The door of the loft closed and sealed away the glare of hallway lights.
In the stillness of a darkened, silent home, Richard Castle lowered his head and leaned heavily against the barrier at his back. The trembling began again, first at his jawline with a soft chattering of his teeth and then through his shoulders, arms and hands, down into his legs. Finite fault lines in the body reacting to magnitudinal quakes within the soul. There was no one to witness now and he allowed the tension wrought by fear to bleed off slowly at its own pace. Alexis could be home at any time. Don't let her see. Richard gave himself thirty seconds of surrender before shifting upright on shaky limbs and discarding his coat and shoes. Clumsy fingers fought with the laces.
He flicked on a living room lamp.
An imagined version of Kate was sitting on his couch with a book in her hands and a terry cloth white blanket wrapped around her shoulders. She sat sideways on the cushion with her head and right side pressed at ease against its black leather backing. You're pretty in the lamplight. Her knees were drawn up and inward, a cozy little Beckett-ball. She glanced up with a small, distracted smile of welcome, as if crossing paths like that were an ordinary, everyday event. Dark hair up, lithe figure clad in an oversized t-shirt and flimsy cotton shorts. Even as an imaginary guest, she squinted at him for staring at her long legs before smirking to herself with secret pleasure and going back to her book.
Oh god. I cannot lose you again. I can't.
Castle continued past into the kitchen, flipping on the brighter glare of the overhead panels as he went.
Kate was there too. Now a white tank-top cradled the tender curves of braless breasts with their central stamp of indomitability and reckless violence. A knee-length, floral-print skirt that was split up along the sides parted like water around the detective's outer thighs. She stood leaned forward with her elbows planted against the counter. A glass of water sat next to a plate laden with take-out Chinese. The cartons of goodies surrounded her like soldiers stood at attention. She glanced to one side at him as he passed but continued picking at tender morsels of pork.
In the glare of the fridge's light, Castle extracted a bottle of water and the makings for a turkey sandwich. His stomach roiled at the thought of food, but he would be of no use to anyone without proper maintenance.
I can't lose you. And I won't. I for damn sure won't—whatever it takes.
Richard ate at the counter, alone. Not even the power of imagination intruded. It was tough to work up the necessary salvia to finish, but an extra layer of mayonnaise helped. At some point, the author realized he was crying. Silent, fat tears, the biggest he'd ever seen his eyes produce. Five of them, he thought, or maybe six. He didn't know what to make of that except to chalk it up to more of the same.
There was no sense of shame in him for what felt at the time like prescient grief. He was not surrendering to the looming threat. Pardon my French, but fuck that. His subconscious mind had been way ahead of him all day, paving the way forward with worst-case scenarios in case they ever came about as if their preliminary exposure could in any way mitigate a sense of loss so profound as to render the world into a thing of monotone shades and long, draping shadows.
He was losing her. He could feel it.
There would be no bullet to preempt this time even if he were quick enough and, heaven help him, the forty-something-and-feeling-it man had taken the steps he could to make himself quick enough. The intentions which spurred the efforts of his more streamlined and abundant physique might as well have been words typed across the page. Anyone who looked at him could read the story it told. Some mornings before school, he caught Alexis studying him from across the island in the kitchen and the look in her eyes… Oh god. She knew. He hoped beyond hope that she also understood he wasn't making a choice. It wasn't an Alexis or Kate scenario. On the matter of sheer preservation, love brooked no hesitation or compromise. It moved with its own powerful force and he naturally moved with it—end of story.
I hope you live the rest of your life never needing to fully understand why for yourself, pumpkin, even if you grow to hate me for what might happen.
A grim scenario of racing bullets or potential self-sacrifice was almost moot. It seemed to him that the fatal wound had been delivered in room 407 at Beth Israel. Just like before. Death from a clear blue sky. Not a bullet to the brain but a beautiful brain that seemed to be metamorphosing into a bullet. Beckett didn't seem aware of the escalation that was occurring, but Richard had glimpsed its potential and sensed more to come. It scared the shit out of him to think about what the morning light would bring.
First she was pulling errant thoughts out his head, then literally sharing in one his vivid imaginings of her at the precinct that morning, and then pulling thoughts from any sources that happened to be in close proximity like Ryan and Esposito. What kind of progression did that imply? Did it even imply one? He could be worrying over nothing.
