Disclaimer: I do not own Castle or the recognizable characters who appear in this story. Any other names, for characters or businesses, are fictional, uncompensated, or are in the public domain.
Checking into a ritzy hotel under the guise of Castle's latest conquest wasn't really as mortifying as she expected, Beckett muses as the elevator ascends. Still, she's not happy Devin thinks she's here for an illicit assignation. He must know Castle's involved. That's where the name comes from – 'Moriarty' from Arthur Conan Doyle and 'Pym' from Edgar Allan Poe. Trust Castle to incite a little chaos by suggesting a union that would've raised more than a few Victorian eyebrows. Rather than think about how many others have attended this 'wedding,' Beckett uses the ascent to wonder how many people have arrangements like this at various hotels around the city. It's daunting, really, contemplating the carnal depths to which the rich and famous might sink.
Finally arriving at the top floor, Beckett belatedly realizes she needs to tell Castle where to meet her. She texts him the information before slowly wandering down the hall, following the placards that direct her to the room.
She gasps slightly once she's entered room, shocked by the size and magnificence. It's not a suite – there's still just one room – but it's spacious and designed to impress. The bed is enormous, clearly the centerpiece of the room even without considering the canopy or the raised platform on which it resides. The floor-to-ceiling windows offer a view of the western horizon, which probably allows for the viewing of a glorious sunset from anyone in the bed who's not distracted by other activities. Too bad it's already dark outside.
She's still marveling at the bed when a soft rapping at the door catches her attention. Her body moves toward the door even as her mind lingers on the bed.
"So," she asks as she opens the door to Castle's curiously anxious look, "are you Moriarty or Pym?"
"Trying to bustle me off to the altar?" he chuckles as he walks in. "Sorry, Detective, but I don't get married until the third date."
"That explains a lot," she huffs as she closes the door and turns to face him. Now that they're finally together, she's not sure what to say. Until she looks at him closely and realizes why he hasn't been shaving. Instinctively, she reaches for his cheek and starts an unexpected chain reaction.
Startled by her movement, Castle flinches away as his left hand shoots toward his right wrist. Before he realizes that her movement was innocuous, he's stepped back a pace and Beckett can see something peeking out from his right cuff.
"Sorry," he apologizes with a blush. "I'm a little jumpy these days."
Beckett nods but remains silent as she closes the distance between them. She lifts her hand toward his face again, moving slowly to avoid another skittish reaction. Ever so lightly, she cups his cheek before gently turning his head. Beckett lets her fingers dust over the thin, horizontal scar that underlines the distance from his cheekbone to his ear.
Castle's eyes had drifted closed at her gentle touch. She waits until he opens them again so her wide, piercing look can ask the question she can't force from her throat.
"He left scars on both of us."
Beckett sighs at this confirmation of her fears. Her shooter might be dead, but the pain and damage he created still linger. And as much as she wants his specter to drift away, she still wants answers.
Casting her eyes around the room, she finally notices what's missing: chairs. There's one over in the corner tucked beneath a small desk. Apparently the hotel thought each room should have a desk, though Beckett doesn't imagine much office work gets done in this room. So, with a smirk to bolster her confidence, she steps lightly over to the bed, her boot heels tapping as she climbs the three steps of the pedestal. With a curious Castle watching quietly, she sits on the foot of the bed to remove her boots before clambering up to rest her back against the headboard, still fully clothed and above the covers.
"Will you tell me about it?" she asks, looking at her wayward partner before moving her head to look at the vacant spot on the bed next to her.
Castle looks confused. The salacious part of his mind is probably at odds with the secretive side, resulting in near stasis. Finally, some autonomic reflex seems to fire as he makes his way silently to the bed. He repeats her process and removes his shoes before slowly easing himself into position, moving slowly to avoid knocking his back against the headboard all while favoring his arm.
Beckett reaches to the side and flicks the switch, dropping the room into darkness. With the curtains and sheers pulled open, ambient light trickles in to provide only the dimmest illumination. She hopes the darkness will make it easier for Castle to talk. Her hand that silently grasps his will help, too.
"I'd hoped Bader and Sands would give me leads to follow," he starts quietly. "And I guess they did, in a way. They'd been involved but didn't really know much. Even so, someone was worried about what they might say. So, Ms. Taylor was sent to find them and ensure they couldn't talk."
"She's the blond from the machine shop?" Beckett asks, wary of breaking the flow but needing to make sure she's following the story.
"Yeah, though she's probably got other names, too," Castle admits quietly. "Anyway, it turns out I was tracking her while she was tracking them. We finally ended up in the same place," he adds with a huff, "and she led me to your shooter. He wasn't a nice guy," Castle understates quietly, "and it was difficult to take him alive. But I'll take the scar in exchange for ending his part in this whole mess."
