EPISODE 12 - "A Rose For Everafter"
His fingers fly across the keyboard, keystrokes hardly able to keep up with the tsunami of words flooding his mind, pouring onto the page before him.
An idea popped into his head just before 5:00am and he had to write it. Develop it. Explore it. Let the words flow from his fingertips, allow the story to unfold. Having Nikki visit Rook at his place, only to be ambushed. Such a great scene. The sexy detective caught off-guard, trapped.
Duct taped to a chair.
But an opportunity presents itself - her captor turns away. And that's his mistake, because Beckett is smart, savvy, resourceful-
Wait? What?...
Shaking his head at his typo (That's what it is! A typo! Just a typo!), he taps repeatedly on the backspace key, deleting the word "Beckett" that he just typed into the document, and quickly writes "Nikki" before pushing himself away from his laptop.
Castle shakes the cobwebs from his head and leans back in his office chair, pressing his huge palms against his tired eyes. He needs coffee. Now. Releasing a slow, laboured yawn, he reaches for his keyboard, gently tapping on the tracking pad, scrolling up through the seven pages of text that poured out during the several hours of binge writing.
'Not bad,'he smiles to himself as pushes back from his desk and rises from his chair.
Passing between the bookcases, he plods heavily through the living room, heading straight for the coffee maker.
'Thank god for automatic timers,' he muses as he fills a mug with premium dark roast while scratching his nails across his scalp with his left hand - releasing a heavy yawn, fingers messing up his already mussed hair.
Releasing an enraptured moan as he closes his eyes, he swears he can feel the caffeine infusing itself into every pore of his body as the first mouthful of hot, delicious liquid glides down his throat. It's almost orgasmic.
"Flavour country," he mutters, satiated, as he lumbers back to the office, his brain becoming a bit more alert with each subsequent sip.
Sitting back down at his desk, he begins to scan over the words that he'd typed. A few syntax errors here, a couple of dangling modifiers there. Used the word "defiantly" instead of "definitely" at one point, but all in all, not too bad.
Lifting the ceramic mug to his lips, the writer relishes another mouthful of steaming coffee - the aroma of nutmeg tickling his senses - as he stares at the blinking cursor… all alone at the end of the last sentence that he'd written… its rhythmic flashing a hypnotic, digital metronome. It begs to move from its stationary position.
Putting the mug down on the desk, Castle wiggles his fingers over the keyboard… but nothing happens.
No words.
Nikki is stuck. Wrists and ankles duct taped to a chair, mouth covered… and she needs to escape. But how?...
Deep in thought, he wanders back into his bedroom. Taking his time, he changes out of his pyjamas - peeling off the wrinkled t-shirt and flannel pants, throwing on a cotton sweater and jeans - all-the-while pondering Nikki's quandary.
Chewing on his thoughts, he settles on the only conclusion that makes sense. The author glances quickly at his watch - 9:14am. It's Saturday, but Alexis must be awake by now.
Pushing the indigo sleeves up his forearms, he crosses through the loft and quickly ascends the stairs, heading straight for his daughter's bedroom. Arriving at the top of the staircase, he halts in his tracks and stares at the nearest door. He's disrupted the diva's Saturday morning slumber only once before - an adventure he's not eager to repeat - so, careful not to disturb his mother as he slinks past her bedroom, he sneaks to the end of the hallway before gently knocking on Alexis' door.
"Alexis?" he whispers, cracking the door open less than an inch.
"Hey Dad," the teen smiles softly, "it's safe. You can come in." Entering her room, Castle grins at the sight of his daughter sitting up in her bed, curled up under her plush covers with a few pillows propped up behind her back, a well-read copy of George Orwell's 1984 in hand, the soft light from the morning sun cascading through the window, illuminating the room.
"School?" he inquires, pointing at the novel.
"Yeah, but I was just about to get up," she confirms, knowing there's more to his visit than to talk about her assigned English texts. "What's up?"
"I need help with some research," he states in a tone she knows all too well.
Releasing a playful sigh, the redhead closes the book and purses her lips together to hide her grin, her eyes narrowing as they twinkle. "What am I doing to you this time?" she asks, only just able to suppress a chuckle.
"Duct tape me to a chair."
She releases an amused nod as she reads over the insistent and ebullient expression on her father's face, rolling her eyes playfully before replying with a sigh, "Lemme get dressed first."
Yep. Just another Saturday morning at Chez Castle.
Exiting her cruiser, Beckett slides open her cell. 10:26am. Not too early.
Scrolling through her contacts, she selects Castle's number. Moving her thumb across the keypad, it comes to rest on the "call" key, but she hesitates.
It's Saturday morning.
What if he was out last night? What if he's still… out…
She winces as her stomach tightens and turns. Taking a deep breath, she shakes the jealous thought from her head. Because she's not jealous.
She's not.
Stepping on to the sidewalk, she resolutely presses the button and holds the phone to her ear, listening to it ring as she crosses through the hotel's main entrance.