I wish I knew what that nameless girl said to you when all of this started.
Castle felt certain that a message had been conveyed. Those dead lips had been moving silently to him, but Kate's face had shown the receipt of… Something.
Alexis, he thought, an unrelated pinging of awareness from elsewhere in his mind. Richard stood upright from the counter. Right. He cleaned up after his meager snack, set about assessing the materials available, and began gathering the components for a genuine meal.
Kate's imaginary phantom kept him company throughout it all, which was both curiously heartening and deliciously distracting. He bisected a few chicken breasts and dredged them in smooth gowns of seasoned flour while a vision of the dark-haired woman sat down with a similarly unreal version of his daughter across the island from him. The two planned out their next escapade into the city's night-life. It happened minus any actual dialogue. Richard knew, or at least worried, that he couldn't represent either of them that well. Too much of his personal knowledge of them was tied up in biases of both fear and unrealistic hopes. Even so, he had no trouble at all imagining them plotting with a pointed absence of whispers, blatantly parading their intention to go galivanting off into the wilds without him.
They probably would do that too. Hmph.
He turned away to check the oil that was heating up on the stove, cut and added in a wedge of butter for flavoring, watched it melt and blend into the clearer fluid by whorls of decadent yellow. When he turned back around, the detective's phantom was solitary again, outfitted in one of her pantsuits from work and seated upon the countertop in front of his workspace like a feline stretched out across a keyboard. She met his eyes and held them like steel while easing the drape of her legs open into a 'V' so promising he had to turn back around with a shake of his head at himself.
Be a good father, be a good son. Don't get a hardon in the kitchen.
Sage advice, but last night had provided him with a sudden, almost overwhelming abundance of new material for his already active imagination. What had been a gesture of comfort then now became one of lazy seduction as his unreal companion sidled up behind him and ran her fingers up through the hair on the back of his head. Heavens, the man could almost smell her cherry-scented body oil.
I hope you know that I know what you were doing last night. Making me feel included, showing me aspects of you that I lacked, telling me without words that Tessa is in the past and that the future belongs to you and me. I saw it. I see you.
Would that he could train his interior as readily as the exterior. He felt every inch of his weakness when it came to managing his fears and no amount of heart-pounding repetition inured him against their influence. The same quality of imagination which comforted him presently had hounded him mercilessly throughout the workday until, by its conclusion, Rick knew if he stayed near Beckett for another minute he'd say or do something stupid. She was scared enough already. No way in hell was he going to burden her with carrying his fears too. That's pretty dumb, part of him observed. She can't fully conquer her worries. Not yet. Too many unknowns and too harrowing of ones at that. But she might have been able to help assuage your fears, and in so doing might have gained some confidence in her ability to handle her own. You could have helped. You ran.
Spatula poised and inert, he blinked in startlement for a moment, then blanched and snarled aloud, "Well, fuck you and your miserable timing."
He put some music on the stereo after that so he wouldn't talk to himself again.
The comfortingly mundane act of cooking progressed. While Billy Joel professed to being an Innocent Man and Prince beckoned the millennium from 1999, Rick cooked some minute rice, fried a hunk of breakfast sausage, and prepared a few bell peppers for stuffing. The chicken breasts rotated and rotated again until they were an even golden brown. Rick pushed aside everything else as best he could and allowed the inner phantom of Detective Beckett to goad his sense of affection and humor to blazing life. His iPod shuffled through an almost schizophrenic mixture of older and modern hits and the cook likewise shuffled and side-stepped while sauteing the garlic, pouring in the chicken stock, and eventualy deglazing the pan with a wooden spoon. Not-Kate whirled around the impediment of his bulk, dark hair waving like a silken banner. She sashayed away and then closed in to spin around him again. He paused in the middle of adding some heavy cream and parmesan cheese with his eyebrows tilted aloft as his steadfast phantom, in a sleek, black cocktail dress now, twerked as best as her ass allowed to Shake Your Groove Thing.
Rick tipped his head back with a deep peal of laughter.
Good heavens. He was a bit mental, wasn't he?
Alexis arrived home around six-thirty. That was how she found him, haunted but in better spirits as he grooved around his workspace. She approached with a hitch of reluctance in her step but also with a smile and a roll of her baby blues.
"Oh my god, Dad."
