Title: Good For You
Disclaimer: It doesn't snow in April in Los Angeles. Seriously. There were snow plows.
Summary: When the Dragon is slain, there's just a life to be lived. And sometimes there's more to learn in peace than in war.
Chapter 21:
"You look utterly ridiculous, you know that?" she says, reaching up to tweak his ten-gallon hat.
"I look rugged," he rebuffs, grinning at her and waggling his eyebrows as she shakes her head. He does look a little silly, but a little awesome as well. And she's so amused by him, he'll wear the damn thing all afternoon.
"People are staring," she mumbles, leaning into him as they skirt around a larger group of tourists, walking up into the stands.
"Hate to burst your bubble," he says, bending down, bumping her forehead with his hat. "But they're staring at you, babe," he explains, eyeing a man who's nearly stumbling as he watches them pass.
She looks incredible, in tight skinny jeans, boots he didn't even know she had with them, and a tight white tee shirt. She has her hair down and sunglasses over her eyes; she's a movie star at the rodeo and there isn't a man around who isn't checking her out. Staring at him? Yeah right.
"Shut up," she grumbles, but he sees the small smile pulling at her lips. He's seen it a lot today; he's been staring too. "Over there," she adds, pointing to two open seats near the top of the stands.
"Perfect." He follows her through, twisting by and dodging knees and elbows. She yanks him down beside her and he grins as she scoots close—too cold in just that tee shirt she swore would be enough.
"Of all the things to go do," she offers a few minutes later, when they've acclimated to the cacophonous bustle around them.
"I'm kind of amazed I've never been to one before," he admits, scanning the huge dirt track in front of the grandstand, hoping to get a glimpse of a bucking bronco, or a horse, or a bull. He's not that well informed, come to think of it.
"Me too," she says, laughing. "Humans versus Zombies, rodeos—where's the Rick Castle I know who's into everything?"
"Some detective kept him busy all summer," he says easily. She stiffens slightly and he lets out a slow breath. "She kept distracting me with her hot body and theories; my laptop just couldn't compete."
"Your laptop better not be trying to compete," she grumbles into his shoulder, relaxing against him.
"Really? A conversation about porn at the rodeo?"
"Castle," she gasps, laughing. "A little subtlety, please."
He chuckles into her hair, his lips pressed to the crown of her head as they sit smashed together on the hard metal bench. It's nice to be outside for the day. They spent most of yesterday driving from Edmonton to Calgary, and then spent the night camped out in their room. When they go on their honeymoon—when, not if, he grins to himself—they really should consider just getting an enormous suite somewhere, and staying there for two weeks, just in the room. He knows he'll never get tired of it. Though, he has to admit, his thighs are a little sore, and his back.
Her fingers come to find his bottom vertebrae, massaging into his muscle as if she's reading his mind. "You're a little stiff," she hums into his shoulder.
"Kate," he scoffs. "A little subtlety!"
She giggles against him and lifts her head to meet his eyes. "I'm a little stiff too," she says, arching an eyebrow at him that makes him want to crawl behind the bleachers and go back to high school with her.
He shakes his head and leans forward to find her lips, grinning as her hand stills on his back, unable to multitask.
"Don't be smug," she whispers as they pull apart at the commotion down on the track. Horses are being led out and ridden by cowboys. Real cowboys. "You're cute," she adds, catching him off guard as he watches the prelude to the show with rapt attention.
"Hmm?" he offers, unable to tear his eyes away.
"Nothing," she murmurs, sliding closer to rest her chin on his shoulder as they watch and listen to the introductions, the rules, the set up for the Bareback competition.
"That just—" he trails off as they explain the rig for the horse, the lack of saddle, the force that jostles the man's arm.
"Please don't ever do this," Kate beseeches him.
"Worried about my safety?" he asks, smug and warmed by the tone of her voice.
"Worried about your swimmers," she tosses back. He coughs and she laughs in his ear. "And you, maybe a little."
"Good to know you have your priorities straight," he manages.
"I'm really just keeping you around for your genes," she hums, her fingers trailing up his thigh.
"You want your kids to be literary geniuses?" he wonders, catching her hand with the one not wrapped around her shoulders. The woman seems to have little issue pushing his limits in public—so very Beckett of her.
"I want them to be like Alexis," she explains, squeezing his fingers.
He opens his mouth, lost for a way to properly thank her for that sentiment, but his garbled thoughts are lost to the bombastic, echoing gunshot that releases the first rider and his horse onto the track.
