A/N: Hello everyone! First of all, I'm sure you noticed the pen name change. That is because I decided it was easier to keep my tumblr and this account the same. So, if you'd like, you can follow me over there at alwayswritewithcoffee. There's an ask box and all of that, and I'm open to answering questions. The second thing is, if you knew what I do for a living (which I realize you don't) you'd understand the space between updates. This week has been insane, and work will remain that way until the beginning of March so I just ask that you all be patient. I also rewrote the scene in the graveyard about 12 times, but I finally ended up happy with it.
Thanks for following along and reviewing! I enjoy hearing from you!
No amount of makeup is enough to hide the bruises. Kate spends somewhere north of thirty minutes staring at them in the bathroom mirror, stubbornly applying multiple coats of thick concealer that stains the grey t-shirt she wears and paints lines onto her skin when she turns her head so that the lumpy mess separates against the bend and pull of her neck.
She tries not to let it bother her when she finally washes it off, finishes applying mascara to her lashes and caps the tube without allowing herself another glance. If she looks, the process will begin anew and she can already feel Castle's questions and need to reassure her that it doesn't matter. He's been sneaking glances through the open door ever since she started the process, wisely remaining silent though she can feel the time ticking down towards that phenomenons end.
The second of the black dresses she purchased makes a cool slide over her body, the wool blended fabric instantly warming as it encases her body heat. The neck is high, enough to cover those marks against the lower portion of her throat but the blue-black material throws those still on display into an even more vivid pattern of colors. There's dark navy and red-tinged purple imprints of fingers, ringed by the green and light blue that only reminds Kate of how close it all came. How close she came to being the one inside a coffin.
It so easily could have been her funeral that Castle and his family are preparing to attend, and though she's alive and somewhat less of a jigsaw puzzle than she had been yesterday, there are still sharp edges and a brittleness that Kate's not sure she'll ever function without.
Coffee. Coffee for Kate. It's a concept he never expected to be a part of his life again. Had it really only been three days ago when she'd turned those painful green eyes on him and told him it was a bad idea? When they'd both stood in his living room for the second time and, practically, broken up? It feels like a lifetime ago, back before she was strangled, before Montgomery had died from some sudden complication. Before he had been shot at by a sniper.
Rick clutches the cup in his hands, soaking the warmth from the brown liquid while she gets dressed. His reaction is nothing new, he's always held an appreciation for her body, and the bruises that color her skin are no surprise, he mapped them with everything from his hands to his teeth in the intervening hours, but it all still hits him like a kick to the gut. It's both ecstasy and agony, pain for the knowledge that she is hurting, and pleasure at the fact they both bestowed that feeling on one another.
And concern, obviously. He can't remember a moment where he hadn't been desperately, and overwhelming, concerned for the well being of the woman who is slipping on a pair of black heels and attempting to pretend that the bruises don't bother her, that she isn't sufficiently rattled over the past 48 hours.
Always so tough, so guarded. Surely she knows he's going to catch her if, unfathomably, she falls?
Rick supposes that she doesn't, that Kate has never allowed herself the luxury of not holding up the weight of the world alone. It's an endearing, and consistently frustrating, characteristic, one which he doesn't wish to break her of but, perhaps, to convince her that its easier if she allows someone to help. That someone, clearly, would be him.
"Kate, here," he finally says when she's stopped fidgeting, her hands stilling in the flare of material around her hips. Even from his position on the bed he can see the way her fingers tighten in the soft wool, the hitch of her breath and the slow drag of its release. Her lips quirk upward as the expansion of her rib cage jostles the battered skin and he tries not to take it personally when the smile he gets is hesitant, a completely lackluster expression that doesn't reach her eyes or do much more than constrict the muscles into more of a grimace.
It's not him. It's today. It's the pain. It's not being in control.
For once, it's everything but him.
Her fingers brushing against his is the first contact of their bodies for the morning, little sparks of electricity when the slender digits caress the back of his hand. It's a thank you without voicing the words, her eyes a shade lighter with the familiarity of the action, of the acceptance that he's putting on display. He knows her so well that it makes her heart stutter, makes her want to cry and do nothing but move back under the blankets so she can thank him in all the ways she isn't prepared to give voice too.
Instead, Castle's thumb leaves a light pressure against the thin skin between her thumb and forefinger. Tight little traces of a circle that inexplicably loosen the tension that has built between her shoulders. That contact is like a magnet, drawing her forward so his arms can wrap around her waist, so that Kate can snuggle against his still scruffy cheek and just soak him in.