"Hey, there's my girl."
The author wasted no time in divesting her of a fully loaded backpack, snagging one of her smaller hands, and twirling her. He danced her backward across the kitchen, spun and dipped her. She laughed and, for a little while, there was no tomorrow looming over the city outside. It was just him and his little girl the way it had been for so many wonderful years. Breathless and grinning, fair cheeks tinted pink, Alexis soon made good on an escape upstairs to clean up and change.
"Dinner in fifteen or so," he called after her.
He grabbed his cell and sent a similar alert to Detective Beckett: Did you eat as planned? I'm cooking extra and I'm on your way home.
The reply came moments later: I'm pooped. Headed straight home when the time comes, but thanks.
He badgered: You can grab and go. Add some Tupperware to your styrofoam temple.
To his surprise, she explored back at him: What's on the menu?
"Oh ho," Richard chuckled to himself. "Tempted, huh?" He answered: Creamy Tuscan chicken on white rice, stuffed bell peppers, and peach cobbler.
Her message came in just as he was adding sun-dried tomatoes to the skillet: My ass went up a size just reading about it.
Castle chuckled again and pecked succinctly: Prove it.
He watched the messaging app show her typing, then not, and then typing and then not again. The dithering made him laugh softly to himself and he stepped away to add the chicken breasts back into the thickened sauce and stuff the peppers with some rice, crumbled pieces of sausage, and a little of the chicken stock. When he checked in again a couple minutes later a digital file was in the process of being sent. "Whoa. Nuh-uh, Beckett."
Yuh-huh. Jean-gripped glory appeared, rounded and trimmed by endless hours of yoga and exercise. It wasn't a selfie shot. The composition was level and square. Lanie, he realized. You do have a photographer's eye, lady. The author eventually replied with a few corrected typos along the way: On an entirely unrelated matter: what're your sensibilities regarding the five-second rule?
She sent back a rolling emoji with tears of laughter. I'm at a restaurant now, but I wouldn't say no to a late-night snack. It'll be a while though. Another couple hours at least. Is that a deal breaker?
No worries. It'll be awhile before I can be bothered to put my phone down.
Mmhmm. Don't make a mess.
"Katherine Beckett," he murmured aloud in surprise and then realized she was probably adding onto his joke about dropping dinner on the floor. Or was she?
The glow of pleasant surprise and good humor lasted all throughout dinner with Alexis. He started getting scared again while he was serving his not-so-little girl a bowl of peach cobbler and vanilla ice cream lightly drizzled with warm caramel. By a fine stroke of timing, Alexis asked if she could take her treat upstairs instead so she could start in on her homework. He kissed her forehead and watched her go.
I can't lose you.
Richard calmed slowly while preparing a couple containers of food for Kate and an additional plate for his mother in case she came home hungry. He wrapped the latter in aluminum foil and tucked it into the warm belly of the oven.
The writer retreated into his office with a snifter of single-malt scotch and brooded for a while in the dim glow of the desk lamp. He opened his word-processor and stared at the most recent chapter of Frozen Heat. The parallels within it were becoming untenable, he knew. Fact and fiction had been warring across blurring lines of the Nikki Heat series for a while and the latest installment was poised to either correct those borders or irrevocably shatter them with a final, decisive blow.
He opened his messages again and scrolled back through the prodigious history of exchanges with Beckett. Seeing how far they had come always bolstered the man. Most of the messages from the first half of 2009 were addresses for crime scenes and admonishments not to delay. Now and then the scroll was peppered with questions he had about police procedures and criminal justice in general. Kate's answers were concise and to the point, but wonderfully informative. Early 2010 marked a clear turning point. Now and again she allowed herself to comment on a few of his endless tide of amusing memes. More and more personal questions peeked between the work-related ones. Castle scrolled ahead with a few swipes of his thumb, pausing again on an exchange from the latter half of 2010.
One year ago to the day as it happened.
Beckett had initiated the exchange: Are you okay?
I'm all right.
It's okay to not be. He fooled all of us.
Tyson, he realized with a stirring of anger. That was just after the 3XK case.
That doesn't make it easier, he had replied.
I've been dreading this since the day you started shadowing me. I feel like I'm pulling you into the darkness with me, exposing you to the monsters there.
Damn. He had forgotten about that. It was the longest personal message she had ever sent up until that point. Scrolling down, he saw the absence of his reply and remembered not knowing what to say.
