Ghost on the Canvas
by Sandiane Carter and chezchuckles
Castle doesn't like this; he doesn't like any of it. The look on her face when she gives him her side weapon – actually *gives* it to him – when she tells him he's her only back-up, and…
Oh, he won't even start thinking about that light that shone in her eyes when she gently commanded, "Go."
This isn't good. No, no, no. Rick wants to stamp his foot like a five-year-old and say, "Enough now; game's over!" He doesn't want Beckett facing Dunn alone, doesn't want to know the outcome to that duel. He has unlimited faith in Kate, but the man is a *serial killer*. He's crazy, but he's also crazy smart. And he's got the ending all planned, carefully thought through, smoothed out.
This is a man obsessed with detail, a man who waited until the subway was passing by to record Shaw's video, who purposefully 'forgot' to black out the tiny portion of the window that showed the towers of the Whitestone Bridge.
How can Kate possibly win this?
The gun is cool and solid in his palm, grounds him to reality. Castle is a good shot; he's used a gun before. Only, never in these circumstances, never when it mattered. It was never for real. And the thing that scares him most, the thing that terrifies him, is that somewhere deep inside, a part of him is enjoying this.
Oh, not the biggest part, of course. The biggest part is sweating and shuddering, praying for Beckett to come out of this unscathed. But he knows that tiny spark in his guts, knows it for what it is. Excitement.
That's the little kid in him, the one who thought shadowing an NYPD detective would be so cool, who can't get over the fact that women actually ask him to sign their *chests*. And Castle never thought of it this way before, but that part of him, the part that isn't politically correct, that just bulldozes its way through other people's lives? That might be the thing he shares with Dunn.
Kate's voice, firm and controlled, rouses him from his morbid thoughts.
"I thought it was me you were after."
Oh, damn. Would it be too much to ask that she *not* make him angry?
But Dunn doesn't look angry. He looks – the thought makes Castle's hair stand on end – he looks pleased. Satisfied. Like everything is unfolding according to plan. *His* plan.
God, what has he done?
"Nikki," Dunn says, and Rick is surprised, once again, by the rush of anger, the fire coursing through his blood. He wants to pulverize the man, wants to feel his face crack under his fist, and erase all of it – the smirk and the pride and the twisted use of that name that only belongs to him, Castle. Not to that psycho.
"You came."
That sickeningly sweet voice makes the writer's insides churn; but it's not enough to scare Kate Beckett.
"Put your hands up, Dunn," Castle hears her command firmly, "or I will take you down."
Is he allowed to choose for Dunn? Because he'd definitely pick option two.
Rick finds himself disappointed, however, when the man puts the binoculars away, apparently intending to do as he's told. This doesn't feel right; he must have something up his sleeve. Everything they know about him tells Castle that this isn't the sort of guy who surrenders.
"I've got a better idea, Nikki. Why don't *you* put your gun down? Or I'll detonate the nineteen pounds of cyclonite that I have in the building across the street, turning Agent Avery and his entry team into mist."
Oh, crap. Crap. Castle was right about blowing the building. Wow. He really thinks like a serial killer, doesn't he? He doesn't know what he should be more upset about: this, or the fact that Dunn is trying to blackmail Kate into putting down her weapon.
He can't see her from his hiding place, but she must hesitate as well, because the next thing he hears is their killer taunting her.
"If you shoot me, Nikki, it might cause my body to tense up and push the button. Do you really want to take that chance?"
"They're not in the building anymore. I only sent them in there to throw you off."
Good idea! Good idea, Kate. Make him think he hasn't got any leverage. And for the first time, Dunn's face shows something else than perversity. There's a flicker of doubt, right there, before the man resumes his irritating smile.
"You're lying."
"Why would they be in there if I knew that you were in here?" Kate shoots back smoothly.
She has a point. It's almost sad that her words don't stand for the truth. Castle's hands are slick with sweat, his grip on the gun slipping. He tries to steady it, to relax his clenched fingers.
"Face it, Dunn," Beckett points out, calm and confident. "I beat you. Nikki Heat won."
Uh-oh. What was that look on Dunn's face? Rick saw it, the glance downwards, like he's planning –
Before Castle has time to do anything more than part his lips to warn Kate, it's already happening. Dunn lunges for the gun just out of reach-
"No," Dunn spits out. He throws the remote at Beckett, using her distraction to reach for his gun-
But he forgot to take Jordan into account: even taped and bound, the FBI agent manages to get her foot on the weapon first and send it flying to the ground. It gives Kate the time she needs to aim, and shoot; but Dunn has taken shelter behind Shaw's chair, and somehow he wriggles his way out, unhurt.
Beckett dashes after him, a flash of black and heels; and Castle, though he longs to do the same, rushes to Jordan's side instead. He pulls the duct tape off her face in a sharp move, knowing from experience that it's less painful that way.
"Where's my people?" Shaw gasps as soon as she gets a chance.
"Across the street, sitting on nineteen pounds of cyclonite."
