And it's over,
And I'm going under
But I'm not giving up-
I'm just giving in
'Never Let Me Go' - Florence + the Machine
He's not sure how he gets them out, but he does, he does, and the first lungful of air that he gulps leaves a trail of fire down his throat.
He disregards it, all his attention, all his care directed at the woman he's holding close, her long, lithe body against him, weightless.
"Kate," he gasps, begs, terror eating at his heart even though the immediate danger has passed.
He doesn't even glance at the pier; if someone's waiting to shoot them, then they will. Nothing he can do to prevent it.
"Kate," he whispers again, imperious.
Wake up. Talk to me.
She's so pale. Her face is a sickening white; cadaveric, his writer's brain murmurs, but the man in him revolts at the thought.
He thinks he can feel her heart beating, a faint, sluggish thing under his forearm - he's crushing her to him, couldn't loosen his grip if he wanted to - but there's no way to be sure, not until he gets them out of the water. His legs are numb and movement is awkward, painful; he's not stupid enough to think he can last much longer.
The dock is close, and it seems deserted. At least there's that. He starts swimming that way, every stroke sending liquid fire through his veins, itching, burning, tearing through the cloak of ice wrapped around his limbs.
The sun is still shining, pale beams that touch the water shyly, lend their soft glow to the waves. The day looks untouched, looks the same, cold and quiet. No trace of what happened on Pier 32.
And he's ready to bet that Blakely's body has vanished as well.
That's the last of his concerns, though, he realizes as he reaches the edge of the pier, his stomach sinking.
It was designed for boats to berth here. Not human beings. The platform is too high for him to reach. Let alone hoist himself up. Or her.
Shit.
His eyes eagerly follow the line of the docks, hoping for steps; but the closest thing is a metallic ladder, a few meters away. He can try.
Despite the water, despite Kate's slenderness, she feels heavier and heavier against him; the effort it takes him to get them both at the bottom of the ladder robs him of his last illusions.
There's just no way he's getting both of them up there.
He needs her help.
He needs his partner.
Light.
She chokes and gasps and struggles awake - chest too tight, hurts, hurts - the air scorching her lungs like some foreign body that she is no longer used to. What the-
She coughs up salty water until her eyes are blurred with tears, until her throat stings with it; at some point she becomes aware of Castle's strong arm crushing her ribs, of his lips at her ear.
The warm, reassuring rumble of his voice soothes, gentles, brings her back to him.
But oh-
"Burns," she croaks out, wincing with every expansion of her chest, insides raw and pulsing.
"I know, Kate, I know. I'm sorry," he murmurs, his mouth brushing random places that he stumbles upon, temple, cheekbone, chin. She lets him, disoriented, dizzy, jaw clenched against the polar circle of her body.
He's shaking too, she realizes, and not the good kind. She can feel the large frame of his body at her back, but the lack of warmth is unnatural. She shifts in his embrace, half-turning to him.
Why are they still in the water?
"You got us out of the car," she says. He must have done it - she doesn't remember, and yet they're here. Alive.
Freezing, but alive.
He nods briefly. "They're gone, Kate. No one - no one on the pier," he tells her, teeth chattering. God, he looks exhausted.
"Good," she says, vaguely conscious that he's trying to get somewhere with this, and her sluggish brain isn't following.
"So let's get up there, yeah?" he asks, nodding at the ladder she didn't really notice before.
Oh. A ladder. Okay.
Only six rungs. Six rungs is nothing, right?
"You go first," he says, and for a second she's tempted to argue, because he looks so completely drained, and because she doesn't want to make a fool of herself (which will undoubtedly occur, considering the very little control she has over her stiff limbs).
She can't tell where her jeans end and her skin begins.
But Castle's eyes are a resolute blue, and she swallows her protests, turns to the first rung.
Realizes in horror that she's going to have to lift herself up, because the ladder starts well above the water.