She had added: Ryan told me what he said to you.
Then you should already know you aren't exposing me to anything I'm not already intimately familiar with. Yeah, he remembered that too now. Kate had started to reply but he had been quicker at the keys and continued before she could. I'm not in crisis mode. He didn't say anything that hasn't crossed my mind plenty of times before. I'm fine. Really. Text me when the next case arises. I'll be there.
And because they had been what they were to one another back then, Kate had not pushed. She texted only: Okay. Go spend some time with Alexis. That had been good advice at the time, wise words he had adhered to.
The author's thoughts drifted and the hand holding his cell lowered to his arm of his seat of its own accord. In the middle of his wandering attention, the device gave a soft chime and vibrated in his grasp.
A fresh text message. It was from an unknown number.
Frowning, Castle opened it and arched an eyebrow. It was a selfie featuring a woman from the neck down to the navel. She was dressed in a slim-fitting gray shirt and her ample chest was clearly braless. One of the woman's hands was slid beneath the hem up to her slender wrist, exposing a slanted portion of lean midriff. The thinness of the fabric did precious little to hide the gentle clasp of her long fingers around her left breast. Both nipples were turgid protrusions against the top. Below the image, a message appeared: Brrr. It's getting chilly tonight.
Realization dawned swiftly and the author shook his head with a sigh.
Tessa?
A blushing and smiling emoji showed up, then: I knew you'd recognize them.
I didn't. I was forewarned you might come calling, so to speak.
The blonde replied: I rarely disappoint, Rick.
Castle grit his teeth and set the phone aside. He did not have the patience for wading into that hot mess. Another message came in, and then another. Annoyed, but curious for reasons that had nothing to do with the woman's admittedly appealing rack, he snatched the device up again and flicked the screen open.
Our conversation in the kitchen was interrupted, he read. And below that the secondary arrival: I want to pick up where we left off.
Yes. That was precisely what he had been curious about.
"Dad?"
Castle glanced up and smiled to see his daughter standing in the open office arch. He set the phone aside and greeted, "Hey, pumpkin. What's up?"
She advanced to his desk. "I wanted to say goodnight."
"Already?"
"Yeah, I'm draggin' tonight."
"You're the cutest, teeniest dragon ever." He reached an arm around her narrow waist and gave her a warm squeeze. "Goodnight, smol Smaug."
His daughter huffed at him in a move so much like Beckett it made him grin. The young woman bent and smooched his cheek. "Ouchie," she simpered with a smoothing of her fingers against him. "Go shave. Love you."
"Love you too, sweetheart. Beckett's coming by soon. Don't be alarmed if you hear the doorbell. She's not staying long," he preempted at his little girl's dawning grin of pleasure. "It's been a long day for her too. Go study and snooze. I'll tell her you said hello."
"Please," Alexis confirmed with a smile and hugged him once more before exiting the room.
Realization struck like a thunderbolt as Castle watched the girl move through the living room and to the stairs, still so young to his eyes, still gangly and girlish despite the softening glints of womanhood she increasingly bore. Once upon a time, becoming a father had inspired a similar fear to the one now plaguing him with Beckett. It continued to strike at times in regards to his only child, often in fact, but he'd learned to maneuver around its insidious presence. Because there isn't enough room for that level of fear and love. You can only live by one rule or the other. That was, perhaps, a sappy simplification of the contest, but there had been enough truth in it to help him embrace savoring the time he had with Alexis. The idea had reached beyond words and resonated with what little courage he felt existed at his core.
It resonated again now, powerfully.
Oh gosh. Thank you, sweetheart.
Into the space before his desk he imagined the looming, cold-faced figure of Tyson. He lifted one hand into an imaginary firearm, smiled while pulling an imaginary trigger, and winked. I've got your number, motherfucker.
It was probably a bit premature for cockiness.
Sure enough, his dark-eyed conjuration only stared coldly back at him and the words pressed to the surface from his subconscious mind like bloated corpses floating to the surface of a dingy pool: We'll see. It's not a battle—it's war. If you think it's won so easily, you're in for a rude awakening.
Castle did not need the war with his own fears to be won easily. It only needed to be worth fighting. And it was. How could he have ever lost sight of how much it was?
