She wakes to darkness and her heart thrashing against her ribs, doesn't know where she is, what's going on. The vivid dream clings to her skin, her abdomen hot and sticky with a blood that feels real, and Kate presses both hands to her stomach, is surprised to find it dry and whole under her t-shirt.
"Kate?"
She recoils at the voice, brings her knees up, her forearms held to her chest for protection. Some part of her brain notices the inconsistencies, the fact that her hands and feet are free, the so-soft bed and the comforter wrapped snugly around her body, but she just can't-
The light comes on, a gentle light that doesn't hurt her eyes like the naked light bulb in her cell did, and Kate drags a painful breath down her throat. The loft. The guest bedroom at the loft. She's safe.
She grits her teeth and tries to relax, to ignore the concerned, grieving look in Castle's eyes. He reaches out to her but she shakes her head sharply, can't take his hand on her right now. She'll be okay. She will. Just - in a moment.
"Is there anything I can do?" he murmurs, and if she were a little less exhausted, a little more herself, she might try to do something about the brokenness in his voice.
As it, she can only rasp, "No," and concentrate on her own breathing.
The next morning, Beckett stands at the door of storage space 171 with dark circles under her eyes. She watches Castle open it, wincing at the creak of rusty metal, and then she takes a few steps inside.
So that's it, huh. All that would've been left of her had she died at Tyson's hands.
The storage space is pretty full. Wherever she turns to she catches glimpses of familiar things, the red velvet armchair that she kept in her bedroom, the bookshelf from her office. Mostly it's boxes, though, boxes and boxes of stuff labelled, some in Castle's handwriting, some in her father's.
It's hard not to think of the Gemini doll case, with those two kids - how old were they, twenty, twenty-two? - who died trying to get justice for their parents' murder. And all that was left of them was a storage space's worth of junk, too, that Castle ended up giving away.
"I thought my mother's case would be the one to get me killed," she observes, struck by the irony of it. "That's what I was afraid of at the time. That I would run to my death and I wouldn't be able to convince to stay back."
She's not sure he's breathing at all, but she can't afford to look at him and check.
"I was never really scared of Tyson," she says, chuckling darkly. How little she knew. "I hated him for what he did to you, the way he made you feel responsible for whoever he would kill next after he escaped that motel. I hated that he made me arrest you. But I wasn't - scared."
Not until after the bridge.
"Kate." Castle's voice is a thin thread of agony.
"It's funny, isn't it, how life never turns out the way you expect it to be." All the stupid things that she used to worry about - that Castle wasn't serious about them, that she was spending too much time at his place, that Alexis seemed to suddenly hate her. And then Tyson took her and none of that mattered anymore. All that mattered was to make it to the next day. Survival - man's most basic instinct.
Her eyes fall on the nearest box. Shoes, it reads. Shoes. How mundane.
"I'm sorry," Castle murmurs at her back, and something in the words make her turn around. Ah, shit. There's a tear trailing down his cheek. "I'm so sorry, Kate."
She shakes her head. "Don't be silly, Castle. It's not your fault."
"Maybe not. But I could've kept looking for you; I could've said no to Kyra, instead of giving Tyson material to torture you with." There's so much regret and self-loathing in his voice that Kate finds herself stepping forward, catching her chin between two fingers. Probably a little harder than she needs to.
"Don't do you dare blame yourself," she says, gritting her teeth. "Tyson is the only one responsible for this. Sure, okay, if I'm being honest - I'm not happy that you went back to Kyra. And yeah, maybe I'm hurt, maybe I'm a little jealous. But, Rick - I'm not mad at you. I know how hard it must've been. The hell you must've gone through. I lost my mother; you think I don't remember? Do you think I believe there was anything about those two years that was easy for you? Because trust me - I really don't."
His façade holds for a moment, all bravado and stiffness, but he could never resist her; she sees the cracks appear, widen under her touch until he's nothing but a little boy, terrified and broken.
"It was pretty bad," he breathes out, and she opens her arms to him, cradles him to her chest, carding a hand through his hair as he holds her close. It kills her to see him like this, so undone, hating himself because he tried to move on.
It kills her that Tyson got exactly what he wanted.
"I love you," she breathes against his temple, because it's true, was always true. It will never not be true.
After a moment he draws a shaky inhale and steps back, gestures around. "I hate those boxes," he says vehemently. "I hated packing them. It felt so wrong, like I was giving up hope, giving up on you."
