I will be honest. I did write a fair amount of this while watching Dinoshark.

…I regret nothing.

Except maybe that I didn't immediately follow by watching Dinocroc vs. Supergator.

Cartographical, you are my fic soulmate. All other fic soulmates are to you as moonlight unto sunlight and water unto wine. I think I stole that whole line from L.M. Montgomery? idk. Whatever. You get my point.


Chapter 29, 4x21: Headhunters

Storm the beaches or die trying.

Ethan Slaughter in her precinct. Richard Castle walking away from her. Coffee that suddenly tastes like ashes.

It's been a long time since she's felt this deeply unhappy.

She gathers her things, pulls on her jacket, and heads for the parking garage. Tonight is going to be a comfort food night.

In the garage, she hears commotion. Rolls her eyes. Probably two uniforms bickering. She turns to give them a sharp reprimand, because she is in no mood to deal with idiots right now.

But it's Slaughter. It's Slaughter and Castle.

It's Slaughter beating the shit out of Castle.

He's growling something she can't hear, his fists landing with sickening dull blows. She can see Castle stumbling, hands raised to protect himself; there's red blossoming over his face.

She's running towards them before she can think, swearing at herself for leaving her gun locked in her desk, panicking as she sees Slaughter land a solid blow to Castle's face. Castle stumbles, blood streaming from his nose. He's trying to fight back. He's failing miserably. Slaughter's huge and vicious and way too strong; Castle hasn't got a chance.

She finally gets to the little brawl and throws Slaughter off her partner, angling herself in front of Castle to shield him. Slaughter's too startled to land a hit on her. She takes the opportunity to land a solid elbow in his solar plexus; he doubles over and she knees him in the groin. Hard. He wheezes.

"Get the hell out of here," she hisses. Grinds her heel down on his foot for good measure. Relishes the agonized yelp he lets out as he hits the ground. "You set foot in my precinct again and I'll have you singing soprano till you retire, you piece of trash."

"Fuckin' - " Slaughter manages to choke out. "You bitch - "

"Go. And leave my partner alone." Slaughter scowls darkly at her but doesn't move. She takes Castle's arm. "Come on, Castle. Let's get you cleaned up."


So instead of going home and losing herself in pasta and red wine, Kate takes Castle back inside the station, past several officers who openly stare at the battered author.

She takes him into the break room, where there's a well-stocked first aid kit. "Here." She pushes him down carefully into a chair and reaches for the paper towels, wadding up a few and pressing them to his nose, trying to wipe away all the blood. "Hold these here, okay?"

He obligingly presses the towels to his nose while she rummages through the freezer and digs out an old icepack. He hisses as she eases it onto his swollen cheek. "Sorry."

He shrugs a little. Doesn't say anything. He isn't pressing this, whining about her being gentle to his poor wounded self. He isn't trying anything. He's not looking at her and he's not even talking and this is not the Castle she knows and l-

- works with.

She cautiously peels the bloody towels off his nose – the bleeding has pretty well stopped – and tosses them in the trash. "What happened?"

"Nothing."

She stops. Stares at him. He sighs heavily. "Fine. He said something, okay? And I just – it – I couldn't let him say that."

"So you hit him?"

"That was the plan." He winces as her gently prodding fingers hit a tender spot on his cheek. "It didn't go like I thought it would."

She hates this bland, empty shadow of Castle. He hasn't made a single naughty nurse joke. She so desperately wants her filthy-minded manchild of a partner back. Because he's hers.

He says nothing while she presses a butterfly bandage onto the cut on his cheekbone, smoothing down the edges carefully, letting her fingers whisper over his skin just a hair longer than strictly necessary. His eyes flicker shut for a second. Heat traces through her veins, and this is bad, because she just meant to patch him up, not feel him up. Not when he's spent the last few weeks acting like he hasn't spent the past four years running after her.

She swallows. Tries to pull herself together. "What did he say?"

Castle's face gets very, very dark. He doesn't say anything.

"Was it – did he – "

"I'd rather not talk about it."

But he's avoiding her eyes even more than he already was. He's uncomfortable. And Kate knows. She knows.

"Was it – was it about me?" He still won't meet her eyes. "Castle? Was it – "

"Just let it go, okay?"


(There is no way he will ever repeat what Slaughter said. The things that man wanted Beckett to do to him. The sick way he wanted to dominate her. The word he used to describe her. Never.)

He grits his teeth, ignoring the wave of painful tension it sends through his face. This is Beckett. Beckett. Who lied. Who's still lying to him. His jaw clenches. Ouch.

"Castle. Here. Relax, okay?"

Her fingertips whisper over his face and dammit, she's so gentle, so soft, and why does she have to be so – so tender? She doesn't care about him. She needs to stop this. Needs to –

- her thumb ghosts over his bottom lip, sending a blaze of heat through him and dammit, Kate, why are you –

He loves her and he hates her for doing this to him and he hates himself so much more because he can't stop her, because even this faint, delicate touch makes him think maybe she does but he knows she doesn't and his face hurts and why does she have to keep touching him –

"Castle?"

There's a hitch in her breath.

Is she – is she getting choked up?

What is going on?