A chime from his phone dispersed both his imaginary adversary and musings. He flicked it open and saw a video file waiting in the text message window dedicated to his partner's ex-girlfriend. The still image showcased Tessa on what he presumed was her bed, bent over on her hands and knees with the camera setup from behind. The long line of her back was naked and the sumptuous curves of her ass were gripped solely by a lacy white pair of underwear. One of her hands was paused with two of her fingers slipped beneath the clasp of the garment where it wrapped around the one smooth inner thigh.
Whoa.
Rick opted out of pressing the play button. He was feeling a little better, more prepared to confront his fears. But he wasn't feeling superhuman.
A text appeared below the clip: If you don't wanna talk, we can play.
He immediately sent back: We can talk, Tess. You're clearly an important part of her life. We can always talk. But if you send anything else like that I'll lose this number in a heartbeat. I don't give second chances.
She replied: Oh please. You're a big softy. It's obvious.
Before he could respond, his cell rang with an incoming call from the same number. Just as well. No good rebuttal had been forthcoming to his thumbs. He answered on the second ring. "I suppose I should give you some credit for not attempting to make this a face-time call."
Tess hummed amusedly. "We can if you want."
"I'll pass." He opened the desk drawer at his right and fished out a strand of earphones. "Is there a purpose to this call beyond testing my restraint?" He inputted the buds and wiggled them to a comfortable fit.
It sounded like the blonde was standing right behind him, whispering in his ear as she replied coolly, "Don't even try playing your games with me. I'm not Kate."
The doorbell chimed throughout the loft, soft and subdued. That timing though. Who says there's no such thing as magic?
"What was that? Do you have company, naughty boy?"
"That's probably my girl."
"My girl, you fucker," Tess replied mirthfully, "and you only wish it was. She's still at her therapist's."
Richard had stood and started making his way through the loft towards the front door but he paused in the office archway, startled by the unsought revelation. Kate's back in therapy? Of course she would be. He felt foolish for being surprised by the news and carried on his path. "You really are gunning for her again then, huh? Why now?"
"I never stopped. And it's now or never. You've ensured that much."
He opened the front door.
Beckett was there.
Imagination, he thought with a slow smile, cannot do you justice. Not even mine.
Beckett's make-up had been washed away at some point between where their courses diverged and now. Her hair was worn up, pulled back in a basic ponytail. She presented a rare vision of unguardedness that clawed against the interior of his chest with animalistic approval. Visceral appeal eased apart as he took in the reddish half moons of discoloration under his partner's eyes. Faint striations of emotional turmoil were scrawled through the sclera, no doubt a result of the therapy session which preceded her arrival. She looked tired. Her blouse was crinkled from a day of travel and it rested across a frame that struck him as looking thinner, even deceptively frail beneath the harsh whitish lighting of the exterior hallway.
She smiled up at him. The expression wavered upon noticing the earphones and the cell clasped in his left hand.
"Evening," he rumbled. "Come on in. You can put that anywhere. I just need to grab my wallet. Bear with me a moment, please."
Beckett arched an eyebrow and slipped inside. She closed up behind herself.
He turned the device in-hand and held it up for her inspection. The detective's countenance darkened upon recognizing the number beneath the active call icon. One hasty grabber reached out for the cell and the author darted it up out of her reach. He lifted an admonishing finger before her narrowing dark eyes and then removed one of the earbuds, holding it up before her grim visage.
She hesitated, looking at the corded item like it were a venemous serpent coiled around his wrist.
"What's for dinner?" Tessa asked through his remaining earpiece.
"Not dinner," he answered with a smirk. "I had dessert delivered."
Beckett gave a roll of her eyes but almost smiled too. The dark-haired woman snagged her lower lip in her teeth, clearly battling her own curiosity. She huffed in defeat and snagged the earphone, tucking it into her right orifice.
Left would have been a better choice. The diminutiveness of the cord tugged at its twin in his ear and necessitated a closure of almost point-blank range. His partner blinked at his proximity. Her left hand rose from the side as if to abort the mission. She stopped and grasped the edge of her open coat instead. Faint remainders of shampoo or conditioner from her morning shower were detectable, clean and light. Not flowery. Something richer and harder to pin down.
"Are you done?" Tessa asked with an edge of impatience.
