Kate leans forward on the couch, sets her elbows on her knees. She laces her fingers. Unlaces them. Pushes her hair back. Rests her forehead to the heel of her hand.
Then she hears Castle coming down the stairs, that skipping gait that means he's in a good mood, and she sits up straight.
"Hey there," he says with a smile as he walks into the living room. "You're up early." He comes forward and leans in to kiss her mouth, his thumb skimming the line of her jaw. His eyes are very blue in the morning light, complemented by the dark fabric of his sweater, and Kate's insides flutter in response.
"Hi," she says, her voice thready, a little rough. There's awareness in the way he looks at her, something burning, but he only presses his lips to the corner of her mouth, slow and somehow more erotic than the dirtiest of kisses. Damn him.
"Why are you sitting out here on your own when there's coffee in the kitchen?" he asks, dropping onto the couch next to her. She holds her breath and waits for him to see it. Three, two, one- "Kate. Is that-?"
"Yeah," she says. Yes, that brown package on the coffee table is Tyson's. Yes, she went into Castle's study and got it out of the safe. Yes, she's a little nervous about his reaction. "It is."
He stays silent for a moment and then there's the nudge of his fingers against hers. She opens her hand, lets him have it, and when she lifts her eyes to him he looks so strong and ready.
"You come to a decision?" he asks. She loves him for asking instead of assuming, for the way he just - has her back.
"I think so." Her gaze drifts to the package and she swallows, thinks of the long sessions with Emily, the months of feeling like Castle deserves better, of trying to get back to who she used to be. All because of one man.
Rick's waiting next to her, trying to be patient, but his antsy knee betrays him. Kate reaches out and presses their joined hands to his thigh, stilling. "I don't want to know," she says on an exhale. "It won't - it's not going to make a difference now. You're right. We should just...burn it. Get it over with."
She's expecting relief, pleasure, maybe a dash of triumph too, but instead she gets a hesitant sort of quiet. "Are you sure?" Castle asks after a beat.
It makes her want to scream. This is what he's been advocating all along, what he's been so insistent was the right thing to do, and now he asks her if she's sure? "Thought it was what you wanted," she points out, an eyebrow raised. "In fact, I'm a little surprised you don't have a match in your hand right now, Castle."
He sighs, lets go of her fingers so he can run a hand through his hair. His too-long hair. He needs to get it cut. "Look, I - I've been thinking too, and maybe fire is a little bit...over the top."
"Over the top." What is this, an alternative universe?
"It's just so definitive, you know? There's no going back. I mean, you don't know what's in that envelope. And that key Jordan talked about - that could be important. It might even lead to evidence, Kate."
"You're telling me you've changed your mind. You don't want it burned anymore."
He closes his eyes for a second, rubs his fingertips to his forehead. She's pretty sure he got that from her. "I just, I don't want you to do something you might regret. Maybe burning it - maybe it's not the solution. What if someday you want answers that could've been in that envelope and it's just gone?"
She pushes out a breath. "Look. I know this might look like avoidance, like I'm running away from my problems - but it's not. Okay? I promise. There's nothing in that envelope that will help me now or ever. I've come to terms with what happened, with the fact that I'm not gonna get any of that time back, and I just need to move forward now." He nods, still observing her intently, and she strokes her fingers over his. "We need to move forward."
A slow, slow smile touches his mouth. He curls a hand around hers and brings it to his lips, brushes a kiss to her skin. "And we are, Kate."
She smiles back, feathers her thumb over his chin. "So let's burn the hell out of that thing."
If Castle were to do this his way, he'd make a whole ceremony out of it. He'd wait until it was dark, light up a bunch of candles and join hands with Kate, start chanting as he watched the last physical evidence of Tyson disappear.
Okay, maybe not. But he'd certainly do more than just - stand at the sink with the envelope in one hand and a lighter in the other.
He lets out a inward sigh. Whatever works. He knows Kate's always lacked his taste for drama; she likes things simple and clear, without any embellishments. She thinks a good proposal is an intimate one.
Not that he's - been thinking of proposing or anything. Nope. No. Not at all.
"Okay," Kate murmurs to herself, her thumb stroking the wheel of the lighter. "Ready?" She glances at him and he crowds a little closer, even if he doesn't really have much of a part to play here. It's gotta be her.
"Your call, Beckett," he says encouragingly, brushing his fingers to her upper arm.
She nods and catches her bottom lip between her teeth. Then she flicks her thumb and the flame springs to life, twists and dances as Beckett brings it closer to the brown envelope. Fire catches easily, eats at the paper that blackens and shrivels up in Kate's hand; she stares at it with an intensity that makes Castle hold his breath, lets the flame come so close that it seems to lick her fingers.
"Kate," he warns right when she releases her hold. What's left of Tyson's package clatters down to the sink and slowly turns to ashes, leaving only one thing visible and whole.
"The key," she breathes out. It's small and bronze-colored, with a round bow, the kind of key that would open a safe or a locker in one of Castle's books.