"Beckett?" His voice comes out a little rougher than he meant it. He swallows. "What's wrong?"


It slips out before she can stop it. "Where have you been, Castle?"

He looks confused. "What?"

She feels lightheaded, like the air is suddenly so thick and heavy she can't get it into her lungs. She swallows, curling her fingers around a box of bandaids. "I don't know what's happened, Castle, I don't know if - if I did something, or - I - I just miss you. I want my partner back."

There's a long silence. It hurts. Every second ticks by, an agonizing test, so silent, so painful, she wants him to say something. Anything. Just to stop this.

"What are you talking about, Beckett?"

She flicks a glance up at him. Nothing. His face is blank. She misses the warm crinkle in his eyes so fiercely she can't breathe. And she needs him to call her Kate again. She needs it.

"Castle, why are you angry at me?"

He looks up, startled, but she can see the sudden reaction in his face.

Castle, what did I do?


(Dammit, she needs to stop looking at him like that, with those beautiful eyes of hers so close to tears that he just wants to wipe them all away and kiss her sadness into a smile but dammit, Rick, this is exactly why – )

He is, God, yes, he's angry, but it's worse than that. He's hurt. He's wounded. Hearing her say I remember every second put a vicious, bitter cut on his heart, a jagged line in his chest that still aches, a dull throb that's lasting.

She blinks, clearly not sure what to do. "Did I do something? If - if I did, Castle, I'm so sorry, I just - will you please tell me what's wrong?"


There's a long silence. She holds her breath.

He finally lets out a heavy sigh, and he visibly deflates before her eyes. Slumps. Like he's giving up. And in the split second before he opens his mouth, she knows this is bad. Whatever it is. It's going to hurt.

"The bombing case." His voice is flat. "You were interrogating a suspect. And you had no trouble telling him." He grimaces in pain for a second, fingers tracing the growing bruise on his cheek. "You 'got shot in the chest' and you remember 'every second.' Every second, Beckett."

Interrogation.

Bobby.

Anger.

I cracked.

Oh.

Her stomach drops like a stone, her whole body suddenly slack.

He heard.


He steels himself against the look of shock that flicks over her face. Her eyes go wide, mouth open. And he watches as her expression shifts from shock to – horror?

He makes himself look away, because angry as he is, he's defenseless against her, has no resistance to his instinctive desire to hold her and soothe her (even though she hurt him) when she looks like this, beautiful and vulnerable and devastated and so very close to tears.

He just doesn't understand. He doesn't understand why suddenly it seems to matter. Why does she look like he's just broken her heart? I never had it in the first place, Beckett. Stop looking at me like that.

"Castle – "

He tells himself not to look at her, not to react to the catch in her voice, but he can't help it. He listens.

"Castle – I didn't – "

"Didn't mean for me to find out? You thought it would be better this way?" Anger flares in his chest, tight and dark and bitter and hopeless. "You just wanted me to keep following you around forever, is that it? I never thought you were the kind to string a man along, Beckett."


"String - you along?" She blinks, not sure what he means by th-

Oh.

He thinks –

"Castle, I wasn't stringing you along. I would never – "

"Then why have you been lying to me for a year? A year, Kate!" His voice is raised, his face dark with hurt and anger and she hates so much that it's because of her. "I thought at the very least you'd be honest with me."

"I wasn't – "

"How hard would it have been? You couldn't have found ten seconds out of your busy schedule to just sit me down and say 'Castle, I just don't – "

"Castle!" She just can't take it anymore, can't listen to him say this. Before she thinks about it, she presses her hand to his mouth, cuts him off, shivering at the sudden warmth of his lips on her palm. "Castle. I'm sorry. I – I know what you think, but it's not – it's not like that. Please. Just let me explain."

What more does she have to lose?

(I can't lose something that's fallen apart.)


He's frozen, unable to stop her, because her fingers are on his lips (his literary mind whispers give them thy fingers, me thy lips to kiss) and he's an idiot and he's pathetic and he can't even stay angry at this woman but he is just so sick of fighting her that he has no energy left.

Satisfied he's not going to interrupt, she drops her hand, and he hates himself a little for immediately missing her touch. She runs her hand through her hair – he can't help but notice it doesn't look quite steady – and takes a shaky breath (and he still doesn't see why she's this rattled about just having to say Castle, I don't love you) but he can't do anything but sit mutely and watch her choose the words that are going to officially crush the pieces that are left of his stupid boyish heart.

He's determined to just grit his teeth and take it like a man. He's not prepared for the hands on his face, the soft fingers on his jaw, turning his face back toward her in spite of his best intentions. And he's not prepared for the faint, barely-there whisper of her lips on his.


It's not that she meant to do it, kiss him like that, out of nowhere, but he was just so closed off, so unconvinced. She couldn't not. And it was so quick, so light, so cautious. Just enough to make her want more. Desperately.

When she opens her eyes, his are still screwed shut. He's tense. His face is frozen, his breath quick. Her hands are still on his face, and she can feel the thread of his pulse under his skin, thrumming and hectic and terrified.

And confused.

"Beckett – " he chokes it out like it hurts, like every word takes effort – "why are you doing this?"