"This is why you should give-up any fantasies of murder by proxy, Tess. You don't have the patience to kill someone and get away with it." Beckett's eyes widened, but not as much as he might have anticipated. You already suspected what we were talking about in the kitchen last night? Maybe it was obvious given the blonde's wrathful reaction to Kate's scars at the time. Still, the author was surprised. He had assumed a twinge of jealousy had prompted her to break up their murderous pow-wow.
Tessa replied with some surprise of her own, and a healthy dose of anger. "Who gives a shit about getting away with it? I don't care if it gets shouted from the fucking rooftops of Times Square so long as it gets done and she's safe. Do you?" He didn't, but it was a very bad time to proclaim as much. His partner's visage was a gathering storm of outrage. It proved unnecessary in any case. Tessa continued on, "Look, this isn't exactly my forte either, but my family is always hiring private security details, either around themselves or guests visiting from abroad or shipments of expensive goods. You must have some familiarity too; you're a famous enough writer to necessitate some level of security measures when you do signings or public speaking."
"Security is hired by my publishers."
"But you could ask around and find out more—easier than I could. If I make so much as a peep about something like this, word would get back to my father within the hour. He literally pays to stay informed. I have some money, but I'd rather have access to his. We might need a lot if this turns into a bidding war. I'll get fuck-all if he ever suspects what I need it for."
"Goodness gracious," Castle murmured. "You're seriously considering this."
"Of course I am!"
Kate, eyes wild, gripped his shirt, mangling the fabric at his chest and gave a single, hard tug while mouthing a clear, adamant: No!
Castle nodded and covered her gripping hand, feeling the desperation within the tautness of her knuckles as he spoke, "Tess, that's enough."
"What? Are you flaking on me? You?" she stressed disbelievingly.
"It's not about—"
"Jesus, you are. I should've known. It surprised me that you hadn't already tried something like this, but I'd chalked that up to you being dumb enough to think you and Katie could handle the matter on our own. But that's not it, is it? You don't have the balls to do what needs to be done. Color me unimpressed, Rick."
Kate was tugging against his shirt again but her host paid no heed.
"I don't care whether you're impressed or not," he replied levelly. "I care about what this scenario would mean to Beckett. Have you spared any thought for that?"
"I know she wouldn't approve," Tessa stated acidly. "She'll be pissed. Who fucking cares? At least she'll be alive in order to be pissed off."
Richard raked his fingers back through his hair and expelled a gust of impatience downward at his chest. "I'm not talking about that."
Tessa hesitated and remained silent.
Kate's grip on his shirt relaxed. She was staring at him, eyes still wide but already acquiring a rounded shape of confusion. And then a narrowing of suspicion.
"Three days after the cemetery," Richard began quietly, his voice strangled by a crippling awareness of the woman watching, "I did what you're suggesting. I found someone in Black Pawn who could put me in touch with the, ah, darker side of the private military complex. To make a long story short, I laid a ten million dollar bounty on the head of whoever took the shot. And I put thirty more on the head of whoever ordered it."
His partner rocked backwards against the door behind her in mute shock.
A shaky hand lifted to her forehead even while, on the phone line, Tessa murmured, "Sweet jesus, Rick." The latter paused in consideration and then asked, "No one took a nibble?"
He swallowed, hard. "Not in the manner I'd hoped. I got a reply. An unmarked envelope was slid under my front door. Inside, there was a picture of me and my family. It had been taken the evening before when we were arriving home from the hospital. There was a typed note. It said, in short, that I had far more to lose than I stood to gain by initiating a war between private contractors. It warned me not to try again. My mother found the message when she came home. My," he paused, cleared his throat, and still managed barely a whisper, "my daughter saw it too. Sh-she walked in while my mother and I were arguing about it."
"Oh fuck," Tessa hissed softly.
A quiet thunk drew his gaze up from his shoes. Beckett's head was turning in a silent series of 'no' gestures against its surface. She opened her eyes but wouldn't look at him. The hazel in them was drowning in unshed grief. Her hand tucked beneath his tugged free in anger and gripped the other half of her coat.
"What did you do?" the neurosurgeon asked in his right ear.