When it rings again, her free hand unconsciously comes to rest on her abdomen in an attempt to quell the fluttering that is welling up in her stomach. Why isn't he answering?
She doesn't even register the lush, elegant decor that she has by-passed in the lobby as a third ring echoes in her ear - hazy images float in front of her eyes. Rumpled sheets… heavy breathing... skin, sheer with the sheen of sweat… fingers, hands, lips, touching, caressing, exploring… long blonde hair, mussed curls, tumbling across satin sheets… deep blue eyes clamped shut in ecstasy... head thrown back against a plush pillow… mouth open and-
Beckett slams her eyes tight, quickly censoring her thoughts.
Her eyes shoot open at the sound of a dinging bell, the elevator doors sliding open. When did she get in the elevator?
Stepping out onto the sixth floor, Kate releases an elongated breath through pursed lips - calming her racing pulse - as another ring echoes in her ear. Nothing.
Shrugging off thoughts of what Castle may or may not be tied up doing, the detective spots Esposito approaching. She ends her call, quickly closing her cell. His loss.
"Victim is Sophie Ronson, 35," he reports. "She's in from LA for the wedding."
Back to business.
Giving Ryan his marching orders, Beckett quickly writes down the names of the bride and groom in her note pad, not paying heed to Ryan looking around.
"Where's Castle?" the Irish detective queries, taking a quick glance down the hall, on the look-out for her shadow.
"I don't know," Beckett replies flatly, not even bothering to look up as she jots down a few questions. "Figured the death of a bridesmaid would be right up his alley."
"Heard 'wedding' and probably got cold feet," Ryan smirks, grinning as Beckett looks up, leering.
Rolling her eyes, Beckett doesn't give the young detective a chance to comment further as she walks away, leaving him to set up interviews with the wedding guests.
Pulling her cell out of the pocket of her long, red coat, Beckett slides it open and hits re-dial. Staring blankly at the guarded door of the bridal suite, she listens as the monotonous ringing continues to repeat, the sound rather hypnotic. Where is he? Maybe he's out… Maybe he was on a date last ni-
But before her mind has a chance to taunt her further, Castle's voicemail recording snaps her from her disturbing daze.
"Hey Castle. There's been a murder. Beaumont Hotel," she says, forcing her voice to stay steady as she leaves a message. Short. To the point. Focus.
Snapping her phone shut, Beckett takes a slow, deep breath, clearing her head before stepping into Suite 605.
Quickly scanning the luxurious, grandiose space, Beckett takes note of a dozen or so people scattered amongst the divided room. Some near the bed. Others at the couches. Several people in formal wear, bunched together, wiping eyes and noses with kleenex, arms crossed, blankly confused faces.
And then her eyes land on the bride. Short. Gorgeous white lace dress. Arms glued tight to her side, fingers playing together nervously. Eyes looking around but not seeing anything. Not even the tall man who is pressed up beside her, running his hand gently up and down her spine. Presumably the groom.
'She's stunning,' Kate muses, taking a minute to silently observe the couple.
He's talking. She isn't. His eyes are fixed on his bride. Her lips are pursed together tightly, as if the idea of allowing words to escape her mouth will curse her. Beckett almost wants to look away as she watches him press a gentle kiss to his bride's temple… like she's intruding on an intimately private moment.
As much as she knows that they are both persons of interest - like everyone else at the wedding - her heart breaks for the young couple. She can't even begin to imagine what this must feel like - to have such unspeakable tragedy ruin their perfect day.
"Excuse me... Miss Blaine?" Beckett inquires gently, approaching the couple.
"Yes?" the bride replies, her voice cracking slightly as she looks up at the detective, her eyes finding their focus.
"I'm Detective Kate Beckett," she says softly, empathetically, while holding up her shield. "I was wondering if you and your fiancé could answer a few questions."
The bride simply nods affirmatively, pressing her lips together as she heaves a deep sigh, calming her nerves as Greg says, "Of course."
Beckett smiles understandingly at the shocked couple, flipping her notepad open. "When was the last time that you saw Sophie?"
"At the rehearsal dinner last night," Kyra notes. "I don't even think I talked to her. She came all this way for us, and I don't think I even said hello."
Never gets any easier.
Tossing the shredded duct tape on to the counter with a flourish, Castle beams in triumph as he picks up the aluminum can off the floor.
"Talk about your can openers," he grins at the can, amused by his own terrible pun. But his celebration is short-lived as he remembers that Beckett called. Twice.
Crossing from the kitchen into the living room, the writer grabs his phone from atop the glass-top coffee table and brings up his voice mail messages.
A murder at a posh hotel? Awesome!
Rushing to the hall closet, Castle throws on a coat and scarf and races out the door - not even worrying about the scattered mess of trash he left all over the kitchen floor.
After all… murder and mystery wait for no man.
Besides, Alicia is scheduled to clean the place today anyway.