All of the softness, the warmth, is gone from his side. Kate is rigid beside him, her hand a vice around his fingers. He glances over at her and finds her sheet white with her jaw clenched shut, eyes closed as she forces herself to breathe through her nose.
"Kate," he says softly, rubbing her shoulder slowly.
She shakes her head mutely, bringing her free hand down to grip at the metal bench. A hand on his shoulder startles him, the grip strong and intimidating. He jumps and Kate nearly falls over with the shock of the motion as he whips around to stare at a guy who's doing a credible impression of Yosemite Sam, with a gray beard and a huge ten-gallon hat.
"Gunshot scared your little lady?" he asks, grinning crookedly at them as Castle tries to stem his own speeding heart rate.
He glances at Kate and back to the man, unnerved by the contact and the way the lecherous old geezer is eyeing his girlfriend. "My 'little lady,' deals in gunshots, actually," he grunts out, feeling so damn protective and on edge. "And I'll thank you to keep your hands to yourself."
The man raises his hands in mock supplication and then elbows his friend, having a not-so-silent laugh at the pair of them. Castle turns around, more concerned about Kate than whatever joke they're sharing. She's still stiff and still, but she's swaying—not enough air coming in to keep her upright for much longer. And this seemed like such an awesome idea a few minutes ago.
"Hey, come on," he says gently, forcing his own voice to be steady so they can get the hell out of here. He takes her hands and tugs lightly until she opens her eyes and finds his, hers cloudy and unfocused. "Let's get out of here," he clarifies just as a huge roar rips through the crowd. The Cowboy's getting bested by the bronco. Shame.
She shudders. "Show," she says, mono-syllabic and strained, but there.
"So not important," he argues, taking off his hat so she can see his eyes. "There's stairs down the back. Come on."
"I can do it," she retorts, turning to look at him, eyes wide and face straining against tension he knows she just wants to push through.
"Why though?" he asks, leaning toward her, tentatively pulling her back into him. She comes willingly and tucks herself against his side.
"Because," she lets out slowly.
"Because?"
"Because I—" Another roar followed by another gunshot to signal the end of the match blasts through the stadium. "Can't. Can't, come on," she says, standing suddenly and striding past him with a forced calm that's chilling to watch.
He scrambles up after her, catching her hand as she starts climbing up to the very back of the stands to reach the exit. The two men who were sitting behind them laugh, but what does it matter? Kate needs to get out, and honestly, he's not doing so hot himself.
They stumble down the stairs and he reaches out more than once to steady her, or himself, he's not sure. It's just the rodeo—just horses and danger for the performers, fun for the crowd. But it's too much, too loud, too forceful for them both. A Caribbean beach sounds pretty damn good about now.
He follows her down into the midway, until they're walking along, bright lights and more yelling on either side. It was fun, walking to the stadium from the far lot. He beat her at whack-a-mole and she let him keep the teddy bear, laughed and humored his victory dance. He twirled her around and they whispered about the passing couples, spinning stories together as they walked past rides and fair food stands.
Now, though, it's a tumult of noise and bangs and booms. With every one she twitches, her hand clamping around his—their only point of contact. He's hyper vigilant now, and every passing stranger seems a threat in this innocent, happy environment. The sunlight is too bright. He left his hat. Shit, how are they ever going to survive back in New York? If two weeks and change on the road hasn't fixed them, what will? They can't keep living like this.
"This way," she says abruptly, pulling him down a quieter sidewalk that leads to the parking lot. "Whose idea was it to walk through the carnival?" she mumbles, tugging him at a quick trot toward the cars, her gait almost desperately stiff.
"Yours," he says softly, keeping up with minimal effort. He'd be proud if he wasn't in such a hurry to get out himself. "It was fun," he adds as she steps closer.
They pass through the gate and he hears her let out a sigh of relief. It doesn't release her from it, but she stands a little taller, walks a little slower now—now that danger has passed. Danger. The carnival is danger. The gunshot at the rodeo is danger.
"Talk in the car," she directs when he starts to slow down. "Please," she continues, giving him a brief glimpse of her, shades back over her eyes. But her mouth is soft, and he can see the need there, the need for the safety of four walls, such as they may be.
He nods and it's a short, silent walk back to their little car. She lets him take the driver's seat. He can't quite imagine her driving right now, though, he can't quite see himself doing it either. The stationary metal will have to be barrier enough.
They sit in silence for a minute until it's broken by the pound of her fist against the cushion of her seat. "Damnit," she growls. "Damnit."
"Hey," he says quickly, grabbing her hand before she moves on to pounding on her thighs. "One day doesn't mean failure."
