Castle stares at the building as they go down the street, his gaze drawn in like a magnet. The boathouse was bought last year by a real estate group that then sold it off to a Pod storage company; it holds those white and red containers stacked two by two. Castle can see them through the high, now-clean windows as they go past.
"It's completely different now," she says from the driver's seat of his Audi.
He sighs. "Yeah."
"Not even the same place."
"But still. . ."
"Still."
He suddenly feels her hand on his thigh and he startles, laughs a little as he takes her offered fingers, squeezing. She laughs back softly, both of them more jumpy than they should be, but some wounds - even healed - are still speed bumps, a raised edge on the skin.
"Wait," he says. "Stop. Stop here."
"No," she says back. "It won't help anything."
"Just-"
"No, Castle," she murmurs. "I face it down, you write about it. Remember?"
He does. Their pact after the hearing. So long ago now, and yesterday at the same time. "Did you walk by here before you went to the dead drop?"
"Yes," she says, unhesitatingly.
"Does it smell-"
"Yes. And no."
"No?"
"The docks do, but that building - cleaner, more painted metal. No rust, no stagnant water, only the faint hint of fish."
His stomach rolls at the too-descriptive words. He gets a flash of memory - the feeling of a blade crunching into a skull, solid and rock-hard, reverberating all the way into his bones and vibrating his shoulders, everything in agony, falling forward over her-
"Castle," she says quietly.
"Yeah."
"Don't go back there."
"No. No," he agrees and opens his eyes to look at her.
"We're here, now, not then."
He nods, and feels her stroke her fingers along the inside of his left wrist, over and over, tracing a faint silver line that's almost disappeared. She brings his wrist to her mouth even as she drives down the street, her lips gentle and reverent.
She puts his hand in her lap, a hot flash of heat assailing his fingers, his palm, and then she's turning the wheel and parking the Audi at the farthest end of the block. She stays still though, and he doesn't move to disengage his seatbelt either, letting her set the tempo for this.
Kate cradles his hand between hers, traces the almost nonexistent line from where the cuffs bit into his skin. After a moment, he flips his hand over and wraps his fingers at her forearm, brushing his thumb along her scar instead.
"The wire nearly severed your vein," he says softly. "They told me at the hospital."
"Nearly."
"I don't know how it didn't," he murmurs, and the weight of almost is so hard, so forceful, so sudden that he bows over onto his knees, squeezes her wrist in his hand.
"There but for the grace of God," she says back, and it's so not comforting, but the peace in her voice somehow settles over him, releases the weight, lifts it from his shoulders.
"I don't know how I got out of those cuffs," he says finally. "But sometimes I have a dream."
She lifts her eyes swiftly to his, her face a shock of surprise. "You dream about it?"
"Yes."
"I don't."
"It's just this one dream that I wake from and can't remember. But sometimes when I wake up, my hands, my wrists are in agony, just - screaming with pain - and I twitch or jerk, still not entirely with it, and then it's like. . .everything pops back into place."
She stares at him for a moment, a heartbeat, and then she's reaching for him, her hands cradling his face as she kisses him hard, teeth clashing, a grunt in his mouth that she swallows dry.
"Don't go back there," she says, breathing against his cheek. "You wrote it out, Castle. I've faced it down, you wrote it out. We're done. It's over."
"I think I'm okay," he says, tugging away from her grip, capturing her by the wrists and kissing first one scar and then the other. "I am okay; I promise. Just remembering. It has a thin sheen of horror to it, but it's mostly so far back. . ."
"Mostly," she says softly, stroking her thumbs along his cheekbones before letting him go. "Leave it back there. This is today. I need you with me today."
"I'm here," he says again, and reaches for his seatbelt, pops it open, pushes on the door. She gets out, following him, and then reaches for his hand when they get to the sidewalk.
He takes it, their fingers lacing, and he can feel the thrum of her pulse in between her fingers, beat beat beat, the rush of blood as it echoes their footfalls.
He doesn't look back at the boathouse. He heads instead for the dead drop.
The box isn't empty.
It still holds her letter.
She sighs and gives Castle a shrug. "I just did it yesterday morning. Can't expect him to respond quickly - not if he thinks we're not his friends."
"We should put it under surveillance," he says, taking a step in closer.
She shakes her head with a little laugh. "Who is doing the surveilling here, Castle? You and me? Taking the kids on a not-so-fun car ride? Yeah right."
"Ah. What about a couple of plain-clothes-"
"On the city's time, or are we hiring these guys?"
He gives her a frustrated look and she shrugs. These are the limitations of the NYPD, the limitations they themselves have enforced by not letting Gates in on the true nature of Montgomery's involvement.
"Wait. We could hire someone, Kate. We actually could. Why not?"
"Because they'd be made. This guy isn't stupid. Look around."
She watches him take in the dilapidated buildings, the creaking boathouses, the empty docks. There's not a good place to covertly watch this dock with it's gate and hook and tackle box. It's wide open space and plenty of abandonment to make anyone stick out like a sore thumb.
"So we check it every day-"
"Maybe every other day," she interrupts.
"-and hope he deigns to contact us? Great."
"Best we can do." She's actually relieved the guy hasn't made contact with them, relieved she doesn't have to think about it, act on it, make a decision that could change her whole family's future - that could perhaps threaten their safety.
But Lockwood is still out there. And some woman named Jolene might be funneling him anti-anxiety meds to help slow his heartrate, let him hold the sniper rifle steady as he takes aim.
And that scares the shit out of her.
"Let's get off the street," she says suddenly, plucking at Castle's sleeve and turning them both around. She heads back for the car, can't help the shiver that travels up her spine.
"Kate?"
"I don't like it here. I know you don't either. And it's a head game; I know he's doing it on purpose, but I still don't like it. It smells like despair."
"Wow, that's pretty poetic, Beckett. In a really demented kind of way."
She glances back at him with a half-smile, grateful for the tease, and reaches back for his hand. He smiles at that, looking pleased, his hand tightening around hers.
Still, it gives her the opportunity to tug him along faster.
The loft is on the way.
He does some mental math, sneaks a look at Kate as she drives, her bottom lip tugged into her teeth, and he does the math again.
An hour at home, if they hit all the lights right, and the traffic is on their side. If not, then that hour at home turns into an hour late to preschool to pick up the kids.
Which has happened before, sure, and it's not like Dash or Ella would care one way or another, but-
An hour at home.
"Kate."
"Hm."
"Detour."
"What?" she says, a little distracted sounding.
He can't watch her teeth on her lip, can't feel the heat of her skin under the soft material of her dress pants without wanting an hour at home. Just an hour.
"Detour, Kate. Loft first."
"What do you need?" she says back, not even looking at him, her forehead furrowing as if she's thinking, has his phone died again?
No. "You, Kate. I need you."
She jerks in the seat; he feels her under his hand and it allows him to shift his fingers, press them closer, and she lets out a stuttering breath.
"Yes, okay. Detour."
He grins and strokes his thumb up and down, knows he's driving her crazy.
Doing the same for him. That's his goal.