Ghost on the Canvas

by Sandiane Carter and chezchuckles


This night spent with Beth, Castle, and Alexis leaves Beckett giddy, light-headed. Last night seemed right out of a nightmare, the inferno of the explosion mingled with that breathless, "I thought it was done" feeling; and tonight is this surreal reunion filled with her sister's happy laughter, Castle's delighted wonder, and the flaming-red patch of Alexis's ponytail, swinging when she shakes her head in disbelief at Beth's stories.

The difference is too great for Kate not to be unbalanced by it. In a good way. Like when you've been shut inside for too long, bathed in artificial light, and you finally walk out to find the sun shining.

A little dazzling, a little disconcerting.

Not a bad feeling. Just – unusual. So much so that Kate is relieved to find herself alone with Castle, after he orders a town car for Beth, asks one of Montgomery's men to see her home.

Beth argues that she is a grown-up, that she doesn't need an escort, but Castle doesn't relent. And once Beckett realizes what he has in mind – her resemblance with Beth, Dunn still lurking in the shadows – she joins in the conversation, overcomes her sister's objections.

She's a little startled by her shadow's quick thinking. Or maybe by her own slow one.

Alexis is in bed already, left them about half an hour ago. She gave Beth a hug. Kate is trying not to read too much into it.

Still. It feels good, when it's only her and Castle again. It feels natural, easy.

It's just about the only easy thing in her life right now, when she thinks about it. That in turns brings her back to her apartment, to Dunn, to the case. But it doesn't leave her raw like before.

"Well, who would have thought I would be homeless, and case-less in one day," she says, going for levity, or for anything that will keep Castle from silently staring at her like's been doing for the past two minutes.

Her fingers play with the handle of her cup. The writer's made them herbal tea, saying he wants her to be able to sleep. Considering Kate's level of exhaustion by now, she doesn't think even black coffee could keep her up.

But his herbal tea is good enough. If you're into that sort of thing.

"I know I'm the king of going rogue, but… You were right to chase after Dunn," Castle says, in what she construes as a misplaced, but rather sweet attempt to comfort her.

"And Agent Shaw was right to kick me off the case," she shoots back, glad that she can at least admit it. "I would have done the same thing if I was in her spot. I'm too close to it."

After tonight, though, she feels calmer. In control again. Well, as far as the case goes. The rest of it – the rest of it, she doesn't want to consider.

"I'm sure after all this, you're… a little sorry you let me follow you around."

She hears it in his voice, the real concern tucked under the blanket of casualness. The concern that finds an echo in her own.

"No, not this," Kate answers without a moment's hesitation. "All the other annoying things that you do, but not this." She smiles at him, in the vague hope that it will cover the ring of truth surrounding her words.

"What about you?" She inquires, since they've got this honesty thing going, and going rather well, too. "Are you sorry that you ever wrote Heat Wave?"

Her breath catches in her throat on the last words, and that's how she realizes the answer to that question means a lot to her. A lot more than she's willing to admit.

"The way I look at it now," Castle says slowly, his thinking face on. "If it wasn't for Nikki Heat, this guy would have just gone on killing because he wouldn't have met anyone smart enough to catch him."

Oh. Beckett can't help being flattered, and at the same time, she's also strangely proud of him. Proud that he's reached that conclusion on his own, seen that none of this is his fault. That only Dunn is responsible.

"I'm speaking, of course, about Special Agent Shaw," he adds, looking entirely too pleased with himself as he bursts her happy bubble.

Even the towel she throws at his face – her aim impeccable, if she says so herself – cannot erase the grin that's taken residence there. Not that she really wants it to.

Kate wishes him good night and gets up. The weight of his eyes on her is heavy as she heads for the stairs, and even through the fatigue, even through the dull throbbing of the stitches in her thigh, she gives her hips a little extra sway.

And no, she tells herself, this has absolutely nothing to do with her little sister's earlier flirting.


The dark and the quiet of Castle's extra bedroom wash over her like a warm shower after a long run. It's both enjoyable and annoying, because she feels so relaxed now that she can barely function anymore.

Heading for the bag that Beth thoughtfully brought her, bending to pick the first clothes that she finds, crossing the room to step into the bathroom: Kate has to gather all of her remaining energy to perform those simple tasks, and she doesn't even have the strength to be irritated.

Once she's gotten out of her clothes, and wriggled her way into the oversized t-shirt she grabbed from the bag (it's red, which is a rather low-key color, when you know Beth), Kate looks around her and realizes that while the bathroom is spacious and classy, like the rest of Castle's loft, it's still missing some of the basic products. There's toothpaste, but no toothbrush. No make-up remover, either.