The faint ring of the elevator bell draws Beckett's attention from her note pad… and she catches herself nibbling at the inside of her cheek as she glances down the hall at the approaching men - the three of them apparently engaged in deep conversation. Discussing the case, perhaps? Maybe building theory about the murder?... without her?
She swallows down the churning sensation in her lower abdomen, trying to focus on the writing in her notebook - but the deep timbre of Castle's warm voice hinders her concentration.
"Bridesmaid dresses are supposed to be hideous," the author remarks.
She bites back an amused - and relieved - smile. So much for deep conversation.
"Really?" the Latino asks. "Why?"
Beckett speaks before she can catch herself. "So that the bride looks more beautiful in comparison."
"Ah, see? Not a woman alive who doesn't think about her wedding day, not even Kate Beckett," Castle teases, not letting such a beautiful set-up go to waste.
Crap.
"Tell me you never tore a picture of a wedding gown out of a magazine," he challenges playfully.
Game on.
"I've never torn a picture of a wedding gown out of a magazine," she counters before turning to walk away, attempting to keep the grin on her face from becoming too evident.
Because she's lying. And he knows it.
But imagining the fantasy day? The perfect dress? That was a lifetime ago. When she was young and naïve. Before her world turned upside-down. So thinking about a wedding day that will probably never come? Pointless.
Who would want to marry her?... The mess that is her life? And the baggage that comes with her?
There's a reason she's single.
Besides... marriage requires commitment. A commitment she can't give at the moment. And that's probably not going to change anytime soon.
...maybe never.
Keeping ahead of the boys, Beckett enters the Bridal Suite and hastily turns her attention to a few members of the wedding party in an attempt to refocus on the case. A woman is dead. This is not about her. This is not about her failure as-
"Kyra?"
Castle's voice echoes in her ears - the tone soft and gentle - snapping her attention. A tone so full of tenderness as well as torment. A tone she's never heard from him before. A tone she doesn't know how to read.
"You two know each other?" she whispers, looking over at the bride and then back at the writer, noting the radiant gleam of his eyes. The swell of emotion. Fathoms deep.
She barely even hears his reply about it being an understatement because a flurry of ambiguous thoughts and questions (to which she really doesn't want answers) begin to surge in her mind.
The conversations in the room seem to fade as she watches the scene play out in front of her, words becoming incomprehensible murmurs, surrounding conversations transforming into white noise. Her stomach twitches as her eyes dart back and forth between the writer and the bride - their eyes wide, twinkling, locked on each other. Their smiles so genuine... electricity buzzing... an air of longing floating heavily around them.
Vibrations course through her arm and she winces as the unsettling clawing within her chest overwhelms her. She wants to look away. But she can't seem to divert her gaze.
But when her arm vibrates again, Beckett snaps from her hypnotic state, glancing down at the source - the cellphone within her grasp. Looking down at the text, her surroundings slowly return to focus, the cacophony of movement and chatter becoming more pronounced as she hears a soft female voice utter, "This is so surreal. It's my wedding day and you show up."
"Castle," she states, attempting to establish a firmness in her voice that she's not feeling, "Lanie's got something for us."
Her eyes train back on the couple before her as he absently replies, "I'll catch up."
She tries to remain nonchalant. Hopes her response sounded empty and void of emotion, but the moment she leaves the Suite, Beckett's resolve coils tightly in her stomach. Inhaling deeply, firmly, the detective makes her way down the hall towards the elevator, feet shuffling along the elegant carpet, suppressing the fluttering in her core.
So Castle has a history with the bride.
So what.
It doesn't matter.
It doesn't matter.
Lanie's 'Mm-hmm' reverberates in Beckett's ears as she exits the isolated silence of the elevator.
She'd gone to Lanie for an update. For some information about the murder. She didn't expect to get waterboarded by the M.E. - grilled about the bride. And Castle.
'Ancient, modern or sexual?' Lanie had quipped.
Her stomach had flipped when she'd affirmed that all of the above were most likely. Which was stupid. She had no reason to be unsettled by this turn of events. By this... revelation. He's a grown man. He has a kid, for god's sake! He's definitely not a virg-
Wait? Whoa! What?!
Catching herself as her steps falter, Beckett leans against the wall as the jello-like sensation in her legs suddenly becomes more prominent. Closing her eyes, she presses a hand to her face, exhaling slowly against the warm skin of her long fingers. Quickly shaking her head, she clears from her mind the unwelcome speculation regarding Castle's sexual history as if erasing an etch-a-sketch.
Languidly, the detective's hand slides down the front of her red Max Mara coat, tracing the edge of her rose and magenta scarf, open palm coming to rest against her quivering abdomen. Inhaling deeply through her nose, releasing it gradually through pursed lips, Beckett calms her erratic mind, attempting to bury fantastical and unsettling imaginings of Castle's past deep down into the dark, vestal recesses of her subconscious.