He reaches for Kate's hand before she can grab it and burn her fingers, makes her pivot so she's facing him. "Hey, we can give that to Jordan. Whatever that key opens - it's her job to investigate this, figure it out. Not ours."
She nods, the movement a little stiff, and then she lets out a long breath and surprises him by stepping closer. Her cheek presses to his chest and her arms wrap around his waist, the embrace so sudden and strong that for a second he stands there stupidly with his arms hanging.
"He can't hurt us," she says, her voice raw enough that he wonders if she's crying. "He can't hurt us anymore."
Castle closes his eyes and hugs her back, his fingertips drawing circles over the expanse of her back. His lips brush the crown of her dark hair. "Yeah. You're safe, Kate."
She doesn't say anything, just holds him tight, and all he can hear is the distant echo of her past words.
I'll never be safe.
He's reading in bed that night, this amazing thriller based in South Africa that just makes him want to open his laptop and book tickets to Cape Town right this second, when Kate comes out of the bathroom. He's almost at the end of his book, the action so intense that he keeps forgetting to breathe, and so he waits until he's finished his paragraph to raise his eyes to Beckett.
Good thing he did too. What she's wearing - shit, there's no way he's going back to the book now.
Lingerie. One of those ridiculously short nighties, black lace and a shimmery night blue fabric that looks absolutely fantastic on her. He wants to touch it. Her. Everything.
Kate walks towards him with that slow, purposeful swing to her hips, the small smile on her face flipping his insides. The difference in her body is striking, the toned curve of her calves, the ripple of muscle in her upper arms, the fleshed-out line of her jaw; for a second he wonders if that's what she's trying to do here, show him that she's okay, how fully she's recovered.
Like he'd ever think she was anything but gorgeous.
Her short curls brush against her shoulders with every step, flirt with the soft skin of her neck, and when she leans in he gets a stunning, unobstructed view of her breasts down that very daring nightgown.
Shit.
Kate takes the book from him and gently deposits it on the bedside table, then sets a knee on the bed and straddles his lap. He's having serious trouble breathing with the weight of her pressing down on him, the entrancing pink of her mouth, the dark beauty of her eyes staring right into him.
He's vaguely aware that he should resist, ask her if she's okay and possibly try to get her talking, but the moment her lips touch his he's lost. She parts her mouth and licks at his bottom lip, blows hotly against his skin; Castle can't help kissing her back, a whine vibrating at the back of his throat for how much he wants her. She's delicate in her ministrations, elusive, her fingers feathering over his neck, his cheeks, his temples. She pushes her tongue into his mouth only to retreat seconds later, suck on that sensitive spot at the base of his neck, and Rick's eyes snap open again, his hands in fists with the effort of holding back.
"Touch me," she says, mouth open at his throat, her nose skimming his jaw.
He swallows and closes his eyes again, but his hands - his hands have a will of their own and they do as they're told, curl around Kate's waist and thigh, the silky material wrinkling under his palms.
"Yes," she murmurs, grinding down on him and finding his lips again. Her kiss is more intent this time, so damn erotic, and before he knows it his hips are rocking back into hers. He's grateful for the sheets that still separate them. "Castle," she hums, her voice pitched a little higher than usual; he can't not respond to her, so his fingers slip under the nightgown, run over her thigh.
There's a hitch in her breath and he pauses immediately, realizes that the skin under his thumb isn't as smooth as the rest of her.
Ah. The scar from the gunshot wound. He's not seen it - or well, he has, but never this close. He's not had a chance to familiarize himself with it yet, study it, accept it as part of her.
Rick leans back into the pillows and drags his eyes down her body, noticing despite himself the lovely flush in her cheeks, the quick rise and fall of her chest, the strap that's slipped off her shoulder. He rucks up the hem of the nightie and he smoothes his index finger over the drawn, puckered skin. The scar is circular and bigger than the one between her breasts, maybe an inch in diameter; while it's not red, it's definitely a more vivid pink than the rest of her thigh.
She didn't have a world-class surgeon patching her up this time.
"I know it's not exactly pretty," Kate says softly. His eyes snap back to her, but she's not looking at him: she's staring down at his fingers, at the messy scar. "But the doctor at the hospital said I could probably get plastic surgery if I wanted. Make it look better."
Castle huffs and moves his left hand to the back of her neck, brings her down for a bruising kiss. "I don't care," he says into her lips. "I don't care what your scars look like, Kate Beckett."
She cups his face in her hands, rests her forehead against his, noses touching, and he wants to cry. He wants to cry because despite everything that's been done to her, despite the knives and the bullets and the mental torture, she's sitting here on his lap with her hands and lips so tender and it's a freaking miracle, that's what it is, a miracle he's not sure what he's done to deserve.
"You haven't told me that story yet." He brushes his thumb to the scar, letting her know what he means.