Every step gives rise to a hearty protest from her mutinous body, but the detective goes back to Beth's bag, tries to remember if her sister said anything about cosmetics or toothbrushes. A careful search wields a negative answer; Beckett sighs, hangs her head in disappointment.

Here she is, completely washed out, kneeling on the floor of Richard Castle's guest bedroom, trying to find the courage to get back to her feet, and ask him for a toothbrush. Pathetic.

But she doesn't have a choice, does she? She doesn't have a home anymore. There's no getting any of it back – the clothes, the pictures, the books, Beth's postcards. All lost, irremediably lost.

She doesn't even have a freaking toothbrush.

Kate straightens her back when she feels the first tear roll down her cheek, gasps for breath, for strength. Strength to force the back the acute, sudden grief that threatens to swallow her like a wave.

She's not going to lose it. She needs sleep, that's all. She was doing so well downstairs, what's different now? She lets out a sob, just one, single sob, and she's already wiping her cheeks when she hears the rap against the door.

Oh, crap. He just can't leave it alone, can he? Then she remembers the toothbrush. She's always been, uh, a little OCD about brushing her teeth at night. Besides, she's not stupid enough to believe Castle would go away if she didn't answer.

"Yes?"

Her voice comes out strong, confident. Even Beckett is surprised by it.

She can almost hear Castle deliberating on the other side of the door.

"I know you have Beth's clothes," he says in a low voice, mindful of his daughter's sleep. "But I was wondering if you needed anything. I haven't checked the guest bathroom for a while, so I have no idea what's left in there."

Oh. Well, if he's offering.

"Actually… Could you get me a toothbrush, please? And maybe – if Alexis has some make-up remover?"

"Sure," he answers, his eagerness carrying even through the wall between them.

She hears him hurrying away, and she smiles despite herself, closing her eyes and leaning back against the bed.

When he comes back, she's had time to get up and clean her face a little. Castle peers at her when she opens the door, making her wonder how much he heard, exactly.

Even if he heard the sob, he cannot know for sure she's been crying. She could have just…hit her foot or something. Which, considering her state of tiredness, is in fact pretty likely.

She thanks him, takes the bottle and the toothbrush, and heads back to the bathroom. From what she sees in the mirror, her shadow remains still, standing at the door.

Does he need something?

She voices her question, gets a fretful, if negative, answer.

Alright. She neither has the energy nor the patience to coax Castle into spilling his guts. He's still here when she turns off the lights in the bathroom, however, which is kind of awkward.

In a not-really-awkward way.

The writer nods at her. "Do you need help with that?"

Kate follows his eyes, notices the gauze on her left wrist is coming undone. Ah. Unfolding the gauze she can do one-handed, but putting it back in place will be more difficult.

"If you don't mind," she answers softly, all fight having seeped out of her.

She sits on the bed, because she's not sure how much longer her legs can hold her up. Castle mimics her, his thigh brushing hers.

She suddenly realizes that the oversized t-shirt leaves a whole lot of her to see. But when she looks up, the author's deep blue eyes are intent on the dressing of her wound instead of her exposed, naked skin.

The tension in Beckett's stomach dissolves in a heartbeat. She watches too, almost hypnotized, charmed by the gentle movements of his hands, unwrapping the gauze. When he uncovers the red, angry line, she sees him flinch. It's funny, because she doesn't feel anything, doesn't care really.

But he does. Her eyes have drifted from her wrist to his face, and she follows the lines that concentration puts there as he faithfully reproduces the medic's gestures, spreading neosporin over the wound with his finger (when did he go get neosporin?) before he starts wrapping again.

New gauze, too. It feels fresh and clean against her skin. Kate is absorbed with Castle's jaw, the shadows that play on his face in the half-light. The softness around his eyes, the way his unkempt hair seems darker now.

She wonders what it would feel like, his lips moving against hers.

She only has to lean in. Just these few extra inches…

"All done," he says, letting go of her wrist a little suddenly. He clears his throat, avoids her eyes.

This is the moment when Beckett usually comes back to herself, puts the armor back on, and shoos Castle out, isn't it? Except, for some reason, it's not happening right now.

Not that she needs to: he's already moving away, swaying uncertainly towards the door.

Because she isn't Beth?

The thought slices right through her, through her Beckett cover; it leaves her naked, vulnerable. A little girl.

She hears Beth's laugh in her head, light and bright like fairy dust, remembers the admiring looks Castle gave her, and sees Alexis smiling at her sister, more animated than she's ever been with Kate.