Taking an additional moment, she finally opens her eyes, gaze falling on the elegantly patterned hall carpet. Steeling herself, Beckett's teeth dig sharply into her lower lip as she turns her head, glancing once again at the open door of the Bridal Suite.
'You okay with that?'
Lanie's question echoes over and over again in her brain. She'd admonished her friend's sass - dismissed the notion of… of…
But looking at the writer now, standing just beyond the doorway…
Beckett shakes her head and pushes off the wall. Focus Beckett. Chastising herself, the emboldened detective strides with purpose into the Suite, but slows her pace significantly as the bride and groom shuffle past.
"Kyra Blaine," Castle breathes as Beckett comes to a halt beside him. "Wow."
"I take it she was someone very special," she observes, soft voice trying desperately to mask the jittery sensation building in her stomach as she watches Castle watch Kyra.
Her breath catches at his affirmation. "She's the one that got away."
Cue the ominous music. Hard fade to black.
She'd been prepared for history. But that was one particular curve ball she hadn't expected him to throw.
Swing and a miss.
Strike one.
Stunned, the petite bride's words echo in the detective's ears as she watches the elevator doors close.
'He only dedicates his books to people he really cares for.'
Her heart flips at the memory of the book launch party. Of seeing the dedication of the first time. The way he had looked at her - such tenderness in his eyes - as she'd stumbled over herself in an effort to process those words: To the extraordinary KB...
Extraordinary.
He's smitten with her, that's no secret. They tease. They torment. They banter. This is what they do. This who they are. And she knows he misguidedly believes her to be extraordinary...
But care for her?
Care?
Her stomach twists at the thought that… at the notion of… of-
The sudden chime of the elevator bell wakes her from her reverie. Still in a slight daze, Beckett ventures out of the elevator, only to immediately collide with a firm, solid torso on the other side of the sliding doors. Electricity courses through her as wide, strong palms firmly grips her arms, holding her steady... keeping her from falling.
She swallows heavily - the familiar and alluring earthy scent of vanilla and nutmeg washing over her - as she lifts her head only to be met with a set of deep blue eyes whose gaze seems to be as equally lost as her own.
"You okay, Beckett?" the writer asks as she simultaneously mutters, "Sorry, Castle." Time seeming slows to a crawl, leaving the two of them awkwardly locked in their silence for a brief moment that lasts an eternity, their breathing suddenly heated.
Kyra's last words replay over and over again in Beckett's head - 'people he really cares for'... 'really cares for'... 'cares...' - as she continues to stare, unable to tear her eyes away from his. Her heart begins to pound erratically against her rib cage, the loud rhythm thumping in her ears, blood beginning to boil in her veins - god, she hopes she's not blushing.
She forces her eyes to stay locked on his and not fluctuate. Do not look at his lips… Do not look at his lips… Do not look at his li-
Suddenly, the sound of Beckett's phone ringing abruptly snaps them from their shared trance, Castle immediately releasing her forearms, tearing his hands away as if he'd been burned.
"Uhhh…" he mumbles, taking a step back outside her personal bubble, curling his hands into awkward fists as he stares at her wide-eyed while she clears her throat. Quickly tucking a stray tendril of hair behind her ear, Beckett reaches into her coat pocket to retrieve her cell as it rings again - all the while keeping her gaze fixed on the carpet under her feet, not trusting herself to even look at the man in front of her.
"Beckett," she states firmly into the microphone, turning away from the writer so he doesn't she her swallow sharply.
"Flunitrazepam," Ryan's voice echoes in her ear.
Beckett spins back to look at Castle, completely refocused. "Roofies?"
"Yep," the Irishman confirms. "Sophie was definitely up to something."
"Okay," she nods, eyes darting back and forth, mind whirring, "Castle and I will look into the Roofies. You and Espo keep trying to locate the missing groom's man."
"On it."
Snapping her cell shut, Beckett scrunches her nose slightly in thought before pondering aloud, "Why would a bridesmaid need roofies?"
"You want to take advantage of a guy, knocking him unconscious kind of defeats the purpose," Castle confirms matter-of-factly. "Best way? Just ask."
Just ask, huh?... she thinks to herself as her eyes fix themselves on the writer. If it was only that simple...
Beckett glances down at her watch. It's getting late. The warrant for Sophie's financials won't be ready until tomorrow and the boys are waiting on some info that won't be available until morning. Might as well call it quits.
Ryan and Esposito don't ask twice when she gives them leave to head home, Ryan desperately trying to hide a not-so-stealthy yawn. Watching them disappear from the vacant sixth floor corridor, Beckett takes one last look through the Suite in search of the writer, but he's nowhere to be found.
It's not like him to leave a crime scene… especially without saying something.
"Seen Castle?" she asks of the officer who has been trying his best to wrangling the wedding party all day.
"Was heading to the elevator a few minutes ago…" the uniform notes. "Said something about the ballroom."