His terse explanation prompts more questions than it answers. Rather than dive right into what she really wants to know, she needs to poke at what Castle tried to gloss over.
"Nice try, Castle," she teases gently, reaching for the tone of their old banter. "But I sense a story. How did you and Taylor end up in the same place?"
Castle sighs and lets his head thump against the headboard. "Bader and Sands lured her in but she wouldn't bite. She knew where they were but never entered the building. I was afraid she was going to call in backup, so I let her see me walking into a bar in the neighborhood. She followed and tried to 'interrogate' me as she'd done to others."
"So," Beckett replies while blocking the images from her mind, "she was the one they sent for Josh? And you let her pick you up?"
"I let her lead me out of the bar," he agrees. "As to what happened afterward, it didn't exactly work out as she hoped. A whole different kind of 'wham, bam, thank you, ma'am.'"
"I don't suppose there's any purpose in pointing out how dangerous that was?" Beckett sighs, running her free hand through her hair.
"All part of the plan," Castle demurs quietly.
"And she led you to my shooter?" Beckett asks after a long pause. She wants to know more, but wants to get to her more pressing questions before Castle grows reticent.
Castle replies with a nod.
"And you captured him, during which you were injured?"
Castle nods again.
"And you interrogated him? And staged a crime scene? And scheduled an event in California to provide an alibi?"
After a pause, Castle nods again, but remains quiet.
"Why?!" Beckett asks in a heartrending whisper as she drops Castle's hand. "Why did you do this alone? I should've been there, Castle. I should've seen him. I should've…"
"You should've what, Kate?" Castle interrupts, his own voice low but fierce. "Captured him? Interrogated him? Tortured him?" Castle asks, sounding more out of breath with each question. "Killed him?"
"I should've said goodbye," she whispers after a long pause. "I should've let him know he didn't get away with it, that he was finished here and mom would take care of him on the other side."
"We both know he and your mom aren't in the same place," Castle replies with certainty. "As for the rest… you didn't get to say goodbye," Castle confesses, "but he knew the rest. He knew why the end came for him."
"Did he say anything," Beckett asks with maudlin curiosity, "offer up any final words?" When Castle stills at her side, she knows she's stumbled onto something. Castle's trying to protect her, but she wants to hear it. "What did he say?"
With her eyes adjusted to the dark, Beckett can make out enough of his expression to see Castle's thinking. Apparently, her tormentor said quite a lot and Castle's trying to decide how to answer her question. Finally, with a sigh, he offers an answer.
"He didn't apologize," Castle offers with some sympathy. "He said someone else would've taken the job if he hadn't. The last thing he said," Castle pauses, wondering how this next bit will go, "was a request. He said 'Tell her she's a fighter. She should be dead. Wish her good luck.'"
Good luck. In other words, Beckett thinks to herself, now that her shooter is gone, someone else will come for her. And if he's taken out, then someone else. There's some sick line of deviants willing to kill someone for a paycheck. And if they keep coming, one of them will finally get lucky and finish what her shooter – or Coonan, really – started.
With sickening predictability, her pulse starts to accelerate as her breathing grows shallow. She can feel the leading edges of another panic attack, and feeling it coming only makes it worse. The attacks are bad enough on their own, but here she sits next to Castle, the last person she wants to see her this way. How is she going to convince him to share the investigation, to finally cede some control back to her, if she breaks down right here?
Thinking about Castle and the investigation is the worst way she could've dealt with the incipient attack. Instead of grasping for a mitigation technique, she's actually increased her level of anxiety. Her grim realization is the last conscious thought before her world goes black.
Some indeterminate time later, Beckett slowly comes back to herself as her senses come back online sequentially. It's the constant, reassuring thump of a strong heartbeat that she first recognizes, the gentle lub-dub acting as an aural beacon. Next is smell, the tantalizing scent she remembers from the precinct and that she chases with an old, purloined shirt. As she recalls the shirt, she recognizes hand movements on her own, gentle circular patterns that soothe and ground her. Finally, sight. She opens her eyes slowly and sees Castle's neck. She's curled sideways on his lap, head pressed into the crook of his neck, sheltering from her own personal storm.
Throwing pride or propriety or caution to the wind, Beckett stays in place. She hates that she appeared weak in front of him, but that damage is done. For a few, indulgent moments she's going to soak up the peace and affection he's offering.
Ten minutes later, Beckett can't manufacture any more excuses to remain in place. She's also becoming increasingly concerned that she might fall to temptation and add taste to her sensory explorations since her lips are so perilously close to Castle's neck. So, regretfully, she slowly untucks from his embrace and excuses herself, heading toward the restroom to clean herself up.