Her breath catches and she hates herself because this is what her silence has done. She never ever thought she would kiss him and he would pull away.

"Because I care about you. And I'm sorry."

His eyes finally lock with hers, and Kate desperately wants to kiss him again, kiss him senseless, kiss him until he melts and kisses her back and his fingers curl around her neck and tangle in her hair and his tongue presses against hers and he finally understands what she doesn't know how to say (it's all knotted in her chest) because she's not good at talking.

But not talking was what created this mess in the first place, apparently.


He can't process it. Can't let himself believe. But – but her hands are so gentle on his face, like she does care about him, and she kissed him, and she's whispering that she's sorry and she cares about him and he wants so hard for it all to be real (because he's terrible at not loving her).

"Castle, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." She swallows, tracing his jaw with her thumb, and he can't suppress the shudder that runs through him. "If I'd realized – if I'd known how much it would hurt you – "

She looks down, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth, and he finally lets himself chance it, reaches up to graze the corner of her mouth with his thumb, careful, testing. And she sighs, turning her head into his touch, tilting her head to kiss his thumb softly.

His heart does a wild flip in his chest before he can tell it not to.

Because for the first time since I remember every second, he thinks maybe it's not hopeless.

"It wasn't that I didn't care about you. That I didn't want to hear it. I just – I couldn't do it. I couldn't ruin you." She takes one of his hands in hers, traces the lines and joints under her fingers, light and delicate and so very gentle. "I was more than a mess, Castle. I couldn't function. It took everything I had just to open my eyes in the morning. I told myself I was protecting you. And I was too scared to admit that I was just curling up into a ball and hiding. You were right. You were always right. I just didn't want to hear it. "

He threads his fingers through hers, and his whole body floods with warmth at the warm press of her palm. He's been so terribly distant recently. He hates it. He wants it over.

"Castle. I'm sorry."

His chest feels like it's going to explode because his heart is pounding against his ribs so hard, so hard it almost hurts (his face still hurts anyway) but he doesn't care because he was wrong and he still has a chance with her and she's the most beautiful, frustrating, challenging, maddening woman he's ever met in his life and she is all he wants.

She's cradling his hand in hers like he's precious, like she treasures it. He'd almost lost hope that he'd ever find out how loving Kate Beckett could be. And she loves him. She does love him. He knows it now. It's all over her face, sparkling in her eyes, dancing in her smile, radiating from every inch of her. She's even more beautiful than ever.


His whole face is beaming in spite of the bruises, like he's forgotten about them anyway, and Kate's breath catches at what a wondrous thing it is because he's so unguardedly happy.

His fingers curl gently around the nape of her neck, tugging her closer, and all she can think is Finally as his lips capture hers.


"What the hell, Irish. I just want some damn coffee."

Karpowski glares at him, but Ryan shakes his head. "Sorry. Break room's in use right now. Try downstairs."

"Not that shit. Not when we've got the fancy crap." She glares at them. "What are you two hiding?"

Ryan opens his mouth. Closes it. Looks to his partner for backup. Esposito folds his arms. "Just saying that maybe there are people in there who deserve some privacy."

Her eyes narrow. "Are there now."

"And maybe it's been four years and they've been going through some kind of crap lately and they just need to not be interrupted."

Ryan nods. "Yeah, and maybe one of them actually gave us that coffee machine, so you could just ease up a bit."

Karpowski eyes them suspiciously, but her mouth is turning upwards. "Well. I guess hypothetically, I could be convinced to wait."

Esposito nods. "And maybe you just don't think to mention anything to the captain."

She laughs. "Yeah. Because Gates is all about the chatting."

Ryan grins and folds his arms. "Exactly."

She looks down at her empty cup. "Well, you know what, I drink too much of this stuff anyway. Maybe it's time for water." She glances back up at the break room. "Besides, I'd hate to walk in on these hypothetical people. Doing hypothetical things. With hypothetical clothes on the floor."

Ryan grimaces. "Oh, that is nasty. Don't even."

"Yeah. Dude." Esposito shakes his head. "They're just talking."


Kate's back hits the wall and his lips are rough on hers, desperate, needy, his tongue delving deep in her mouth as she sighs. His lower body drives into hers and she gasps, clutching at his shoulders, and he's so frantic and it's so fast and hot and desperate but it's so good and how does he know exactly what she likes –

His hands frame her face, brushing her hair back, tipping her chin up so he can devour her even more thoroughly, and there's heat flaring in her veins and her heart is hammering and it's too fast but she doesn't want to stop and he's –

He stops suddenly, his body tensing, and at first she's not sure if she should be insulted. But she sees the painful grimace, the hand he puts to his bruised cheek. His eyes are shut and it's not just from desire.

"Oh, Castle, I'm sorry – " Idiot. She swears at herself. The man has a battered face, why didn't she think

He looks back at her, a wry smile crossing his lips through the pain. "Nah. Worth it."

She can't help the blush that spreads over her cheeks, the laugh that bubbles up. "Put the ice back on it. It'll be fine."

"Yeah." His blue eyes get very warm. Very serious. She swallows. He brushes his hand over her cheek. "We'll be fine."