"I did what I had to and accepted that this wasn't a problem money and blood could solve. It wasn't easy. I know how you're feeling right now, Tess. I feel it too; that chill of helplessness, the anger it elicits to know you're on the right side but still feel overwhelmed by the opponent. You're thinking about how fucked-up it is we're expected to play by the rules and wait while the cops or whomever else chase their tails. I know only too well. I came a hair's breadth from doubling down out of sheer rage. I was sitting in my office that night looking at the wire transfer on my laptop, all filled out and ready to be sent with everything I owned that could be quickly liquidized staring back at me."
"What the fuck stopped you?"
"She did. Beckett called me that night from her hospital room." Beckett frowned at that in perplexity but still wouldn't look at him. The fact that she did not remember made sense. "She was a little stoned," he provided, and his caller breathed out a soft sigh. His partner gave a tisk of surprise and annoyance. "I didn't…tell her about what had happened, obviously. Anyway, she was pretty out of it. She told me about all of the flowers she was getting from people who had been stopping by to wish her well. Several people from cases we had solved together had added to the bounty. A lot of Nikki Heat fans had gotten wind of her shooting too and, as she put it to me: 'I'm feel like I'm lying in the middle of a fucking jungle right now. A really pretty and annoying jungle.' She fell asleep mid-complaint."
Tessa laughed softly and he smiled too, if sadly.
Kate didn't divert her eyes to him but she laid a palm against his sternum.
"As an abstract idea, doing anything I could to protect her, within the boundaries of law or otherwise, was the easiest choice in the world to make. But the reality of what I was attempting was hammered home pretty hard after she called. I couldn't do that to her, Tess. I couldn't justify thrusting her back into the role of a grieving survivor, because I know she'd rather take the bullet than experience that again."
That drew the detective's glare. She nodded gravely and wiped at her eyes.
"I understand," his caller said in a tone that implied she was coming around to his conclusion on her own, "but she'd get over it. In time she would."
"I'm not so certain. Everyone has their breaking point. Would she be alive? Yes. But would she allow herself to truly live again, risk her heart again?"
Tess huffed. "That's maudlin horseshit."
"I don't think it is to her. There are a lot of innocent lives caught up in this mess. If it were just mine on the line, an even trade, maybe I would agree with you."
Beckett's hand on his chest curled around his shirt and, again, she mouthed a clear and iron-clad 'no'.
"We have to do something," the woman in his ear protested.
"We are. Look, whoever is working against Beckett has an opponent beyond just her." Kate stared hard at him as he spoke. Tread carefully, Rick. Blank mind. Blank mind. "Before this all came apart, I'm guessing the opponent was Montgomery himself, either by his influence through the NYPD or, more likely, some kind of tangible blackmail he has against the man or woman or the cabal behind all of this. He's been keeping our adversary in check for a long time. I think he's still doing it through someone he trusted to carry the mantle in his absence. Roy always was as good as his word."
Beckett clenched her jaw in pain.
"We're surviving," he continued to Tessa. "Healing. And we're still active on the case, we're just trying to be smarter about things by keeping our cards closer to the vest."
Kate rolled her eyes. Their efforts regarding her mother's case were at a dead end presently. But she knew why he was lying to the woman on the phone and did not interrupt or otherwise attempt to wordlessly dissuade him from the act.
You really didn't pick on anything, did you? Part of Castle couldn't believe it. How was that possible? Of all the times she ought to be piercing his skull like a maniac with a jackhammer, this, he thought, should be it. But she wasn't.
"Rick?"
"Hmm? Sorry, Tess. What'd you say?"
"I asked what I should do. What can I do to help?"
"Let your friend do what she does best."
Kate looked up at him again, not smiling, but close to it.
"You wish we were just friends," Tessa grumbled and the detective winced and covered one cheek with a palm. "I'll concede to your bullshit about laying low, but you don't get a free pass, buddy boy. I'm coming for her, and I plan on her coming for me too, again and again." He had to press away Beckett's hand when she made another grab for his cell phone. "Maybe if you accept defeat gracefully and bow out now, I'll make a video of that too and send it your way."
Castle chuckled deeply. "May the best suitor win, bitch."
"Mmm. See? I knew you were lying at Lanie's last night when you backed off from me, acting like a frightened little bunny. Those two probably bought your bullshit, but I know it when I see fear in a man's eyes and you weren't scared. That pleases me. It wouldn't be any fun crushing you if you couldn't muster up a proper fight. Mmmph. You're making me wet just from the anticipation. You know, maybe you are worth keeping around after the fact. Maybe I'll let you watch me while I'm making her squirm and moan."