Not surprisingly, the bathroom is another little slice of heaven. It's fully stocked, boasts sinfully thick towels resting on a heated bar, and features a tub that was clearly intended for use by more than one person. On another day…
It takes her longer to collect herself and clean up than she'd prefer. When she finally steps out of the restroom, she's surprised to see Castle's closed the blinds and illuminated the room. Concerned their time together might be drawing to a close, she's about to ask about his plans for the evening when a knock at the door startles her. Her gun is in her hand almost without thought, leading to a boyish smirk from her partner.
"That should be dinner," he teases as he walks by, pausing long enough to clasp her shoulder and rub the top of her arm. "Let's not threaten the poor delivery kid with mortal peril until we taste the food."
Rolling her eyes, Beckett holsters her weapon and turns in place, again lamenting the lack of a sitting area as Castle shoves some money at the pimpled delivery boy and takes command of the cart. As he notices the same paucity of dining locations, he shrugs and pushes the cart to the bottom of the steps, figuring they can have a picnic on the foot of the bed.
"What did you get us?" Beckett asks, suddenly remembering the lunch she skipped.
"I have no idea," Castle laughs. "I just told them there was a $200 tip waiting if they could get me tasty food for two within fifteen minutes. I suspect we're dining on the food ordered by guests with more foresight than me."
"It'll taste that much better as a result," Beckett laughs, climbing up on the bed and embracing the picnic theme.
One shared steak, salad, and bottle of red wine later, Castle carefully collects the dishes from the bed and pushes the cart back into the hallway. Beckett watches with a furrowed brow, remembering her conclusions in the car and thinking about how he must've pulled her onto his lap during her panic episode.
"What happened in California?" Beckett asks as Castle reenters the room. "I mean with the injuries, not the signing."
"I had to crash the car," Castle answers in a curious mix of excitement and petulance.
"What do you mean, 'had to?'" Beckett asks, already surprised by the answer.
"We thought we were ready," he explains. "My car had safety reinforcements and there was another car behind me. We figured the best way to see who was after me was to let them think they'd got me and follow 'em," Castle explains with a slow shrug. "So, my job was to bash the cars up, find a decent place to crash, and not die."
"Did it work?" Beckett asks, shaking her head about foolhardy risks.
"Nope," he replies glumly. "The guy who got me pulled into a private lot and turfed his car. By the time we got to it, he was gone and the car was torched. The only good that came of the whole thing is that I've got the experience to write an excellent car chase. Hollywood gets it so wrong."
"Seems like meager recompense for crashing into a canyon," Beckett teases, trying to pull a smile out of him. After his chuckle indicates a slight improvement in his mood, Beckett decides to push her look. "So, let's see it," she says with a raised brow. "You've been favoring your arm all day. Let's see what kind of damage you've done to yourself."
"Yeah, right," Castle laughs, shaking his head before affecting a pious tone. "You're just trying to take advantage. I'll only show you mine," he says with a leer, "if you show me yours."
It's not the opening she thought she was looking for, but she doesn't even need to consider his offer before acting on it. Must be the room and the wine. Or maybe it's just seeing him again.
"Okay," she replies easily, dismounting the bed and walking toward him with her hands already unfastening the buttons at the top of her shirt.
"Wait, what?!" Castle stutters in alarm, casting his eyes around the room as if this is some kind of prank. "I was just kidding, Beckett," he offers in a small, uncertain voice as he backpedals both by word and physical proximity.
"I wasn't," she answers as she slowly stalks him, continuing to work down the line of buttons and laughing as he backs into the wall. He flinches again as she reaches for him, though this time she merely grabs his hand and pulls him back toward the bed.
His reticence is cute but not really flattering, she thinks as she tugs again to get him up the steps to the bed. As a result, her shove to his sternum that knocks him onto the foot of the bed might be a little more vigorous than was required.
He's still levering himself upright on the foot of the bed when Beckett lets her shirt flutter off her shoulders. She curses herself for the utilitarian bra she chose today, but, really, there was no way of anticipating anyone would see it. Besides, she rather suspects Castle's attention will be focused elsewhere.
Looking down, she sees that her guess was right. Despite years of banter suggesting otherwise, Castle's not ogling her cleavage. Instead, his eyes are focused between her breasts, inspecting the damage left behind by the sniper's bullet. When she'd thought – in her private daydreams – about the scenarios in which Castle might see her scars, she never imagined a scenario like this. She's worried endlessly about how he might react – with disgust? Guilt? Nausea?
