Chapter 5

"Beck- Houghton, I'm holding a head."

"Calm down, Castle." Houghton's face was expressionless as she slammed her foot on the gas, the car peeling away with a squeal of tires.

"But… I'm holding a head!"

"You mentioned," she said, her eyes on the road as she sped through the side streets of generic suburbia, the cookie-cutter Long Island neighborhood blurring before his eyes. "Here." She pulled a screwdriver and a small knife from her pocket, passing them to him.

"What's this?"

"A screwdriver." She offered a slight shake of her head, pointing at it. "We need to destroy this. Get its chip out. We have a minute before it reboots." She grinned. "Maybe two. We messed it up pretty badly."

"The chip?"

"Yes. Now, above the ear-" She pointed to her own head to demonstrate. "No, the left- yes, that's it. Get your knife, cut down, into the skull. You need to peel the skin back-"

"Ew!"

"Castle, it's a robot. And if it reboots in your hands, even without its body? Trust me, you're gonna be a hell of a lot more freaked out. Besides, I'm pretty sure he's the one who was shooting at you last night. Does that make you feel better?"

Did it make him feel better? He looked at the head. Yeah. That was him alright. But that didn't make this any less creepy. He shuddered, doing as Houghton said. What would be worse? Cutting into this thing before it woke up, or after? "Got it."

"Okay, now take the screwdriver, you see the spot there?"

"Uh-huh." He unscrewed the cover, revealing what looked like an SD card. "That's… it?"

"Yes. Remove it, and give it to me."

He extracted the plastic, shaking his head as he did so. Just like changing memory cards in his camera. It was that easy. He looked again at the head in its lap, the wires extending out from its neck. It was that complicated. He tucked the card into his pocket. "I, uh- I think I'll hold on to it, for now."

Houghton shrugged, the car slowing as she merged onto the interstate. He swallowed. How was it possible to drive slower here than through all the back streets she'd navigated?

"So… uh, why was that-" he glanced again at the head in his hands, shuddering, "-this, there? Did it follow us?"

"Someone screwed up, maybe. Or someone changed something. Or there's a traitor in the ranks? Any number of reasons, Castle, but the main thing is we got what we needed for now, before they could get it, and we got that guy too." Houghton raised her eyebrows at him before focusing on the road again and changing the subject. "In any case, we have a slight change of plans," she said.

"Meaning?"

"Meaning we're not going to take care of that building until later. You might want to call Alexis. We're not going back to the Hamptons tonight."

"What am I going to tell her?"

Houghton rolled her eyes. "For someone as prepared for the zombie apocalypse as you're meant to be, not to mention the fact you make up stories for a living, I would have thought you could figure something out."

Castle leaned back against the headrest as Houghton sped along the expressway, trying to get a handle on everything. Less than twenty-four hours ago his biggest problem had been the fact Beckett hadn't called. Now, not only was he stuck with her robot-lookalike, he was a passenger in a car headed west, away from his daughter, and back toward the very city they'd fled the night before.

And he still had a robot head in his lap.

"Ugh!" He shuddered, tossing it into the backseat, shaking his head to clear the image of the wires protruding from its neck where veins should have been. A few years scoping out homicide scenes and countless field trips to the morgue had not prepared him for this, and he groaned in disgust as the reality hit him: he was less grossed out by dead bodies than by robots. That was not cool, not at all. No. He was Richard Castle, zombie apocalypse aficionado, and being prepared for zombies meant being prepared for anything, even if anything meant robots.

Every day she was getting stronger, and today Beckett had made it all the way to the lake without breaking a sweat. Dressed in leggings and a t-shirt, she was glad of the summer. Covering up in the sun was important, she couldn't risk burning the tender skin surrounding her scar, but when she was inside and in the shade she was okay in a crop top which meant nothing rubbed against the healing wound. The bandages were no longer necessary; she needed to keep the skin clean, but she was able to move freely without any wrapping around her torso.

She sank down onto the ground at the shore, stretching her legs out, and reaching her hands back, breathing deeply as the stretch pulled her scar, but the tension was painless, and she arched her neck, the sunlight hitting her face as she closed her eyes.

She was healing.

As if the new day had chased away her anger, last night's outburst of emotion was a distant memory and all that was left in its place was a combination of exhaustion and conviction.

She was tired, so very tired of the effort it was taking to not call Castle. But her determination was strong. She wasn't ready, and he wasn't ready. Not for her. Not when she was broken like this. One day he would forgive her. Her walls would break down, and she would be more.

She bit her lip, shifting so her weight was no longer on her hands, and she ran her fingers across her abdomen, barely flinching as she touched the scar tissue below the shirt. Her ribcage - always visible - was exaggerated now, and she let her hand fall back to the ground, the scant grass rough to her touch.

What if he didn't forgive her?

An old office building in a decrepit part of New Jersey seemed an unlikely venue for a building that housed the secrets to artificial intelligence, but Houghton had lifted her shoulder in a disinterested shrug when he'd commented.

"Appearances can be deceiving," was all she had said, opening the trunk of the car and pushing the headless robot to the side in order to move the carpet.

As she retrieved explosives from the tire well, her movements a perfect mirror of Beckett, he had to agree. Everything about this was smoke and mirrors. Was there even a resistance? Who was Houghton? Why copy Beckett? Why copy him, for that matter.

"What if we get a flat?" he asked, indicating the now empty space in the trunk, and she glared at him.

"Focus, Castle."

His gaze fell back on her slender form. Beckett. She was Beckett from head to toe. Longer hair, sure, just another in the dizzying array of hairstyles Beckett had already had. He lowered his eyes, stopping as he evaluated the differences. Houghton was a touch skinnier, perhaps? But her… assets-

He shook his head.

He needed to focus.

On something other than Beckett, or Houghton's admittedly attractive form.

Houghton was a machine, and no matter how Beckett-like she was, she was not the woman he was in love with.

As for Beckett… he was in love with her, had been for a long time.

And he still didn't know if he was ever going to see or hear from her again.

A/N: Thank you for all your support with this fic, especially Jamie and Kylie for giving it a thorough beta-ing! x