You want a Ferrari?"
He grins. "When you get back to New York, you can loan me your car for a week."
Beckett doesn't engage, just sits there, staring down, her eyes locked on a point just past her knees. She finally lifts her gaze, stares straight at Esposito. "You should go. I don't want – I don't want you more tangled up in this than you already are."
Esposito sighs, nods.
Beckett turns to Castle, and he can already see in her eyes everything she wants to say. "Don't," he says.
"Castle," she whispers.
He leans forward off the bed, uncurls her hand that's clenched around the rings and takes the three bands of metal from her. He keeps his grip on her hand, and she makes a low noise of protest when he guides the engagement ring onto her finger. "You're my witness, Esposito," he says, pushing the wedding ring on next. They're both a little too loose, she could lose them if she's not careful, but it's the best of a bad situation. He stares seriously at her. "We can't break up the Chestertons," he says. "We haven't even given them a running start."
She huffs out a breath, takes her hand back and flexes her fingers uncomfortably. Castle decides that he might as well put his own ring on, since he's fairly certain she won't be doing it any time soon. It pinches. "I didn't think to bring champagne," Esposito says. "Or wedding cake."
"We'll accept to the rings as an temporary alternative," Castle says. Beckett is glaring at both of them, but underneath her veneer of anger is an icy, deadly solemnity. She wants him going home with Esposito.
"Espo," she starts.
He cuts her off, shrugging slightly as he stands. "Sorry, Beckett. You know I'd do anything for you, but I'm with Castle on this one. You can't tell me, if your situation was reversed, you'd leave him."
"That's different," she hisses.
"I'm still in the room," Castle says, trying to stay jovial. "And we've only been married for about three minutes, Mrs. Chesterton. You can't keep trying to ditch me so soon."
She doesn't answer, but he sees the acceptance in her long exhale as she walks Esposito to the door, bumping her shoulder into his. "Don't get tangled up in this. You or Ryan."
Esposito rolls his eyes. "Yeah, okay."
"More than you have to, anyway."
"Sure thing, Beckett." He glances back toward Castle, pinches his fingers together, holds up his hand in a feed the birds motion. Castle steps forward, taps his hands up, tries not to feel any finality in the ridiculous gesture. "Be careful," Esposito says, and then he's walking away and they're left with only a bag of money and two guns and a pair of old wedding rings. They're left with only each other.