His look encompasses an array of reactions, but none consistent with her fears. Sorrow is certainly apparent, as is pain. Anger, usually an odd look for him, makes an appearance, but she suspects it's more of a righteous indignation. Shockingly, though, the emotion that seems closest to the surface look more like awe. That, and something else she can't quite identify.
"You're so strong," he exhales in a reverent whisper.
His praise catches her short, leaves her fighting back tears. While she's blinking, Castle lifts a careful hand and reaches for her hip. Applying gentle pressure, he encourages her to spin in place. First, he inspects her back, where she's embarrassed to note that the goosebumps that spread from feeling his breath are obvious to them both. Then, he rotates her again, pausing to inspect her side.
Beckett goes instantly still as she feels his lips on her side, a kiss of benediction and healing placed gently upon her incision scar.
"Sorry," he whispers hoarsely. "Old habits. I'll leave the other one to heal on its own."
"Don't," Beckett replies in a raspy voice, turning in place to present her other scar even as she edges closer. Noticing his hesitance, she prods. "Please?"
Once more, Castle leans forward. Both sets of eyes drift closed as he kisses the bullet wound on her chest. It's a simple, pure act that leaves them both short of breath.
Moments, later, Beckett reaches for his hand and tugs, encouraging him to rise from the bed.
"Your turn," she reminds him quietly as she reaches for his shirt. After that, they both remain silent as Beckett first undoes the buttons on his torso before turning her attention to his cuffs.
Castle's shirt flutters to the floor, landing atop Beckett's. It's an apt placement considering their activities, not that either of them notices. But, rather than medical or erotic inquisitiveness, Beckett's attention is caught by reminders of Castle's recent activities. His arm is badly bruised, but the worst of the damage isn't yet apparent due to the undershirt he still wears. Instead of the bruises, though, her attention is captured by the holsters strapped to the inside of each forearm. Reaching out, she grasps the hilt from one of the holsters and extracts a short-bladed, white knife. Surprised by the light weight, she waves the weapon around to test its balance. Castle, to his credit, doesn't flinch.
"It's a high-strength synthetic biopolymer," he offers as Beckett continues to play with the weapon. "The electronic body screeners at airport security pick them up, but they get through metal detectors without any problems."
"You know these are illegal, right?" Beckett asks, rolling her eyes again. She's not surprised when he answers with a shrug.
Not pressing the point, Beckett returns the knife to its sleeve before pulling on the velcro tabs to release the holster. She repeats the operation to his other arm before tossing both knives on the growing pile of clothes. Before progressing any further, she reaches again for his wrist, raising his arm to inspect her father's watch. "Good," she says simply, glad to see the watch is doing well and that he's wearing it. It's a shameless way to remind him of why she gave it to him, one she's happy to embrace.
This time it's Castle who goes still as Beckett's hands frame his waist, each grabbing the hem of his undershirt. Slowly, carefully, she lifts it up, stepping closer to him so she can lift the shirt over his head and arms.
As Beckett lets the shirt fall upon the clothes pile, she finds herself unable to step away. Castle, too, seems to be drawn forward. Somehow they find themselves with arms around each other. Silently standing together and sharing a warmth that spreads through them both.
It takes her a moment to remember why she was undressing her partner, and Beckett frowns when it comes back to her. Reluctantly, she steps back to inspect the damage to Castle. As she suspected, the bruising isn't limited to his arm but instead mottles his shoulder and side, too.
"Is this all from the crash?" she asks, wondering whether her sniper did more than scar his cheek.
"Mostly," he replies quietly. "I mentioned that we reinforced my car. It had rollbars and a five-point harness system, as well as extra neck support. But the seat busted," he explains with some consternation. "So I was nice and secure while I bounced around inside the car."
Repeating his actions, Beckett leans forward and drops a kiss on one of the largest bruises, just north of his clavicle. Unlike Castle's kiss, though, this one lingers and includes the faint caress of an active tongue. While Castle gasps, Beckett smiles to herself as she crosses 'taste' off her sensory inventory.
Beckett pulls away again and places a hand on his unbruised shoulder. "May I?" she asks demurely, with trepidation.
Castle looks into her eyes and holds the gaze for several long moments. Finally, he manages to nod.
Beckett gently pushes on his shoulder, causing him to rotate in place. As his shredded back comes into view, Beckett can't stop the sad sigh that escapes. No wonder he's wearing an undershirt – the ridges and valleys of his scarring are pronounced enough to show through a thin shirt. Since his true injuries were hidden from the public smokescreen of his 'car accident,' he needs to be careful to keep himself covered. It makes her wonder how he pulled off the outfit he wore to his book signing in California.