She sighs. "I'll just grab a couple of them and we can be on your way. I'm not a huge fan of this place either.
He looks at her with a question in his eyes.
"It's just depressing," she says, trying to make light of it. "Seeing how my life fits in a bunch of boxes. Doesn't exactly make a girl feel special."
Castle stares at her, indignant, and it's his turn to step in closer. "You think this place is you, Kate?" He lifts his arm to encompass the room in a sloppy movement. "You think any of this is you? You couldn't be farther from the truth. None of this has any meaning without you here. Who you are, your spirit, your stubbornness, your intelligence, your heart - it can't be contained, not in a collection of lifeless things, not in a storage space."
His words. His beautiful, beautiful words. She's missed them.
He pulls her against him, his mouth glancing off her temple, and he murmurs, "You don't fit in a box, Beckett. You never did. Why do you think I wanted to write a book about you in the first place?"
Her only answer is to carefully wind her arms around his waist, and to press her smile into the side of his neck.
When they come back to the car he offers her the keys out of habit, dangles them from his finger before his brain is even conscious of what he's doing.
Kate stares at his hand with a heartbreaking expression on her face, half burning want and half panicked hesitation, and he suddenly realizes his mistake.
"Sorry," he says, lowering his hand just when she reaches for it. Her fingers tangle with his and he sees her throat work as she swallows, the way her eyes linger over their joined hands, hungry, fascinated.
Shit, what has he done? He's freaking stupid. He should've just headed to the driver's seat; he shouldn't be putting more pressure on her than she can handle.
But she looks so...desperate.
"Let me try," she pleads, a rasp of her voice that does nothing to reassure him.
Yup. A fucking idiot.
"Kate. Look. It doesn't seem like the best-"
The words die on his tongue when she lifts her eyes to him. The look she gives him is devastating, yearning and supplicant and commanding all at once. "I can do it, Castle."
He remembers last night, their walk in the city. She can do it, he thinks; despite everything she's still Kate Beckett, the woman who chases down criminals in high heels, who navigates New York City like it's her own personal kingdom.
And she needs him to believe.
"Okay," he gives in, anxiety twisting in his chest as he loosens his fingers, lets her have the keys. "But you try in the garage, Beckett. You go slow and be careful, and if you don't feel comfortable-"
She's already bypassing him and going for the driver's door, sinking into the seat, so he follows with a sigh, wishing he could go back in time and not act like a moron.
But when he sits down, she has the key in the ignition already, and her seatbelt fastened. Her face is clear and focused, her hand on the gearshift, and hope rises in his throat.
"Buckle up, kitten," she tells him with a quick glance, a quirk of her mouth, and he hastens to obey, his silly heart lifting because she remembers elementary security rules. She turns on the ignition, and the car roars gently, as if warming up to her touch.
Because he's looking at her face, he sees the flutter of her eyelids, the pleasure that parts her mouth, ripples in her eyes as her hand skims over the wheel. It's beautiful and intimate and completely erotic, the way she breathes slow and deep, the slide of her fingers over the gear stick.
He swallows hard, his hands curling over his jeans, and then suddenly they're moving, the car on reverse and gliding out of the parking spot, Kate's eyes intent on the side mirror as she maneuvers. The underground garage is mostly empty anyway, but still she's careful, her gestures smooth and measured, and his nervousness starts to fade.
She really can do this.
Everything is fine for a while. They've left the city behind, are now cruising along the interstate. It's a Wednesday morning and the road is clear, although there are a lot more cars headed in the opposite direction.
Castle's plugged in his iPod and he's got soft, jazzy music playing, his fingers tapping the rhythm on the armrest. His eyes keep closing, the warm embrace of sleep so tempting. He doesn't immediately notice.
But at some point he slits an eye open, intending to check on how far they've gotten, the scenery's streaming past his window entirely too fast. He sits up, brutally awake, his heart tap-dancing in his chest.
"Kate?"
Shit, how fast are they going?
He looks over at her. It doesn't look like she's heard him. Her profile is pale and set against the winter sky, her eyes wide, too dark.
"Kate," he says louder, gripping the door handle when they pass an SUV at an incredibly scary pace. Her hands are tense on the wheel as she stares ahead, thin skin stretched over the bones. "Kate, slow down."
He rubs a hand down his face, chasing the last remnants of sleep, and he reaches to turn off the music. She still hasn't acknowledged him at all.