A giant fist is squeezing her heart, and she doesn't know how to make it let go. She doesn't know how to stop the string of terrible thoughts: Castle and Beth make sense, they both laugh and joke all the time, they have this easy, playful manner that allows them to make friends wherever they go. They look at the world with the same wonder-filled eyes.

And he said it himself. She and Beth look so much alike. Only, Beth is much less complicated, much less…broken.

Oh. It hurts. She had forgotten how much it could hurt.

She can't even be mad, can't even blame him. Or Beth. Beth has always been terrible at picking men, she deserves to be with someone good. And Castle, despite his many faults – Castle is a good man.

She raises her eyes, sees that he's reached the door. He's standing with his back to her.

He won't look at her.

"Castle," she calls, no, rasps, before she can help herself. She eases to her feet again, but she doesn't stray from the solid support the bed provides for her.

"Yeah?"

Has she dreamt that trembling edge to his voice?

"If you ever –" Oh God, what is she doing? Giving Castle the big sister talk? But she can't seem to stop her mouth, her damn mouth; she can't seem to shut up. "Beth never chooses good men for herself," she explains hurriedly. "She's so trusting, she always ends up with assholes or idiots. So, if, if you want. If you two ever. Get together." How can two small, two ridiculous words weigh so much? "You'll need to be good to her."

Stunned silence answers her. It feels good, the cool, silvery silence, after the burning fire of those words in her throat. After a moment – her heart is still pounding, pounding, clearly looking to get out of her chest – she remembers to look at him.

Castle's eyes are rounded in surprise, clueless.

Indignant.

Then a stride, two, and his arms are around her. Kate is too busy fighting for air – she can't fight him, too.

That's what she tells herself, anyway.

His warm breath washes over the shell of her ear, makes her tremble with something else than cold dread. Finally.

"Already handing me over, detective?" he whispers. It echoes through her, sends shivers racing down her arms, flutters in her stomach. Kate's intakes of air are like a drowning man's, shallow, erratic.

"You're the only one I see, Kate," he growls against her skin, nipping at her ear.

Oh, God. "Only you. Only you I see in her."

She wants to believe him. She wants to believe him, so bad.

"Still," she pants (there's really no other word for it). "Alexis loved her. And – and it makes more sense. You and her."

Why is she trying to sabotage herself like this? Lanie would have a heart attack if she could hear her.

Apparently, Castle isn't too pleased either. He moves back, so he can meet her gaze. His eyebrows are drawn together, and he studies her for a moment.

Whatever he sees, it seems to ease his worry a little; a gentle, amused smile plays on his lips. And he shakes his head at her.

"Alexis adores you," he says slowly, as if speaking to a five-year-old. "You just… intimidate her. Like with you and Joe Torre, remember?"

His eyes twinkle at the memory, and Kate feels a smile tugging at her lips in response.

"The fact you stuttered in front of Joe didn't mean that you don't like him, right?"

He actually waits for her answer. So she has to shake her head no, reluctantly, even as her cheeks heat up.

"See? And Beth…" He pauses, searches her eyes. Sighs. "God, Kate. I can't believe you're really saying this. She's your sister. She's really nice, and beautiful, but – she's not you."

Kate doesn't even think about it – she slides her arms around his neck, nuzzles against the soft skin she finds there. Presses her body to his. Castle gasps, but his hands are warm and sure at her back.

And this is what she needs, what she so desperately, absolutely needs.

"She's the fun one," she hears herself whisper, a part of her apparently determined to ruin the beauty of the moment.

The writer grunts his disagreement into her hair.

"So? I'm fun enough for two. Don't need more fun. I want the serious one," he adds, and she can tell from his voice that he's smiling.

His words – his words are a cool, healing balm on an open wound. An open wound she's been carrying for years, unaware. But there's still this tiny flicker of disbelief in her heart, this small pocket of insecurity, that keeps her from falling off the edge, from drowning into him.

"You sure about that?" She asks, very quiet.

She hears him chuckle, and he clutches her to him, confident, possessive.

"Uh, yeah," he answers, sounding too amused for her taste. "Yeah, I'm pretty sure."

Then Castle tugs her hold on his neck a little loose, making space between them so he can look down at her. What she sees in his eyes leaves her breathless.

He smiles, tender, dazzled, and his hands come up to push back her hair, palm the sides of her neck.

"And I think you, Miss Beckett, have done enough talking for tonight."

Any objection she might have falls to the wayside immediately, because his mouth is now moving on hers, slow and deliberate, delicate almost. And his fingers thread through her hair, his thumbs ghosting her ears, and Kate forgets about Beth.

She forgets about all that isn't Castle, his tongue licking at her lower lip, the hum of contentment she feels vibrating through his chest, and she abandons herself in his arms.

She abandons herself completely.