The hug is followed by her mouth finding his, gentle pecks to show her appreciation for far more than the coffee. The coffee has always just been his way of showing that he cares for her, a ritual as ingrained into her memories of Castle as his insane theories or observant stare. But the rest of it, it's new and it fills Kate with something tangible, something that she'd thought had passed along with her mother's death and her father's descent into a bottle. It's safety, it's reassurance.
It might be unconditional love.
This pair of wings, worn and rusted,
From too many years by my side,
They can carry me, swear to be,
Sturdy and strong,
But turning them on still means goodbye.
Snow still stands in a slushy, dingy blanket over the cemetery. The sky remains overcast, heavy gray clouds casting shadows on the ground that seem to leach even more color from the scene around them. It's all black, white and gray. Completely morose and more than a little depressing as Rick stands to the left of the podium while the Montgomery's reverend reads select verses from the Bible and speaks highly of the man they've all gathered to bid farewell.
He gives his own speech, one that he wrote in the early hours on hotel stationary while Kate slept beside him with one arm curled around his thigh. It's hard at moment to force out the words he reads from the page, emotion and grief knotted tightly together in his stomach but he gets through it by meeting those forest green eyes and that defiant tilt to her chin, so utterly determined not to cry though he knows Kate is just as broken by this moment of farewell as the rest of them.
They stand together once he finishes speaking, cold fingers clasped tightly while officers pass Evelyn a folded flag, while others toss dirt onto the coffin and even once the wrench grinds into gear and sends the polished wooden box below the surface of the ground. It's only once the whirring of the machine has stopped, when the gravediggers approach to toss dirt into the hole that they back away.
"How do you just forgive someone?" The question is spoken quietly, Kate's words almost carried away by the wind. He's operating on instinct when he draws her thin frame against him, bracketing her smaller body from the worst of the chill as they make their progress to the waiting SUV. He can just make out the silhouettes of Evelyn and her two daughters sliding into a town car that will take them to the reception hall as they reach the crest of the small hill.
Rick doesn't answer her immediately, too struck by the improbability that Beckett would ever pose such a question to him and far too aware of its importance. It's not a question he can just answer without some thought because he suspects that this is about far more than the actions of Roy Montgomery.
"Love." It's not the answer he'd thought about giving her, but it is the one that he knows is right. There's no denying that men make fools of themselves over the concept, that wars have been waged and lives destroyed over it. It's the thing that people spend their entire lives searching for, the thing that has the power to lift you to unreachable heights and bring you to unspeakable lows. And, in that power, holds the grace of forgiveness, because people are not perfect. People are selfish, cruel and terrible works of a God that he sometimes struggles to believe in. But Rick also knows that the power of loving someone is the redeeming facet for all of it, it's what magic and dreams and fairy dust are created from.
"When you love someone, you make yourself vulnerable," he says, slowing their trek towards the car with a hand steady against the small of her back, "You give them the power to destroy you, but also to make your life the most incredible experience. And when you realize you love someone, you accept all of their faults and flaws because it's who they are and the good things are always shadowed by the bad. Everyone makes mistakes, everyone comes up short, and loving another person means that you forgive them for mistakes, you accept the shortcomings and you work on being better together."
The tears come in a steady flow across Kate's cheeks, the wind whipping around them already giving her skin a pink tinge, and she's gripping his hands like she's in search of an anchor. He knows in his bones that some part of Kate loved Captain Montgomery, and that portion of her hasn't ceased to exist with the knowledge they both carry of his past, just like he knows that it's only her fear of being hurt that holds her back from giving the man her complete forgiveness. The desperation rolls of her like waves pounding sand.
"Storge. Philia. Eros and agape, Kate. All forms of love, all things which you make me feel - sometimes in the same damn breath," he sighs, tilting his head towards the sky to merely gather himself together, "Forgiveness isn't easy, it's the hardest thing to do sometimes. It's easier to hold on to anger, hold on to hurt. But when you forgive someone? You are letting that connection, that love you have for them, go free. Maybe it doesn't last, maybe it all plummets in some fiery crash, but I don't believe a human soul belongs in a cage, or trapped behind walls, especially not one as breathtaking as yours."
"I forgave you because you asked me too, because I couldn't imagine allowing you to carry around the guilt of my denying you absolution. But, most of all, because I'm completely in love with you and nothing you've done, or I've done, has cured me of that. I've buried it under anger and distracted myself with meaningless things, but it always came back to loving you," the words have barely left his mouth when his arms are full of Kate, the warmth of her mouth pressed against his and her arms thrown around his neck. She's still crying, occasional little sniffs from her nose, while they kiss.
