Chapter 14
Castle thrusts her into the passenger seat of the car. Her hands are still cuffed behind her. He gets in himself, undoes the cuffs, locks her seat belt on and takes off like a bat out of hell. He hasn't said a single word.
She can't look at him. The single sidelong glance she got didn't show her anything that looks like the Castle she knows. His face could have been Mount Rushmore for all the expression she could see. She turns away and stares blankly out the window. That way he can't see her own devastated face. They're not taking a route that she'd expect but she can't make the effort to care. He's so angry with her and now he's taking her somewhere to tell her they're over. She's so tired. She's been scraped down to a blank palimpsest. He won't be writing her story any more.
Castle is concentrating on the power of the engine under his hands. He's still so incandescently angry (because she scared him so much) that he doesn't dare speak because he'll say too much. Or not enough. He's heading for the house in the Hamptons. It's isolated and quiet and there is no way to leave without a car. And he won't be leaving the keys anywhere Beckett can even think of taking them. How could she trade him, everything he can give her, for hiding in a cheap dirty hotel in the Bronx? If she doesn't love him - there's a bite in his chest - then she has to say so. He's going to keep her in the Hamptons till she talks about it. He gets clear of the city and puts his foot down.
A long span of silence later there's a thin, drained voice from beside him. "Can you pull in, please. I need a restroom." Castle takes the off-ramp to the next gas station and parks up as close to the door as he can get. He undoes the seat belt and comes round to open the door. He helps her out the car, holding the cuff of her shirt in case she's about to try something stupid, like run. He doesn't touch her skin, because if he does he'll throw her back in the car and fall on top of her and… he doesn't want to be that man.
He walks her round to the restrooms, leans his whole bulk against the wall and says in an I-don't-trust-you tone "I'll wait here." Beckett just enters without any response at all. He waits for the flush and the noise of the dryer and when it takes longer than he expects he's scared-angry-terrified all over again. So when she comes out he can't stop himself and he grabs her into his arms and tilts her head up against his shoulder and holds her fiercely and possessively.
Somewhere in the background he hears a truck pulling up to the station and it brings him back just enough to realize that this isn't the way he wants the story to go. He isn't going to start kissing her standing up against some gas station's back wall in the dirt and the smell of none-too-clean restrooms. He's got control. He's got game. Really he has. He wants to kiss Beckett, but this isn't Beckett. It's some pale wraith with Beckett's face. So he stops and just holds her gently till he's able to walk straight and then he puts her back in the car.
He still doesn't trust her not to leave again and call for a ride back to the city, but he has to take the chance. He tells her that he's going to the restroom and then they'll carry on. When he looks at her all he sees is numb acceptance. There's no Beckett in this drained and empty thing. She's checked out.
He finishes quickly and turns back on to the road east, submerging himself in the feel of the steering through the curves, the shift of the gears, the speed, his total control of the leashed power under the hood. It's helping him calm down. He can feel Beckett white and silent in the passenger seat. As his anger drains away, while the city recedes further and further behind him and the chance that Beckett can run away again diminishes with every passing mile toward the Hamptons, he begins to worry about her.
He's not a man much given to self-doubt, but he's been more than a little high-handed since Beckett's phone rang, and he supposes it's possible that he's gone several steps beyond too far. But what else was he supposed to do? How else was he to get her back, show her how much it means?
If she won't come round after he's given it his best shot, talked to her, given her the choice, with very definitely no phones to interrupt and no way for her to avoid him then…Well. Then at least he'll know where he stands. The thought gives him another sore place in his chest.
He bolsters his confidence with the memory of how she was in the loft before the phone rang and repeats over and over to himself that everything will be okay, while the big car growls its way through the miles. By the time they turn off he's left his anger behind in the dust of the road.
I'll take care of you, Beckett. Just let go.
Beckett watches wanly out the side window as the road rolls by. She supposes she should ask where they're going, but what does it matter? She can read the ending of this story. Wherever they end up, all that's going to happen is that she's going to let Castle have what he wants, take a pity fuck from him, let him show her all night long what she could have had, and then he's going to leave her. He might as well have fucked her up against the restroom wall and dropped her at the nearest Greyhound stop to go back to New York.
A slow tear pools and trickles down her face. She doesn't make a sound. She doesn't move. She just watches the verge go by as the tear dries.
"We're here," Castle says at last. Wherever "here" is. The car slows and turns up a nondescript track, low suspension bumping over the ruts. They swing into a wide driveway and Castle stops the car in front of a small mansion. She can hear the sea. This must be Castle's summer house in the Hamptons.
He leans across and undoes the seatbelt. His large hand is gentle. "Beckett," he murmurs. "Don't try to run away again. Please." She won't. She's too hollowed out to run, and she doesn't know where to go anyway.
Getting out the car she stumbles and he's immediately there to catch her. He's so terrifyingly self-controlled, so careful as he steers her to the door. She doesn't get it. If this is a one-night-stand, a quick fuck and then goodbye (it's all she expects), then why doesn't he just get on with it? She could be home by morning. And nobody will ever need to know anything about it. She'll get on with the rest of her life and never think about what could have been.
She's maneuvered into a large, warm-toned bedroom and pointed in the direction of a bathroom. "Why don't you get cleaned up? There are some of Alexis's bath things in there and a robe. When you're done, come back through and I'll have found something for us to eat." She follows instructions. It's easier than thinking. And while she's half-lying in a warm bath smelling of some lavender-scented mixture she doesn't have to feel anything.
Castle's found pasta and wine by the time Beckett reappears, wrapped in one of Alexis's fluffier robes. She looks pink and clean and somehow more Kate than Beckett, and he draws an inward breath of relief. Maybe he hasn't ruined it yet.
He dishes up food and pours the wine. They eat in a slightly strained silence, Castle's watching Beckett but Beckett's only watching her plate. There's a lot of unspoken words floating just above the table, waiting for someone to speak. But Beckett doesn't talk about things. Beckett just runs away from them. She eats far less than half of what he's put out and sips her wine slowly and he sees that she is just so utterly drained that there's no point in starting any discussion now.
"Beckett. Beckett. You're exhausted. Go back through and go to sleep. It's late." There's an ulterior motive, of course. Back through is his room. And he's got no intention of sleeping on the couch. She droops off, the few minutes of reassuring Beckett-ness draining away, and he's sure that in ten minutes you wouldn't be able to wake her with a rocket. Which is just as well, because he's going to go into town to get her some clothes from a convenience store (it's the best he can do till tomorrow) and then he's going to crawl into bed next to her and at least then when he wakes up he'll know she'll still be there.
I'll take care of you, Kate.
His story's back on track.
The convenience store yields basic cotton underwear, T-shirts and a wraparound skirt. Tomorrow, he thinks, he'll come back and buy her designer lingerie, and stylish outer clothes that hide it from everyone but him.
When he gets home he finds that she's borrowed a T-shirt and panties that Alexis must have left and is buried under the comforter curled up in the tightest, most defensive position imaginable. He washes and shaves, puts on pajama pants and slips in behind her. Even that small touch is almost more than he can bear. She's pulled back when he tried to go forward so many times and now he's brought her here and it's make or break. He won't let it be break. He'll convince her. He puts a possessive arm around her and cuddles in. Sleep takes a long time to arrive, while he stares into the darkness and plans how the story will go.