"Later," she sighs, her fingers tracing furrows through his hair. She paints her lips over his cheekbone, the corner of his mouth; he feels her hand dip under his t-shirt and catches her wrist before she can go any further, turns his head away when she tries to kiss him.
"I want to hear it now." It's a risky thing to ask, he knows. But it's the only way he can think of to derail her, make her stop without actually saying no.
Kate looks at him with something dark in her eyes, hurt or anger or maybe both. She presses her lips together and drops her hands to her sides, scrambles off his lap and into a sitting position. With her back turned to him.
He half expects her to walk out of the room, but she doesn't. She stays there, her shoulders hunched, her head down, and after a long moment she starts talking. "Tyson was very careful. Especially after the first time I tried to run. It took a while to win his trust back, get another shot at it. But I got there eventually. He untied me completely so I could shower, and then - he got a phone call, was distracted. So I hit him on the head with whatever I could find, some kind of ceramic toothbrush holder, and I ran. Made it to the door this time, but it was locked. No key that I could find. So I tried the living room windows, managed to get one open, and that's when he caught up with me and shot me in the leg."
The way she tells that story, so cold and clinical, makes him shiver. "And then what? He stitched you up?" Jeez, there really was something wrong with the guy.
Her shoulders lift and drop. "I guess so. A lot of my memories after that are - fuzzy. I probably had a fever, and then Tyson drugged me up too. It was harder to keep up, tell how much time had gone by. When I started getting better, that's when he set up the speakers in my room and started playing me the recordings."
Her back trembles with a long shiver and Castle wants to reach out, to hold her close, but he's not sure he should.
"So, there. You have your story." Her voice is quiet but calm. He starts moving his hand closer to hers, inch by inch, but before they can touch Kate is sliding off the bed and heading for the door.
Her step doesn't falter, and she doesn't look back.
Kate sighs and rubs a hand to her closed eyes, rolls over in the guest bed. Despite her best attempts she can't seem to fall asleep. She's tried every technique she knows to try and relax, empty her mind, but her thoughts keep spiralling out of her control, bringing her right back to her basement cell. She's strangely aware of her body under the comforter, the fabric of the sexy nightgown more uncomfortable than arousing now, and she longs for the soft cotton of her pajamas.
But that would mean going back into their bedroom, facing Castle, and she's not ready for that.
She's not sure she can take another rejection.
He probably thinks that it was clever of him, that she didn't pick up on it. He knew exactly what he was doing, didn't he? Asking her about Tyson and her gunshot wound when she was trying to make love to him. He knew full well that it would kill the mood, and he asked anyway.
She's starting to wonder if maybe he just doesn't-
Stupid. Come on, Beckett. She knows better than to doubt her own power of seduction. The heat between them is still there; she'd be able to feel it if he wasn't into her the way he used to, but that's not the case. The way he kisses her, the sounds he made tonight - she has to trust that, trust that they will, ultimately, figure it out.
Maybe it's just as hard for him as it is for her. He's got issues of his own, she knows that. Maybe - God, maybe he still thinks about Kyra when Kate touches him like that.
The thought makes her sit up in bed, her eyes suddenly open, her stomach churning.
Well, she's not going to get any sleep now. Kate pushes back the covers and swings her legs out of bed, waits for her eyes to adjust. Then she tiptoes out of the bedroom, makes her way to the stairs.
Her feet take her to the kitchen. She opens the cupboards and inspects their stocks, grabs the box of crackers that she made Castle buy last time they went shopping. Crackers make a good midnight snack. Two a.m. snack. Whatever.
One of the sleeves is already open, so she keeps that one and puts the box back, fills a glass of water. She hoists herself up on the kitchen counter and looks through the window as she grazes, licking the salt off the crackers before she pops them in her mouth. The night is clear, thousands of stars lighting up the sky; the sea stretches out as Kate can see. So peaceful.
She eats the last cracker and downs her water, slides down the counter to rinse her glass. The key that was in Tyson's envelope is now safely tucked in Castle's desk - top drawer - and Kate can't help going into his study just to take a look, make sure. She finds it, of course, runs her index finger along the cool metal before she pushes the drawer closed.
Burning that package wasn't as liberating as she hoped. She doesn't regret it, doesn't feel bad about it either - which Dr. Simmons pointed out is a very good thing - but... Kate wishes it could all end there, with that envelope, and of course that's a silly, childish thing to hope for. Her life and Tyson's are still irreparably tangled, and even if Beckett has been patiently untwining those threads for months now, it will take longer than that.
She yawns. Her body's heavy, aching for sleep, so she pads back upstairs and without thinking turns left into Castle's bedroom.
Oh. Well.
She's here now.
Kate shrugs and heads for the bed. The sheets are already undone, so all she has to do is lift her corner and slide into bed as discreetly as she can. Castle grunts and moves closer, seeking her even in his sleep, it seems; she curls onto her side and trails her fingers down his jaw, a soft touch that seems to settle him.
Kate closes her eyes, breathes him in, and she lets sleep take her.