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A one time thing
Chapter Eleven - The art of misunderstanding
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If it only takes a moment for your life to change forever, can a 'one time thing' right the wrong? An AU Caskett meeting.
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Rick's sweaty palm clutches at the standard issue service weapon in his hand. His breathing is shallow, the air not quite making it past his throat into his lungs, and his body burns at the lack of oxygen. His eyes squint as the sunlight streams through the warehouse's window, catching the steel blade at Kate's throat; an array of colors bounce off the knife's surface and for a fraction of a second his gaze becomes transfixed on the rainbow that splashes across the wall.
Yet, the color splayed on the chipped plaster is nothing compared to the thin red line that's now spilling across Kate's neck.
"You're gonna be okay."
If he says it enough times he might start to believe it, and, sliding his foot over the concrete floor - rather than stepping toward her - his eyes focus once more on the convicted felon who holds her captive.
While the knife remains against Kate's throat, the edge opening up more and more skin, the fugitive doesn't appear to react to Castle's progression forward, and trying again, he covers another foot or so in distance.
"Take it easy."
He's going for reassuring, calm, is ignoring the anger that is tensing his every muscle- at least until he can get close enough to take the knife out of the bastard's hand and apply it to the prick's own skin.
Peeling the flesh off, inch by inch, is downright appealing at the moment. The moral code he normally holds himself to is ebbing away as the blood from Kate's wound steadily flows down her skin, begins to soak her shirt.
It's not the first time he's snapped because of someone who is important to him.
He's kissed her there, caressed the long length of her throat, felt her shudder under his lips as he's nipped and tasted her skin and he can't let it go. As much as he should be putting his feelings in a box and following the rules that instruct him to stay away, wait for back up, he can't. He won't. Not when it's her.
"Let her go, son." Montgomery's steady voice from across the room has them all turning toward him. He's managed to place himself on the opposite wall with Kate stuck in the middle, and thankfully the distraction helps Rick- he steals another two feet without anyone realizing it.
"We're not going to do anything stupid here." Speaking again, their captain maintains eye contact with the fugitive but Castle is almost certain that the words are meant for him.
What exactly is the definition of stupid, though?
The pain flares, pulls tight with every swallow, with the slightest of movements. Sweat is forming under her vest, while the perimeter of her vision is hazy; whether from lack of oxygen or blood loss she isn't sure, probably doesn't want to know. How much blood can she lose from a cut to the neck?
"Back up is downstairs. Just let Detective Beckett go and this will end peacefully."
Except Montgomery is stretching the truth; there is no back up on its way. They'd already cleared this building, were heading out the front door when Officer Simmons realized he'd dropped his radio and she'd offered to use hers to find it.
A simple task gone horribly wrong.
There's a jerk, the knife around her throat digging into her flesh again and her pulse thumps rapidly in the arteries of her neck as if they are aware of what is about to happen; how their blood is about to be sprayed across the floor as she dies.
Oh. God. She's about to die.
Suddenly she is falling, the ground catching her as she crashes onto her back, her head meeting the concrete with a crack that thunders in her ears. The small amount of air in her lungs exits in a puff, is knocked clear from her chest and she lies there stunned, eyes closing, as if by shutting out the world she will be able to shut out the agony that is clutching her tight.
"Kate. Kate. Stay with me, Kate."
Castle pleads from above her, his words shattering the space between them and as the pieces rain down on her skin, she wills herself to open her eyes.
Just open her eyes.
There's pressure on her neck, fingers covering the wound and it creates a wave of pain that flares in all directions, starts flashes of light in the dark that is her vision.
Why can't she open her eyes?
"Kate..."
She drags in a breath, barely a rattle, the first since she was released to topple backwards. But it's something at least. There are scraping noises to her left, and Montgomery's voice is not much more than an echo as he reels off the Miranda rights to the asshole that did this to her. And once she can move, get off the floor, she's going to enjoy dragging him back to prison.
She just has to open her eyes.
Material is now sliding against her skin, with any luck stopping the blood that is destroying her shirt, and she can't work out where it has come from, but the compression is less, not so brutal, and the air moves more easily down her throat as a droplet of water splashes onto her cheek.
What?
Blinding light comes and goes as her eyelids flutter, and, slowly adjusting, she catches sight of Rick above her. A single tear is making its way over the rise of his cheekbone, following the path made by the one before and it brings her pain, the entire situation, how close it could have been, into focus.
Is this how her mom felt lying in the alleyway?
Her own tear escapes, rolls from the corner of her eye, mixes with the hair above her ear, and as another swells, Rick's thumb drifts across her skin, catches it before it's released.
"It's okay, Kate. It's gonna be okay."
Smiling, or at least attempting to, she tries to reassure him that she's okay. She will be okay. She's just going to lie here for a moment, and not think about all the ways this could have gone. The way it went for her mom.
"I've done the best I can considering we're in the back of an ambulance. But you really should go to a hospital."