"Oh, Castle," she murmurs as he stops his rotation, the whole of his back on full, radiant display. His head droops at her sad words, so she tries to cheer him up.
"You misunderstand me," she explains as her hands land on his shoulders. "You know, I watched you when you were looking at my scars," she says, opting for brutal honesty as the way to get through to him. "I've worried about your reaction for a long time," she confesses, noting with some satisfaction that his shoulders straighten at this confession. She takes this as her cue to let her hands start to drift downward, gently tracing the patterns of his injuries.
"You said I was strong," she says, her words choked with emotion. "But there was something else in your look that I just couldn't place. But I get it now," she says with certainty as her fingers caress his back. "It was pride. I know because I am so proud of you, Castle. I don't know where you found the strength to endure what must've been a living hell, but you did it," she says as she leans forward to drop some kisses on his back. "I may not have the right to say this, but I am so proud of you," she repeats.
Obviously emotional from her declaration, Castle looks down to protect himself from Beckett's scrutiny. Recognizing his discomfort, Beckett lets her hands drop as she reaches around him, pulling him into another hug.
They stand that way for several minutes. With Beckett's front against Castle's back, they're able to share a quiet moment of connection without the additional hurdle of facing each other. Finally, Beckett pulls away to drop another kiss on his scarred back.
"Does it hurt?" she asks, knowing the answer but wondering how he'll answer.
"You know better than anyone," he replies quietly, holding tight to the arms wrapped around his middle. "It often itches and even when it doesn't hurt, the skin is tight and pulls when I try to stretch."
It's what she craved most – an honest answer from her partner. No jokes, no diversions, just raw, painful honesty. Again, she finds herself fighting back tears.
"Wait here," she says in a rush, regretfully pulling away before hurrying to the bathroom. After grabbing the bottle of lotion, she's back in place almost as quickly as she left.
"Lay down," she encourages as she nudges him to the bed. Without a fight, Castle crawls onto the bed, exposing his injured back to her while sprawling on his front. Carefully, and while focusing on the therapeutic nature of this development, Beckett clambers into bed and straddles her partner.
Neither of them comment on the intimacy of the moment. Beckett tries to focus on the reason for their circumstances, squirting some of the lotion into her hands before gently applying it to Castle's back. It's not a proper massage – his back isn't up for that yet – but it's a quiet, tactile way of building a connection. And both of them know the importance of this simple act.
Beckett continues to rub lotion into Castle's damaged back, taking care not to lean too heavily into him lest she aggravate his injuries from California. For his part, Castle seems to gradually relax under her care.
"I want you to be careful," she whispers as she caresses him, earning a quiet word of approval.
"I want us to be a team again," she admits. "Working the case, and… growing closer to each other." This time, Castle's agreement isn't so quiet.
"I want us to finish this case," she ventures, knowing she's pushing her luck, "so Alexis can come back and there's nothing in our way."
"I'd like that," Castle confesses. "That's all I want."
"Just don't forget me," Beckett asks, growing shy for some reason even despite their circumstances. "Don't forget that I want to help. And don't forget," she reminds him again, "that next time you've got someone like my shooter, I want to be involved."
This seems to be the area where her requests start making Castle uncomfortable. "I won't forget," he offers inadequately. "Once I get things set up, I'll make sure you have the choice of being involved."
Something about his answer seems false. Not that he's lying, she thinks, but more like he's trying to give himself some wiggle room based on loose language.
"You have someone already, don't you?" she asks, her hands stilling on his back.
"No," Castle answers quietly. With her hands on him, she can feel him tensing up again. "Not yet. But I will soon. I know who's next."
"Is it…," Beckett trails off, voice grown thick with emotion. "Is it the one who hired my shooter?"
"No," Castle replies again. "It's his enforcer. His muscle."
Beckett takes a moment to think about that. She should be worried that Castle's going after someone who sounds capable of addressing physical threats. But instead, she's thinking about how he answered, how he assumed the link. If he knows the enforcer, then…
"You know who it is, don't you?" Beckett gasps as Castle turns in place, sliding her to the side so he can sit up on the bed. Moving out of his position of vulnerability is all the confirmation she needs. Roughly six months ago, Roy Montgomery could've told her who killed her mother, who almost killer her. And now Castle knows.
"Who is it?" Beckett pleads with her partner. "Please, Castle, please. Tell me."
Rising from the bed, Castle squares himself to his partner, presenting a wide target as he looks first at the holstered gun on her hip and then into her imploring eyes.
"No."
A/N: Many thanks for all the comments, reviews, and PMs for this story. After taking a little break, it was great to see that there was still some interest in this story. Your feedback is greatly appreciated!