She silently thanks him with a nod of her head as she makes her way down the wide hallway.
The ballroom, eh?
Stepping out of the elevator, she purposeful heads down the empty ninth-floor corridor, her pace slowing involuntarily as she gets closer and closer to the grand entrance, her mind suddenly abuzz with rampant speculation.
Why would he have gone to the ballroom? It's not relevant to the case… unless?...
Slowing to a halt in front of the massive cream-coloured double doors, Beckett's hand falls on the handle, yet she can't bring herself to pull on it, apprehensive of what she might be walking into. What she might see...
Taking a deep breath, she grips the handle firmly, but she only manages to crack the door an inch or two before halting her movements upon hearing a soft, sweet voice - "Some girls would think what happened today is a sign " - eking from inside the room.
Her breathing hitches slightly when she hears Castle's deep voice utter, "The murder?" but she buries her discomfort and quietly pulls the door open enough to enter - her feet unable to advance more than a few steps because she's immediately met with the distinctive sight of the writer, his back turned.
She almost speaks when she hears Kyra's voice breathe on a whisper "And you" with a swell of emotional innuendo that causes the words that Beckett had intended to speak to stall in the back of her throat.
The air in the room becomes still and heavy - a sense of intimate longing settling over the massive space. Kate momentarily debates slinking out of the room - escaping before they notice her presence. Her intrusion. But she can't bring herself to leave. To tear her eyes away.
Her feet move before she can think better of it, her mouth opening against her better judgement, the words that were previously caught in her dry throat now stumbling out - cutting the heated tension, bursting the enchanted bubble that had enclosed itself around the former couple.
"Castle?" she chokes, unable to spit out anything else for a moment as she watches the writer twist to face her, Kyra poking her head out from beyond his shadow. Awwk-warrrd… "We're on our way," she stutters slightly as she continues, unable to prevent the words from escaping her lips, "I thought you might need a ride."
It feels like an uncomfortable love triangle… which is ridiculous, Beckett thinks to herself as Kyra excuses herself and Castle awkwardly offers her a slice of cake. By definition, a love triangle requires a romantic relationship involving three people. And there is no romance here. None.
She winces as she slyly shoots a few subtle glances his way as he accompanies her to the elevator, his silence troubling and uncomfortable. But as much as she is curious to ask, she can't bring herself to say anything.
Castle follows her into the empty elevator car and wordlessly comes to stand by her side, distress and confusion darkening his usually bright and playful eyes. Her stomach churns, but she waits. It's killing her, but she waits. And waits. It feels like an eternity - the humming of the elevator paired with the occasional dinging of the floor bell the only sounds breaking the agonizing silence - before he finally releases a heavy sigh.
"We met in college," he confesses. "We were together nearly three years."
"I didn't ask," she replies innocently, despite the butterflies frolicking wildly in the depths of her stomach.
"Yes. You were not-asking very loudly."
She can't help but grin at his comment, her own words from nearly a year ago tossed back at her. The butterflies begin to settle slightly as she dares to speak again. "She's different from your ex-wives."
"What do you mean?"
"She's real," she utters, thoughts of blonde bimbos and the page 6 playboy coasting through her mind. "I didn't think you went for real."
What now? What was that?! Crap.
She bites her tongue at the realization of what she just said. What she just revealed about... about… Chancing a glance over at the writer, she feels a slight sense of relief in that he doesn't seem to have connected her words to…
But then her heart sinks as she reads the pain and disappointment on his face. "Tough breakup?" she whispers, breaking the silence just as the doors open.
"It was a long time ago," he mumbles bitterly as the exits the elevator, leaving her speechless.
Swing and a miss.
Strike two.
Castle speeds through the hotel lobby as quickly as possible without actually breaking into a run, desperate to escape the confines of these stifling walls.
Needing to breathe.
Passing through the gilded main entrance, the writer relishes the shocking sensation of the crisp night air washing over his face the moment he steps outside. He inhales deeply - ironically cleansing his lungs with the exhaust-laden winter air of the Manhattan streets.
Pacing slowly away from the doorway, Castle's mind races - a muddle of conflicting thoughts causing havoc in his head.
What the hell is going on?...
Kyra's engaged. She's getting married. She's off-limits.
But the way she looked at him, her eyes glistening, the unmistakable aura of requited longing - the depth of their history - flooding over them. The way his heart fluttered and raced, the way shivers coursed along his spine, the way his throat dried…
Closing his eyes, he leans back against the cold brick wall of the building, trying to make sense of the chaos swirling in his head - until he's woken from his reverie at the sound of an all-too familiar voice.
"Castle?"
Parting his lashes, he's met with the vision of Beckett, her head canted slightly, eyes unreadable.
"You coming?" she inquires.
"Yeah," he mutters with a slight huff, pushing off the wall and crossing over to her Crown Vic. Without another word, he crawls into the passenger seat, watching Beckett out of his peripheries - noting how she's observing him. Judging him.