He doesn't mean to sound patronizing, but if Avery had listened to him like Kate did –
God, Beckett's all alone, chasing after Dunn. The images that spring into his mind are *not* welcome, and they make his hands shake, make his fingers skid over the rope that ties Jordan's wrists.
"She was bluffing?"
"She was profiling," he answers, and he snorts inwardly at his ridiculous writer's obsession with the right word, even in such a moment.
The knot finally, finally comes undone under his fingers, and Shaw pushes him back, clearly as eager as he is to get Kate some help.
"Go, go, I've got this! He might out-flank her."
He doesn't need to be told twice. His hand instinctively finds the gun that Beckett gave him, and he runs after her and Dunn, feeling like it's entirely too long since they disappeared through that door.
The whole building is dark, of course, with only the moonlight and the streetlamps to give the rooms a semblance of lighting; he tries to do as Kate would, sweep every space he steps into, secure it. But it seems like such a waste of time, and his blood is pulsing under his skull again, and the song is back.
KateKateKate.
It's no longer the soft, purring voice of arousal from this morning, though. No, it's the loud siren of fear, with the rythmic thud of his heart echoing in his temples for a background.
The song of despair.
Then he hears it, and the song pauses.
"Nobody has to die."
Kate. Oh god, thank you. Castle directs his steps towards her voice, her beloved voice; his heart is still beating out of his chest, but his mind has gone blessedly silent.
As he blends with another slant of shadows, he hears the bone-jarring clamor of two people slamming into a metal divider. The accompanying grunts are genderless, the sounds of exertion and rage both terrifying and reassuring, because it leads him further in, like a homing beacon.
KateKateKate-
He abandons all caution. He jogs down a long corridor comprised of storage containers, honing in on the source. A body being slammed into something unyielding, too light to be anyone but Kate, makes his heart pound fiercely. He needs to go left, but there's no break in the long line of metal.
He makes the turn at the far end of the warehouse, looping back with frustration, the place a maze. His palms are curiously dry even as his body flashes with a primal heat, adrenaline coursing through him. He takes a right hand turn the first moment he gets, but the tunnel leads only to more metal, more towering containers.
Another reverberating crash, and then it's Kate's pained groan, her gasp of surprise. He runs into another dead end, doubles back, heading away from the sounds of their brawl. Frustration claws at him and he keeps running, the gun held before him, straining to hear over the sounds of his own breathing.
Forget it. This is getting him nowhere. Castle clambers up the next storage container, using the metal rods running up the sides to haul himself up. He slithers over the top and slides back down. A row closer and the containers are no longer stacked so neatly, the sounds of flesh meeting unforgiving surfaces echoing off the metal, and this time he heads further into the warehouse, past containers stacked like child's blocks, haphazard and disorderly.
Kate.
Oh God.
He sees the instant Dunn throws her off, her body slamming into the concrete floor, her skull bouncing, her body going still.
Oh God-
He cradles the weapon before him, aims for that spot between the eyes.
And fires.
Her heart is still pounding, but enough of the adrenaline has worn off that she can now feel the throb of her back, the pull of damaged muscles in her neck and shoulders, the bruises.
Her head is killing her; she closes her eyes to block out the flashing, emergency lights, feels a wave of dizziness swamp her. The air outside is too cold to be comforting, but she relishes the brittle feel of it in her lungs.
Kate opens her eyes to maintain her equilibrium, sees Castle at the surveillance van talking to a guy from IAB. Internal Affairs isn't as gung-ho tonight as they usually are, probably because the Feds have it so well in hand. Jordan keeps waving off the paramedics as she stays in contact with the guys from the bomb squad.
They've yet to clear the two buildings. Shaw had been tied to a chair near bomb-making equipment, so the FBI has sent everyone outside. Scott Dunn is already on his way to federal lock-up; no one wants him in the 12th, even if it is Kate's collar.
She has bruises on the hard ends of her vertebrae. Stupid to notice, or care, but every time she moves, just the slide of skin over bone makes her hurt.
Both of her weapons are with IAB now, of course. She feels naked without their protection. She wants to go home, curl up in bed-
Except she has no home.
It's just - just the last straw. It's too much.
Beckett pivots on her heels and walks swiftly to the far end of the alleyway, skirts the police barricade, and heads for the night's darkness, needing it, needing nothingness.
Her shoulders are tight, her fists clenched when the tears break free, course down her cheeks. She sucks in an aching breath and ducks around the corner of the next building, slumping against the dirty brick.
She hisses at the contact, blinks rapidly in an attempt to control the angry, stupid tears. Kate tilts her head back, staring up at the cloudy, starless sky. Her thighs quiver, but she is not broken.
She's not broken. Not for Dunn.
"Kate?"
She jumps at the sound of his voice, her breath hitching in her throat.
Castle appears out of the shadows between the buildings, a pale hand rising towards her. She stiffens, for a moment forgetting everything important she should've been holding on to, and that's all it takes for his hand to drop.
She can't breathe so well. Her vision blurs with renegade moisture. He steps back, regarding her like a wounded animal. Something dangerous and cornered.
"Castle," she grinds out, hears the pleading in her voice.