Beckett, whose cheeks had mantled to a furious crimson, punched wordlessly at his left shoulder and cut her thumb sharply across her throat.
"I'll do you one better, Tess. When the dust settles, I'll see about convincing Beckett to let you join us in bed. Just that once, my dear, so you can see for yourself up close and personal what it looks like when the sex is about more than merely lust. That's as close you'll ever get to it if you keep trusting in the virtue of your body alone. Now, I have a dessert waiting. Goodnight."
"Fuck you," the neurosurgeon snapped viciously, but the rest of her rising anger and verbal tirade was cut off when he hung up.
"Fuckin'-A," Beckett muttered from behind the sheltering wall of both hands. "You just couldn't resist, could you? You had to poke the bear."
"Yeah, well, I don't claim to be a good, decent man. I'm just all right."
"Arrogance doesn't become you."
He chuckled again and leaned in closer with his palms resting at either side of her torso. "Of course it does." Kate thumped a swift retreat but the door at her back left her vulnerable to the advance. The inviting softness of her abdomen chest conformed to his harder, squarish shelves. He eased to the right with a brush of his nose against her neck and plucked the earphone from her curved shell using his teeth to grip the cord. The item bobbed against his jaw as he rumbled quietly, "You'd do it, wouldn't you—what I offered Tess, I mean? I saw the way you looked at me at Lanie's when she was standing between us. Rather, when she was luridly bent over between us," he clarified. "Shhh," the novelist soothed as her chest swelled with a breath he was certain would be released in hasty denial or anger. "Don't feel attacked. And don't be embarrassed or ashamed. Never with me, Kate. I can't wait to explore your adventurous sides. I'm going to stretch them out as far as you're willing to let them flex around me. When the time comes, of course," he concluded before kissing her cheek for a long, warm moment and then easing away from her.
The man had never seen her eyes more intense in their hold on him or gleaming so darkly with desire. Her breath came in small, sharp pants. He turned away and started walking towards the kitchen.
"Will you take some ice cream too? Vanilla and a drizzle of warm molasses really compliments the peach cobbler."
"You fucking bastard," she rasped from the door where he had left her.
Castle tipped his head back with a peal of laughter. "You're quite right, but that fact is not germane to my question."
"Oof," Kate expelled more softly. "Sorry. Shit. Yes," she snapped. "Give me whatever the hell you need so I can get out of here with some measure of dignity intact."
Castle elected not to tug upon that particular strand of banter and set about the task, which was as simple as loading the already prepared containers into a reusable, nylon shopping bag. He carried it back to her and found the woman still tinted pink across her cheeks but able to meet and hold his stare without flinching.
"We're going to talk about this another time," the detective stated calmly. "About how close you came to ruining everything."
"I told you before: my secrets are yours for the taking."
"Yeah," she agreed with a glance down at the bag she accepted. "One at a time, Castle. You've got some real doozies tucked away."
"Don't you?"
Kate smiled thinly. "One at a time," she repeated. Her dark eyes moved around the loft. "No robins in the nest tonight?"
"Alexis is upstairs."
Kate brightened at that and, before he could mention his daughter being in bed, his partner looked towards the upstairs and gave a louder, melodic, "Dee-do-lee-dee-lee-do!"
Richard blinked, mystified, and heard the door of his daughter's room open upstairs. "Dee-do-lee-dee-lee-do!" came coursing down from above along with a vibrant ring of girlish laughter. It took the second vocalization before he recognized the call as the refrain from Vanessa Carlton's A Thousand Miles.
Kate grinned and, in the face of his arched eyebrows, chortled briefly and shook her head. "Don't ask. It's NYPS business."
"Not your preferred secret to share?" Rick volleyed. Beckett's shoulders quivered again with mirth but she sighed tiredly too and buried a yawn behind one coat sleeve. "Go on," he encouraged warmly. "Go rest. Thank you for deviating from the plan to stop by tonight. I, uh, would've regretted ending our day on the note with which we parted earlier."
"You do seem better now."
"Sorry. I'm trying here. It's tough to maintain a decent grip, that's all."
"Keep trying," the other said with a small smile as she turned to open his front door. "That's all I'd ask of you. For now," she echoed in the spirit of his previous tease before she turned and left.