'I didn't think you went for real.' Her words continue to echo in his mind amidst the other tumultuous thoughts.
Is that really what she thinks of him? That, even after a year, he's nothing more than an arrogant philanderer. That he's that superficial?
Sensing the detective sit down beside him, he releases a sigh as he shifts to stare out the side window, self-doubt settling into his stomach.
What if she's right about him?
What if he can't do real?
Where does that leave…
Chancing a quick glance across the inside of the car, he fixes his eyes on the woman behind the wheel, his heart and stomach unsettling themselves again.
Shit.
He doesn't know what he wants.
"Shudddup!" she barks at the M.E. in retaliation as she leaves the operating room.
She's not jealous. She's not jealous! Why would she be jealous? Just because Castle's long-lost love is around? So what? It's no concern to her. She has no claim on him. She's just his inspiration. His muse.
For his books!
Nothing else. Just the books.
Her favourite author. Who writes books inspired by her. About her life.
And a sex scene that she dreamt of for weeks. A sex scene about her.
No! Nikki! It was about Nikki! Not her!
Besides... she has no history with him. Not the way he does with Kyra.
But the way he looks at her sometimes… his penetrating gaze... his dark eyes glistening like endless oceans… breath heavy and heated. The way her heart flutters and races. The way shivers course along her spine. The way electricity races through her veins. The way her throat dries…
Shit.
She is jealous.
Pressing her hand to her mouth, Beckett fails at her attempt to stifle a yawn. It's almost midnight. She's been going over the various statements given by the members of the wedding party for the last few hours, and the fatigue is starting to set in.
She'd left the precinct after releasing Greg, but her mind wouldn't shut down, so after grabbing a burger at Remy's, she had returned to work - the bullpen dark and quiet, almost everyone having gone home for the evening.
She's always liked working after hours when the hustle and bustle of the day had died down, but even now - after having downed three cups of coffee in the last hour alone - well... she doubts that even an IV caffeine drip pumping directly into her veins would have much of an effect at this point.
Pressing the heels of her hands into the hollows of her eyes, the detective attempts to wipe away her exhaustion before looking back at the piles of paper strewn across her desk - the bright light of her desk lamp causing the white pages to glow amidst the darkened bullpen… however, the words on the papers no longer seem to form coherent sentences. Most of it doesn't even look like English anymore...
Maybe it's time to call it a night.
"Detective?" Kate looks up at the sounds of a female voice, bleary-eyed, to see Officer Velasquez handing her a folder. "I was told you would want these right away…"
"Surveillance photos," the detective nods affirmatively, lethargically reaching for the file. "Thanks."
Dropping it atop the plethora of other files scattered across the surface before her, Beckett stares at the closed manila folder for a few torturous moments, unsure whether or not to open it.
'You have to stay away from her, Castle, until this case is closed.' She'd made herself perfectly clear… but… Did he?
Does she really want to know?...
She could just leave it... take a look in the morning…
She could…
Taking a quick glance through the dark and practically vacant bullpen, she notes that she is - indeed - alone. Closing her eyes, she flips open the cover of the folder, and bracing herself with a deep inhale, slowly parts her lashes, focusing her gaze upon the stack of 8x10 prints in front of her.
Her hands tighten unconsciously as she attempts to quell the overwhelming churning in her stomach, the sight of the writer and his one-that-got-away inching closer and closer together with the reveal of each subsequent photo until…
Oh. God.
Kate swallows heavily and slams the folder shut, fluidly grabbing her coat from the back of her chair while rushing for the elevator - the image of Castle and Kyra, lips locked together while in a passionate embrace, burned into her retinas.
A passionate embrace that they might still be wrapped up in at this very moment.
...or more.
And she doesn't want to think about it.
Doesn't want to know.
It's just past 2:00am when he carefully slides the key into the lock of his front door. For the last two hours, he'd been nursing a grande cappuccino at a 24-hour coffee shop in Little Italy - just him and his thoughts. His confusing, taunting thoughts. Taunting thoughts about Kyra, the taste of her lip gloss still lingering on the tip of his tongue. Confusing thoughts about… everything.
Cracking the door open, he slowly pushes it into the room, hoping the hinges don't squeak too much.
The loft is dark, quiet - long shadows mixed with slashes of dim street lights wash through the vastness of the open-concept space. The ticking of the hall clock is the only sound, Alexis and Martha evidently long since retired for the evening.
Silently toeing off his shoes, Castle creeps into his bedroom, peeling off his overcoat and scarf, tossing them haphazardly across the beige settee as his eyes fall on an item that unsettles his stomach.
Hand stretching out towards the bookshelf, his fingers hesitantly flip open the cover of the leather notebook he'd carelessly deposited there. Familiar, younger eyes stare up at him.
His.
And Kyra's.