In a perfect world the contact would last forever. He could gather her up and just simply refuse to let her go, but being surrounded by tombstones is enough of an indication that perfection is merely a myth and when Rick finally pulls away from her its done with the resolve that he must finish purging himself of all the things he's kept at bay.
"I'm not going to pretend that its enough," he tells her, careful to keep his voice soft, his fingers splayed across the curve of her cheek, "I don't trust that you aren't going to run, that you aren't going to push me away when it's all too much or you don't want to face a problem. I'm not at all convinced that you and I won't explode into a thousand pieces, that you won't break me into a million pieces. But I do know that I've got to at least try, if only to stop asking myself 'what if'."
Kate absorbs all of it, the flare of hurt burning bright in her eyes at his final confession. But there's also a quiet acceptance, and silent agreement that whatever has changed between them might be too little, too late. She can't be angry at him for speaking the truth, and she's strangely proud that one apology, one night, and one confession aren't enough to erase four years of mistakes. It's all been wonderful, the very stuff she'd alternately dreamed and fantasized about, but the debt is still outstanding.
And she knows better than to make any promises because for all her affirmations and realizations, going at it alone and pushing people away is a habit that she's going to struggle with breaking. She might have given Castle access through the largest and toughest wall around her heart but there are others lurking in the shadows. "Trying is all I'm asking, that you let me prove that I'm sorry, that I want this to work," she tells him, "And that, when I do try to push you out that you don't let me. Don't let my stubbornness keep you out, Castle."
It's his lips covering hers after that, whispering his own acceptance just before their mouths connect. And though he knows Kate is never so ready with her emotions, that she's a long way from any big declarations like what he's just shared, he still imagines that this kiss is a silent response of her feelings.
So, here we go, Bluebird,
Gather your strength and rise up.
Oh, here we go, Bluebird.
Ready to fly, you and I,
Here we go.
She watches their progress from the partial protection of the blinds. It's an intricate dance, a give and take in the way they lean towards one another, how hands lightly brush as they move down the hallway. He pauses at the entrance to the break room to allow her entrance, though it requires a slight twist of her body - a twist that is performed so the swell of her backside just skims across thighs and abdomen.
The lust and sexual tension is noticeable even through two panes of glass and a host of detectives desks, something that only the most oblivious person would miss were they to spend any significant amount of time in observation.
Observation is enough to tell Rachel McCord that her best agent is sleeping with the writer.
"Agent Beckett." Rachel's voice is like steel when it carries across the room, not hard enough to silence the bullpen but the noise does diminish significantly as every single head swivels towards the open blinds where the woman in question is holding a coffee mug that has clearly stopped its trek towards her mouth. "A moment, and bring your tag-a-long," she gestures at the man who gapes at her from Beckett's back.
The noise value triples suddenly, everyone on alert and attempting to look busy while Kate crosses through the maze of desks with Castle hot on her heels. She's glad that she's changed into a suit, the familiar weight and drag of the material coating her body in something like armor. Not that its going to do any good when her boss is on the warpath.
"Agent McCord," Kate begins as soon as the door has closed behind them, long before Rachel has taken a seat at the head of the conference table. "I'm sure you have lots of questions about our progress on this case, we had planned on doing a full briefing for you at 2 p.m. but I can -"
"Sit down, Beckett," the woman says, her words clearly implying that Castle should join her. And then she waits, giving them both time to settle in, for the writer to throw a worried glance at both of them in turn before she props herself at the edge of the table, arms crossed. "I'm sure you remember our policy on personal relationships in the office."
They both jerk forward in shock, and Rachel is delighted to see that the writer's jaw is hanging open while her agent is valiantly trying to look unaffected. Still, there's a blush that spreads over her cheekbones, a shock in her eyes that can't be missed. Neither of them make a move to deny her knowledge, though the question of how she knows fills the room as if one of them had spoke aloud.
"For the future, I'd like to remind you that you should check all phone calls have been properly disconnected. Otherwise your boss might overhear facets of your personal life that are best left unknown," she tells them both, watching as Beckett's pink blush turns red and the agent buries her head in her hands.
"That's my fault…" Rick speaks up, one hand aloft as if he is answering a question in his first grade class.
"I'm aware of that, yes," Rachel replies dryly, pushing away from the table edge to resume her seat at the head of the table, "And I'm aware of your reputation as both a former colleague of Agent Beckett's, and your assistance with the NYPD on many cases. However, allow me to make myself clear, Mr. Castle, if you hamper this investigation in any way not only will I remove you from the case, I will press to both the police commissioner and the mayor that it is no longer in their best interest to have you continue to work with the police department in any capacity."