"I deal in gunshots, Castle," she hisses, ripping her glasses from her face and tossing them carelessly onto the dashboard. "You said it yourself."
His heart sinks as she looks at him, her eyes flashing but full with tears she's trying not to shed, her hand balled in a tight fist beneath his, the other dragging roughly across her denim-clad thigh. He opens his mouth to say something, anything, but she shakes her head.
"How am I supposed to be a cop if I can't deal with a recreational shot? It was a blank, not even a bullet," she says through clenched teeth. "How the hell am I supposed to do this?"
He gently pries her fingers apart, leaning over the console toward her as she sways in her seat. He threads their hands together, hers still so tense in his. He's edgy, but something about it—the question, the wondering—has snapped him out. What if? What if she doesn't do it? Is it an option, could she want that, does he want that for her—for her to come home every night, to not wonder, to not wish for her safety?
"Do you," he pauses and licks his lips, rolling the question on his tongue, so unsure. "Do you want to?"
She whips her head toward his so fast he hears the crunch of bone in her neck. "What?" she barks, but she's winded with it, he can tell—no bite, all sound, all breath.
"Do you want to go back?" he asks softly.
"Why—why would you even ask me that?" she demands, but she's losing steam. "Of course. Of course I…do."
He watches as her eyes fall shut and she clamps down on her bottom lip. "It's okay if you don't want to," he says quickly. She sucks in a breath and he grows bolder, leaning toward her, a hand on her thigh. "It's okay if you're not eager to get back to it."
"I'm a cop," she defends on a whisper.
"You're you. You've been a cop. You could still be a cop. But being a cop isn't what makes you Kate; it's not even what makes you Beckett."
Her eyes snap open and she stares at him, searching him, her mouth parted in silent question. She swallows and covers the hand he has on her thigh. "Yeah?"
"Yeah," he promises, bending to kiss her shoulder—the only place he can easily reach.
"Something about strength and soul and hotness, right?" she mumbles, leaning her head back, finally coming down.
He feel the muscles of her thigh relax beneath their hands and he smiles. "Something like that," he agrees. "And your passion, and your drive, and your dedication, your love—your ability to love and protect. Whether that's as a cop, or my girlfriend, or a mom, or a lawyer, it's still you," he insists. "It's still who you are, and what you've become—the woman I'm in love with."
"But I'm," she breaks off and stares at him pleadingly. "I've been a cop, I don't—I don't want to be something else, but I…I don't know what to do, how to," she rattles. "I need to just get over this."
"It doesn't work that way, right?" he says gently. "It's not a matter of will."
"It should be," she growls. "I should be stronger."
He shakes his head and squeezes her fingers until her tired, aching, angry, defeated eyes find their way back to his. "So maybe you take a few months," he says with a shrug. "Maybe you help me promote the book—go on tour with me, follow me for a change," he suggests, smiling as she huffs at him. "Or maybe you take some classes, or we just keep on trekking. I can take us to Europe. We could do that."
"I—we can't just keep running away," she whispers. "I—what if I don't face it and then I never get better?"
"Oh. Oh, Kate, you will. You'll get better. We'll get you through this. You will get through this. I promise," he says urgently. "I promise."
"But what if I don't?" she breathes. "What if I never get back? What if I can't be a cop anymore, Castle? What do I do?"
"If it's what you want, you'll do it. I know you will. Maybe not right when we get back, but someday. Until then, you heal," he tells her, his eyes boring into hers. "We heal, and rest, and go to therapy, and someday, it'll be okay again."
"It was just a blank shot," she whispers and he watches as the first tear falls. "Just a stupid blank."
"It was a gunshot," he argues gently. "You get to do this, you know? You, above anyone, have the right to being freaked out."
"Did," she stalls and licks at her chapping lips. "Did you…I, no, it's not—forget I s—"
"Yes," he says quickly. "I did. Yeah. And the guy, that jerk? I was—I wanted a piece, glad I didn't have one. I would have shot him."
"No," she mumbles, squeezing his hand. "No guns for you."
"You're not alone in this," he replies. "I am just as screwed up as you are." She shakes her head but he leaves one of her hands to catch her chin. "Partners, right?"
"In PTSD?"
He shrugs a little and shifts to dry her cheek with the pad of his thumb. "You got it, then so do I. I signed a waiver."
"Castle," she sighs, almost laughing, almost there.
He lets his hand fall and brings their clasped ones up so she can see them. "I'm gonna put a ring on your finger. I'll sign the full agreement then, but the waiver's a stand in. You've got me, Kate," he says firmly, waiting until her eyes come back to his, brighter, fuller, more alive. "You got this."