Picking up the older photograph that he'd looked at earlier that evening, Castle stares blankly at the image. What the hell is he doing? Kyra is not his. She moved on. She's engaged. And yet, everything he felt so long ago when they danced under the clock in Grand Central Station - every wonderful, painful, conflicting emotion - came back with a vengeance the moment he stared into her beautiful, pained eyes. The moment she'd admitted she's missed him. The moment he admitted he's missed her.
The moment their bodies pressed together. The moment their lips met.
It felt so right.
And so wrong.
His mother was right. This picture is a loaded gun.
Heaving a heavy sigh, Castle haphazardly shoves the photo back between the pages, closes the leather-bound notebook once again, and replaces it on the shelf. Wiping his fingers across his eyes as he crosses the room, he strips down to his boxers before sitting down on the bed. Elbows digging into his thighs, Castle buries his face in his massive palms for a brief moment before running them up across his scalp, pushing his hair back off his forehead.
His mind is a torrential flurry of swirling thoughts and emotions that he just doesn't have the energy to deal with right now.
Not even bothering to put on his pyjamas, Castle crawls under his covers, burying his face in his pillow - but sleep won't take hold. The events of the evening relentlessly repeat in his head like a damaged record that can only play one song - meeting Kyra on the roof, hugging her, kissing her hungrily, passionately - then suddenly pulling away when he realized that she… she… the two of them staring at each other knowing they hadn't really been kissing each other. Kyra had been kissing Greg. And he'd been kissing… he'd imagined she was…
Wide-eyed, Castle repositions himself, flipping onto his back, eyes hypnotically locked on the ceiling.
Beckett.
He'd tasted Beckett. Felt Beckett. Caressed Beckett. Wanted Beckett.
But when his fingers began to twist and tangle within long curls that didn't belong to Beckett...
Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.
Throwing his left arm out his side, Castle grabs his spare pillow and flops it roughly atop his face, smothering himself, muffling his frustrated groans which are swallowed by the plush goose-feathers.
The Universe is cruel.
The side of her head pressed deeply into her pillow, Beckett heaves yet another sigh - it's almost 4:00am and she hasn't slept a wink. Her eyes are wide open; her brain is fully active, unable to rest. Unable to block out the images that she wishes she hadn't looked at.
The image of Kyra's gloved hand tenderly tracing Castle's jaw, his face inches from hers, eyes speaking volumes…
The image of their arms wrapped tightly around each other, bodies pressed against each other, mouths fused as they taste each other deeply…
Tossing her comforter aside, Beckett swiftly leaves the comfort of her warm bed and rushes to her ensuite. Wrenching the tap, she roughly splashes cold water into her face once... twice... three times. Eyes closed, head hanging low, she breathes deeply as she plants her drenched palms on either side of the sink, the frigid water dripping from the ends of her hair, splattering against the enamel below.
But like the blood on Lady Macbeth's hands, she just can't seem to wash away the visions that haunt her dreams. That torment her subconscious.
Thoughts of what might have happened next. What might be happening right now...
Visions of undulating bodies… clothes scattered around the room… hands tracing bare skin… fingers entwined… legs tangled together… sheets tossed aside… eyes slammed shut in ecstasy... mouths agape with pleasure...
Oh god! Make it stop!
Padding quickly from the bathroom, Beckett scrambles over to her dresser, hastily digging out a t-shirt and yoga pants. She's got a change of clothes in her locker at work - she'll make use of them today. Throwing on the gym clothes, she grabs her cell from off her bedside table, tosses on a coat, pockets her mom's ring and dad's watch, and heads out the door.
The frosty early morning air feels good.
And taking out her frustrations for a few hours on the heavy bag in the precinct weight room will feel even better.
"You had me under surveillance?" Castle remarks, incensed.
"Not you," she justifies, trying to convince him - as well as herself. "Kyra."
But he's not buying it… and calls her on it.
"I had to make sure that you didn't do anything stupid, which you did," she snarks.
"We just kissed," he insists. "That's all that happened."
"That's all that happened for now!"
Wait! What?! All they did was kiss? She meets his eyes in a penetrating staring contest, not allowing herself to blink. Even though her heartbeat feels like it's gone from a sluggish crawl to a full-on gallop.
He kissed her. All they did was kiss. They didn't-
Espo's interruption shakes their stand-off. "Everything okay?" How had she not heard him approach?
"Yeah," she insists as Castle simultaneously says, "No."
Swing and a…
Foul ball!
She swallows, trying to focus on the case and not the writer sitting adjacent to her.
Fuck. This game used to be so simple. What the hell happened?
Venom in his throat and daggers in his eyes, Castle glares at the fiancé, not flinching in the least at the blatant challenge to his integrity. "If you've got something to say to me, why don't you just say it?" he spits, the two men staring each other down with vile malice.
"I love Kyra, Rick," Greg professes, leaning into the author's personal space - a brazen challenge. "She means the world to me. Maybe you can't see it, maybe you don't care, but Teddy has been nothing but supportive of us the whole way. He filed our wedding license. He helped up write our prenup. He always looks after…"
Beckett follows up with a question that doesn't even register with Castle as Greg's words replay in his mind: 'Maybe you don't care.'