"That includes distracting Agent Beckett in any way, and that is not limited to throwing yourself in the line of fire. You might have signed waivers for the NYPD, but those do not extend to our bureau. You step a toe out of line and you are off this case, out of the department, and likely going on a vacation into witness protection until we can determine it is safe to release you. Do you understand?"
Rick can only stutter sounds for a moment, terrified, impressed and enthralled in equal measures while this woman regards him with ice blue eyes that show no sign of backing down. He completely believes that she'll throw all of that at him, and probably several other things she didn't bother to mention, "I...I….yes, I do," he says, wishing he sounded less like a chastised little boy and more like a grown man.
"And Agent Beckett," those blue eyes release Rick from their hold an instant later, moving on to size up the other woman in the room. Rachel doesn't expect Beckett to blink, not with her composure regained and her game face intact. "From this moment forward, I am taking point on this investigation. I warned you before you took this case, and in the time since, about putting a personal agenda above your work. You ignored my warning, and should consider yourself lucky that I am not removing you altogether. However, one more misstep? You will be removed and suspended from this task force, pending a committee review of your actions that, ultimately, could have you stripped of your position altogether."
"Mr. Castle is sticking with us, for now, but I'm going to press this to you - your priority is this case. It is not to protect him, or any other members of this department for which you feel a kinship. If you prioritize them over your work, unless in situation where life is threatened, you will be suspended immediately. Understand?"
"Yes, sir," Kate replies, holding Rachel's gaze until the woman reaches for the smart board remote and flicks the power button.
"Good, now gather up this team and tell me what you have. I want this jackass caught and thrown in jail," Rachel drawls, spinning in her chair to examine the timeline as Kate moves to her feet to gather up her team, Ryan and Esposito.
"Our research indicates that Senator William Bracken and Congresswoman Elizabeth Tyne were college friends. They both attended Columbia Law, both moved into the District Attorney's office and after Bracken vacated his seat in the House of Representatives for Senate, he endorsed Tyne to take his place. Clearly, she's been holding the job for the past two terms and will be looking for a third," Rachel reads all of the information from a file in her hands, the facts springing to life on the board behind her as Agent Arrison types the information up.
"Not only that, but the two of them have similar voting records. On virtually every campaign issue that voters care about, they are in agreement. However, like most politicians, records indicate voting for favors to others in Congress or a host of other reasons that may, or may not, be in the best interest of those they have pledged to serve. Annoying and worth kicking them out of office, but not illegal."
She drops the file to survey the room, hands planted firmly on the table. "I'm not doubting that connections in these two murders have led you here, I think there are plenty of clues that could tie someone in these offices to the deaths of Rylee Matthews and Jonathan Vickers. However, where I draw the line, is the implication that a case from over twenty years ago is at all related. The death of Bob Armen, while tragic, has been closed as a kidnapping gone wrong at the hands of two NYPD officers and, from what I see here, your only connection is a killer for hire."
"And that isn't enough?" Rick asks, aware of the incredulous tint of his voice but unable to help the disbelief. Both the NYPD and FBI labs had confirmed fingerprints and bullets to prove Smith, Montgomery and Matthews were all killed with the same rifle. He and Ryan had been shot at with it and, somehow, that wasn't enough? It was ludicrous.
"No, it isn't. This man is a contract killer, Mr. Castle. You don't have any evidence that will convince any judge or jury that he didn't merely accept two different contracts for two unrelated cases or that the attempts on your life and that of Detective Ryan were to stop you from investigating further," she responds.
"I cannot control what the NYPD chooses to do with their investigation, but I am telling my team to focus on Vickers and Matthews. Tyne's husband filed for bankruptcy after his business failed, and yet the family have made no noticeable lifestyle changes. Requests for campaign records have not been filled, so we are assuming they live off her salary and aren't tapping into fundraising money. However, money is quite the motivation so I want all of you to look into blackmail schemes, pocket accounts. Maybe Vickers or Matthews discovered tampering with campaign money, I'm sure there are supporters and employees out there who'd find that worth killing over."
And everyone at the table looks ready to protest, but McCord's wave of dismissal cuts it all off before it can begin. "8 a.m. tomorrow, we meet up and brief the case again. I want something solid, not a damn thing involving mobster kidnappings in the seventies and eighties, understand?"
Quiet replies of 'yes, sir' lead the task force out the door to go back to work.
Song: 'Bluebird' by Sara Bareilles from 'Kaleidoscope Heart'.