There's a car ahead of them and they're approaching it so fast the driver actually flashes his lights at them; Beckett swerves to the left and overtakes, gaining even more speed as she does.
Enough. That's enough. He waits until they're far enough to be safe, and then he reaches for the wheel, sharply veering to the right. He feels Kate jerk against him, and then she hisses, "Castle, what the hell-"
"I told you to slow down," he grouses, anger building when her hands fight his for control. Seriously, Beckett?
"I'm fine - I'm handling this-"
"The hell you are. You need to pull over-"
"Castle-"
"Beckett, do you have any idea of the speed you're driving at?"
Her breathing hitches and her grip loosens, awareness slowly replacing that haunted look in her eyes. She eases her foot over the accelerator, allowing the car to lose some of its momentum, and he shifts down to fifth gear, then fourth, then third, his left hand awkward on the stick.
"Stop on the side of the road," he says, and at last she obeys him, brings them to a smooth stop near a cluster of trees.
Her hands are trembling.
He tilts his head against the back of the seat, the blood still pounding in his chest, and closes his eyes for a moment. They're safe, safe, safe; everything is fine, he tells himself, over and over again.
"I'm sorry," she chokes out, the murmur barely audible at all.
He turns his eyes to her. She's not looking at him; she has her hands curled on the wheel, her shoulders hunched, the curtain of her hair hiding most of her face.
Is she crying?
"What the hell was that?" he asks, proud that he manages to keep his voice civilized.
"I didn't realize," she breathes, but he knows there's something else going on, something that makes her voice thin and raw. She's got to talk to him, for god's sake.
"Kate, you can't convince me to let you drive and then-"
Suddenly she's moving, unbuckling her seat belt, opening the door, sliding out into the cold. He stares after her, shocked and indignant, opens his own door to see her stride over the guard rail, vanish into the trees.
"Beckett!" he yells, furious again, blood rising in his veins. "Come back here!"
Jesus. Does she think she can disappear on him? Swearing under his breath, he unfastens his seat belt and grabs his coat, slams the door shut behind him.
The winter air is a slap in his face. He pauses, breathless with it, all of it, and he sinks back against the car, pressing a hand over his eyes. His chest deflates.
Okay. Okay.
He needs to calm down.
She walked out on him; she didn't ask for help, didn't ask to be followed, and he used to be good at this. Giving her space, letting her work out her own issues and then come back to him.
Yeah.
He needs to buy her a cell phone stat, though, otherwise he's going to have a heart attack by the end of the week. But this is Kate Beckett, he reminds himself, and she does not need his help to fight off big bad wolves, assuming there are any in these woods. She can take care of herself.
Even if she just spent two years as Jerry Tyson's prisoner? his subconscious murmurs, the vile, merciless thing.
Castle groans and buries his hands into his pockets, tells his feet not to move.
She'll come back to him.
She doesn't go far. She's barely past the first line of trees when she has to go down on one knee, put a hand to the ground; her stomach heaves violently and her breakfast comes right out.
The lovely French toast Castle made, some part of her mourns as she shifts shakily, pushes her hair back and drops onto her ass.
It's freezing, of course, the thin material of her pants not enough to guard her from the cold rising from the earth, but she doesn't mind so much. Her body burns, hot tears spilling onto her cheeks, and her shivering only seems an appropriate counterpoint to that.
Oh god.
Oh god, she could've killed them both.
What is wrong with her?
Castle's right. She wasn't paying attention to the speed; she wasn't thinking at all. She was just responding to the call of the open road, the sense of freedom singing in her veins, the need to... get away.
Get as far as she can from Jerry Tyson.
She presses a hand to her mouth and closes her eyes, gives herself one minute. A whole minute of crying, Kate, and then she will rein it in and be composed again - she will go comfort Castle and his worried eyes.
She just needs a minute.
He sees her emerge from the trees and before he knows it he's moving, his body no longer able to resist the pull of her.
She climbs over the guard rail with none of her previous ease, arms and legs shaking a little, and by the time she stands back on her feet he's there with her, hands hanging at his sides, unable to decide the right thing to do.
She solves his problem by stepping into him, circling her arms around his waist and pressing her forehead to his neck. For a second he stands breathless, stunned, before he returns her embrace with a sigh of relief, resting his chin on top of her head. She trembles against him and he's not sure if it's the cold, her tears, but it doesn't matter.