And then his arms capture her, drag her in close, her body a wreck of bruises that groan at the contact, but she doesn't care, can't even listen to it, just presses her chin into his shoulder and squeezes her eyes shut.
She allows her traitorous body to vibrate with leftover emotion, then gets a grip on herself and takes another long, slow breath, testing the cracks in her ribs, the extent of the damge.
"Kate," he whispers, and instead of being strong again, clear-headed and focused, all she can do is press her face against the side of his neck and hold on.
His hands are everywhere, gentle and reverent, cupping the back of her head, fingertips to her spine, murmurs in her ear. She's not trembling, she's not; she's just tired and running out of adrenaline and stumbling against Castle's insistent hands.
He's stronger than she expected. Demanding. His hands survey her injured body, take inventory of the damage as if all he needs is a touch to know. And then his mouth is at her neck, sucking on her pulse, soothing the skin with his tongue, grazing his teeth along that tendon, upward to her ear.
"You're alive."
She curls an arm at his lower back, hooks her thumb through his beltloop to help her hold on. Her knees are going to give out if she doesn't do something.
So she leans into him, rests against his chest, flat and unforgiving, the feel of him burning her skin. Kate connects with his cheek, brushes her lips over the hard line of his jaw, feels the way his muscle twitches at the nip of her teeth.
Castle breaks apart from her, shuddering, his eyes too dark to see. She takes a shallow breath, rapid and unsteady, tries to gather herself.
He won't let her, won't give her time.
"I don't ever want to do that again," he says.
A laugh bubbles out of her, even though she knows what he meant, what he's referring to, but she can't help it, needs the mirth as an escape. "I think I might protest that decision," she says softly, curling an arm up between them to gain some space.
"What? No, I meant-" He sighs; he won't be amused. "Don't ever make me do that again, Kate."
"Go in as my back-up? Save my life?"
He growls at her and bruises her lips with a kiss so hard, so animal, that she only freezes under it, stunned, caught. He retreats equally as fast, breathing hard, his chest rising and falling under her hand.
"Castle," she says softly.
"It's not funny."
"It's not."
"Stop joking about it like - like it's nothing. Like you didn't nearly-" He chokes on his own words and crushes her, too tight.
She can't help the grunt of pain that echoes out of her lungs, has to squeeze her eyes shut.
"Sorry, sorry," he mutters, loosening his hold, skimming his hands over her ribs with so light and delicate a touch. "I can't. . .I'm having trouble controlling myself here, Kate."
She can feel him tense with need or fear, longing or rage. She's not sure. He's not his usually compliant, easy-going self. He's immovable, granite against the shifting sand of her composure.
"I want to go home," she whispers, not sure if it's even loud enough for him to hear, not sure-
"Will mine work for now?" he says, his lips, his breath, his voice curling around her, warm and firm.
His home is the only one she's thinking of.
His hands are still shaking.
Not the violent quivers from before, from when they took the gun away from him and he couldn't get his fingers to relax and let go; no, those have receded, subsided into imperceptible trembles. A mere nothing.
Still, he has to try twice before he manages to call the car service, ask his usual driver to come pick them up.
Castle doesn't want to ride with the NYPD or the FBI. He wants to hold Kate close, curled up into his chest, if she will let him; and he wants to take her home. *His* home.
He wants the privacy, the security of a town car, of someone he knows and trusts. Not just any cab; not tonight. Kate must hear the short conversation, still buried into his side (he doesn't want her to be anywhere else), but she doesn't object, doesn't say a word.
He's grateful.
Shaw's given them the all-clear, told them that she would see them tomorrow; and for once Beckett didn't fight, just took what she was offered. For that too, he's grateful.
So they wait on the sidewalk, at a safe distance from the droning hive made by the FBI agents going in and out of the buildings, relaying information in lieu of pollen.
Castle's mind is still spinning, like it's been knocked off its axis and sent, madly twirling, into the emptiness of space. Every minute or so, he has to catch himself and keep his stubborn brain from going back to those god-awful seconds when Dunn was aiming Kate's gun at her head.
Instead, he points himself in another direction, gently, as if his mind were an obstinate child who doesn't know what's good for him. He focuses on sensations rather than memories, on the softness of Kate's hair brushing the side of his neck, on her warm exhales fanning his collarbone.
On her fingers, tightly clasping the back of his coat. And the regular, lulling beats of her heart, that he can feel through the clothes if he concentrates, holds his breath.
She's leaning heavily into him, letting him support her weight in a way that he wouldn't have dreamed of three days ago. He can feel all of her, the length of her slender, elegant body, the lines of her merged into him; and this is what drags him back from the edge of insanity, slowly, surely, inch by inch.
He listens to the peaceful sounds of her heartbeat echoing through his chest; and words start forming inside him, opening him up like night-blooming jasmine, matching the rhythm of the blood pulsing in her veins. I love you. I love you. I love you.
He doesn't feel the need to say them out loud. He doesn't even consider it. His lips find Kate's forehead, follow her hairline, a caress as much as an unspoken promise; and he lets the quiet certainty burn in his heart, warm his insides.
I love you.