The writer feels like he got slapped in the face. And deserved it.
Greg is a good man. An honourable man. And he loves Kyra.
What the hell is he doing?
Taking a deep breath, he has a sudden epiphany. A realization of the most simple truth that he's been avoiding for the last few days. A truth that cannot be ignored. That there comes a point in everyone's life when we have to realize that some people can stay in our hearts, but sometimes they no longer have a place in our lives.
Sometimes, we need to let go and move on.
Glancing at Beckett, everything becomes clear.
It's time.
Beckett chews lightly on the inside of her lips, inhaling and exhaling extremely slowly, straining to keep her eyes locked on the papers spread out in front of her, but she can't seem to focus. She's read the same line of Ted Murphy's confession statement at least twelve times, but she still has no idea what it says.
Because Castle is in the conference room to her left.
The glass door closed.
Kyra sitting beside him.
Daring to shoot a glance at the figures out of the corner of her eye, Beckett swallows lightly as her gaze shifts in their direction… soon followed by her head… and then her entire body.
It's like a car crash on the side of the highway. She can't help but look… watch… and wonder.
Wonder about the man sitting there, so different from the man who's been following her around for almost a year. The tenderness in his eyes. The concern. The genuine... love. She'd seen glimpses of this man once or twice - notably when he sat beside her in the hospital and told her she was extraordinary.
Extraordinary.
He'd written that in the book dedication… and he only dedicates books to… to people who…
Her hand flies up to cover her mouth, as if keeping her lips from moving will prevent her mind from racing, screaming with a flurry of conflicting thoughts. Thoughts that she's so often ignored or suppressed in the past. Thoughts that have no business floating through her head.
Her heart begins to flutter as she swallows heavily, her eyes trained on the man on the other side of the glass. The man whose attention is focused fully on the young woman now standing beside him - their eyes locked.
Suddenly feeling as if she's intruding on an intimate moment between lovers, Beckett inhales deeply and tries to look away, but when Kyra leans in and brushes her lips against Castle's cheek, Beckett's breath catches in her chest, her heart fluttering erratically. She wants to turn her head… give them privacy… yet she's entranced by Castle's eyes, the expression on his face. It's one she's never seen before.
She can't define it.
Pleased? Hopeful?... yet also full of sorrow?
But she doesn't have a chance to consider it further as Kyra suddenly turns towards the door. Shit shit shit! Beckett frantically scrambles, whipping around quickly. Do something. Focus! Papers! Read papers!
Beckett swallows as she senses the young woman approach, a light shadow casting darkness across the white papers strewn atop the surface of her desk. Breathe Kate, she may not have noticed.
Feigning ignorance, the detective looks up, only to be met by Kyra Blaine's bright, jubilant smile.
"He's all yours."
The words loop in Kate's head as she watches the woman cross through the bullpen and turn the corner - disappearing from view.
Kate swallows lightly as she looks back at the man sitting in the conference room, her mind reeling as she observes the sombre writer… melancholy weighing heavily on his broad shoulders.
Her heart thumps in her chest so hard that it feels like it might crack a few ribs as she forces herself to her feet, crossing the room. Coming to a stop in the doorway, she leans against the frame, unnoticed by the author who toys with the video camera - his eyes hazy, his mind evidently lost in thought.
"So…" she chances, voice gentle in its prodding.
Castle shoots her an inquisitive glance, his eyes clearing slightly, but he doesn't respond.
She offers a light, sympathetic smile, though it feels nugatory. "You okay?"
Castle's eyes fall on the recorder in his hand before he releases a sigh. Though lacking his usual twinkle, a slight grin tugs at the side of his mouth when he looks up at her again. "I will be."
She returns the light smile, nodding supportively before pivoting on her heel. She's halted as he utters, "Beckett?..."
"Hmm?" she responds, one hand gripping the edge of the glass door as she twists to look back at him.
"Kyra's getting married tonight."
She says nothing - curious, but savvy enough to wait him out.
"Do you…" He pauses, the words dying on his tongue as he looks up at her, blue orbs meeting hazel. Mouth gaping, he tries again. "Wanna… um… come to the wedding with me?"
Her mouth is suddenly parched, lips dry, but she must have said 'sure' because Castle's face illuminates with joy, the crinkles beside his eyes becoming more prominent as he beams at her.
"Okay," he grins warmly, rising from his chair.
"Okay," she smiles slyly in return as she grabs her coat, the two of them heading for the elevator.
And for once, she doesn't seem to mind the uncontrollable fluttering in her core.
Swing and a...
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Happy Holidays!
This one was challenging not only to wrap my head around, but to find time to write it.
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Shout out to Syzygy for going on a typo hunt and blah blah blah. ;)
Judge Away! :D