She's there, nestled against him, her body alive and aligned with his.
He can't ask for more.
The house is warm.
Of course. This is Rick Castle; of course he calls ahead and asks the maintenance guy to turn on the heat.
Kate drops her jacket onto an armchair, looks around with the same reluctant, intimidated feeling as she did the first time. She thought she would get used to it, the fame, the money, but she never quite reached that point, did she?
Doesn't help that she's just spent two years living in a cramped basement. The difference is - brutal, to say the least.
She swallows around the ridiculous sensation, turns her eyes to the large bay window that opens onto the garden, and beyond that, the sea. The sky is a uniform grey, clouds hanging low, but she heard the low murmur of the waves when she stepped out of the car, rhythmical and soothing, and it feels good just knowing it's there.
Beautiful and infinite.
"And here we are," Castle announces, dropping the bags on the floor and closing the door behind him. "Home, sweet home."
Not really his home, and certainly not hers. Still, she smiles at him, grateful for the way he keeps trying.
She feels ready to collapse.
"You wanna go upstairs, pick your room?" he asks, tilting his head with a soft look. "You can take a nap while I make us lunch, if you want."
Pick her room?
"Okay," she says, trying to ignore the fact that she doesn't have a bag, that her stuff is in boxes in the trunk. "Sure. Might as well settle in."
Castle leads the way upstairs, his wide frame masking most of her view, and she watches the sway of his hips, the way he lists a little to compensate the weight of the bag. He's two years older, but it doesn't show - in fact, he seems to have shed weight compared to her memories.
It's not as obvious as it is on her, of course, but his waist is narrower, the line of his jaw sharper than it used to be. And she doesn't think it's because he's been exercising.
He flips on the lights upstairs and walks into the first room on his left, the one that she remembers is the master bedroom. Kate starts following him but then hesitates - maybe she's just supposed to turn right and go for one of the other rooms. It's a spacious house, and if she's right he's got at least five more-
"Kate?" he asks, his head peeking out of the room.
Oh. "Yeah," she says, moving forward, trying not to look as confused as she feels.
"I was thinking you should have the master bed," he says when she walks in. "This is where you slept last time, and Dr. Burke insisted on the importance of a familiar-"
"Castle, that's your room," she interrupts softly, no fight left inside her. Everything in here feels like him, the extravagant painting above the dresser, the warm colors of the bedspread, the glass door that opens onto the most amazing bathroom. She can't-
"It doesn't matter," he assures her, leaning in to grab his bag from the floor. "I can sleep anywhere. Don't worry about me. I'll be fine."
And just like that, he's turning around, making his way out. She bites her lip. "Castle, wait."
He pauses at the door, glances back at her.
"Did Burke - say anything about the importance of separate rooms?" she asks. She's trying to sound playful but her voice comes out a little needy, a little raw, not what she wanted at all.
Castle gapes at her, his eyes so very blue. "Um. No, actually," he rasps, clears his throat. "No, he didn't say anything. I just...assumed."
Assumed.
That she wouldn't want him in her space?
Beckett rubs a hand down her face, pushes her hair back. "Castle, I-" She what? Maybe he's right after all. She's not safe; he still bears the mark of her last punch, delicate shades of green and purple painting his jaw, and it makes sense that he'd want to put a few walls between them.
"Yes?"
He's dropped his bag again and he's coming back for her, a hand reaching out, wrapping carefully around her elbow. She digs her teeth harder into her bottom lip, can't decide what is the better, the safer choice.
"Please talk to me," Castle murmurs, the deep rumble of his voice so lovely.
She sighs, surrenders. "We could try sleeping in the same bed again? Just tonight. I don't want to hurt you, but I also don't - want to be alone," she confesses in an exhale, seeking his eyes.
He blinks, a little stunned, she thinks, before he gathers his wits. "You think I'm afraid of you?"
She looks at his jaw. "Maybe you should be."
He scoffs, shaking his head, but then a kind of laugh escapes him. "Kate. I know you're not going to hurt me."
She wishes she could be so sure.
He must see the doubt in her eyes because his jaw tightens, his eyes darkening. "I know you won't hurt me," he insists. "I want you to have your own space, because I know it's important to you - but Beckett, if you want me in your bed, you just have to say the words."
That easy, huh?
"The words," she says, suppressing a smile, and she watches the laugh break his face open.