Trying not to grunt ungratefully, Kate instead attempts to offer the young paramedic a smile. It's hardly his fault that she is suffering, that she's stubborn and that she's under no circumstances heading off to hospital because of a little cut and a sore head.
"I'll be fine."
"You'll be going home."
Montgomery appears by the door, his eyes no doubt taking in the white bandage that covers her neck, the way she sits slumped in the back of the ambulance, and she stiffens her spine, straightens her shoulders – tries not to contort her face into a grimace. Her movement turns the throb in her body into a roar that crawls along her throat, desperate to get out, and she tightens her lips against the sound.
She's fine.
Shaking her head to indicate no, she forces herself forward, off the edge of the gurney, and out of the van so she can stand in front of her captain.
She will be fine.
"I'm heading back to the precinct. I need to give my statement, Sir."
Her fingers coil around the shirt in her hand, squeeze tight at the idea of going home to her apartment alone, to sit and think about her mom, to replay over and over all the ways their amazing morning turned into this hell.
"You're going home and that's not up for debate, Detective. It's bad enough that I have to deal with the paperwork that this shit storm has created." His hand lifts, scrubs the top of his head before it falls to his side, and she swallows her retort. It's like he's aged five years before her, the weight of the job creasing the lines of his face a little bit more than usual this afternoon.
"I don't want to see you before lunch tomorrow. Is that understood?"
Her chin drops as she goes to nod, but the action pulls at the butterfly strips holding the skin of her neck together. The cut isn't deep, or she wouldn't be standing here having this argument, but it's enough to irritate. It's enough that she stops, her eyes closing in defeat.
A hand rests heavily on her shoulder and she looks up again to see her captain's brown eyes boring into hers. The silence drowns out the background noise around them, freezes time, before he breaks it.
"You're lucky your partner can disarm a knife wielding idiot. Even if he was never supposed to." Their eye contact holds and once again in the space of twenty-four hours she's left with the feeling that those are not the words that were meant to be said. That if she were anyone else, he would be saying something very different.
Not that she can work out what makes her different to any of the other cops in his precinct.
"See you tomorrow, Beckett."
Pivoting on the spot, he doesn't wait for a reply, instead stalks back to the group near the warehouse, and her eyes drop to the blood-covered shirt in her hand. She should return it to Castle, go home, find a good glass of red - screw common sense that says combining alcohol with the painkillers they've dosed her with is a bad idea - and deal with the emotional scarring in private. Try to forget that today happened.
Forget what it was to have a blade to her skin, to feel it pierce her flesh, to lay on the cold, concrete floor shrouded in black.
"Hey. Your shirt's ruined, but I thought I'd better give it back. Espo's completely jealous of the six pack he can see under your white tee."
Rick sucks in a sharp breath as he looks up from the ground, pushes away from the side of the ambulance where he hasn't been standing, waiting for the paramedics to be finished, and he eyes her wearily. He's heard Montgomery send her home, would understand if she was angry at being dismissed, but the flippant tone catches him by surprise. It's not funny. Not even as a cop does he see the humor here.
"Are you ready to go?"
Ignoring her 'joke', he focuses on getting her out of here while reaching for the material, even though he will never wear it again. It's going to take a lot of digging to be able to bury the image of her lying on the ground, her blood coating his hand as he'd frantically torn his vest off, ripped his shirt free so he could cover the wound across her throat.
"Go where, Castle?"
He can feel his eyebrows draw tight together as confusion wins over all the other emotions that are running rampant through his body. Concern. Worry. Stress. Anxiety. Guilt.
"Your place. Montgomery sent you home."
"Me, Castle. He sent me home."
Staring at him, her head angles, and for a fleeting moment he sees her expression cloud over, a flicker of something crossing her face, before it's gone. She's standing tall before him, indifference rolling off her as she shrugs a shoulder.
And maybe what he saw was never there to start with.
Her lips open, all that's unsaid between them resting on the edge of her tongue before she closes her mouth, and he remains just as silent, her earlier rebuff, her description to the boys that they are 'nothing', holds his words hostage.
"Thanks, though. For everything."
Offering him a half-hearted smile, she turns, walks away, and his gaze drops to his hands. Coated with her blood, the red that cakes his fingers is a stark reminder of how close he came to losing her today and he forces himself to let her go.
They each have their flaws, too many to count, maybe too many for this to ever be. They're partners, nothing more, and if she is fine going home alone, then so be it. He won't stand in her way.
Because for a moment he'd felt again, was alive, except all that did was allow access to the terror that comes with feeling, with letting others inside, and he needs to close the wall back up, before it's too late.
Before she gets in too far.
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I hope the baked goods I sent through email made up for last chapter. As for this one I am open to suggestion, lol.
Thank you for all the amazing kindness you show me through your reviews, the smile is never ending xoxo
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Thank you to Jo and Jamie for edits and flails xoxo
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Thank you for reading xoxo