Just getting an arm out, curling her fingers around the rusty metal, takes entirely too much time. She shakes her head, defeated.
"Castle, I-"
"You can," he opposes quietly, firmly. "You can, Kate. I'll help. Come on."
Tears well up in her chest, weariness and frustration both; she shoves them down ruthlessly, hoists her other hand up there.
She can.
He watches her carefully, his bones stiff and weary but his eyes alert, his hands ready to catch her. As long as he focuses on her, as long as he has Kate Beckett to care for, he can keep the cold at bay.
Or at least try to ignore it.
Sliding her knee onto the first rung is a painstaking enough process, but replacing her knee with her foot is even worse. Seems to take hours.
He can feel the irritation radiating off her in waves, and as far as he's concerned, it's a good thing. It means she's alive and conscious, means that she has enough energy to care. He couldn't ask for more.
She should have taken off her boots, he thinks fleetingly, but realistically, he knows it wasn't an option. The leather sticks to her calves like a second skin; it will probably be painful as hell to get them off.
Her foot skids once, twice. He's there every time, hand clawing on her leg, keeping it against the ladder. The second time, she hits her knee, hard, and hisses in pain. Despite the hint of anger in the sound, it's too much like a whimper for him to be comfortable.
"Come on, Beckett," he urges, mustering all the authority he can, hoping she will respond to her last name.
"Shut up," she replies half-heartedly, but she does haul herself up; only one rung left-
And she's up on the pier, finally, finally safe. Safe. Relief sends fireworks flying behind his closed lids.
"Your turn, Castle," she growls, and he opens his eyes again, tries to shake himself.
Right. Ladder.
Agony threads through his muscles as he tries to hike himself up, and he suddenly understands why it took her so long to get a feet onto the rung. His articulations seem like they've forgotten how to bend; he wonders briefly if his body was ever made to do this.
And he's too heavy; he'll never manage-
"Come on, Rick. Think of Alexis stumbling upon your frozen body. Gotta keep that from happening, don't we?"
"You sure know how to cheer a man up, Beckett," he pants back, but he has a good grip on the metal now, and he pulls, pulls, gaining inches as he loses breath.
He's going to have to slow down on the pizza and the carbonara pasta. No more pizza, he promises himself through the burn in his chest, the buzz of exhaustion in his ears.
Kate's voice guides him, encourages him, threatens him all through his way up; he loses track of time, would be utterly unable to say how long it took when he finally gets to put his hands on the concrete of the dock.
Of course, he decides to skip the last rungs and just hoist himself up; of course, his drenched shoe skips and he sways backwards, owes his salvation only to Beckett's quick reflexes.
She grabs his shirt with an iron fist (it freaking hurts), yanks him back to her with all her strength; they both stumble onto the pier, and she lands on her back.
He lands on top of her, breathless, shocked.
"You always need to draw attention to yourself," she jokes feebly after a few seconds, a ghost of a smirk on her lips.
The panic hasn't completely faded from her eyes, though.
"Sorry," he says inanely, noticing the blue, pulsing vein that runs down the column of her neck.
A beautiful place to kiss.
He leans in and presses his mouth to it, gratitude and swirling relief and a burst of feeling that he cannot contain.
"Castle," she says softly, and he can't decipher it, can't tell weariness from reproach, hesitation from pleasure. Her skin is so cold, like marble, in spite of all the exertion. It scares him.
He rolls off her, but remains sprawled on his back next to her. Just the thought of sitting up is exhausting.
"Can you feel your body at all?"
Some parts of him hurt, but most of him is silent, and he knows that the quiet bits are the ones he should be worried about.
"Some," she hedges, her eyes closed.
He looks at her critically, all long limbs and graceful lines, nothing to shield her from the cold.
"Kate, we need to get help."
She hums. "In a minute, Castle."
In a minute they'll be asleep. Not good. He tells her so, gets a flash of glaring green eyes.
She curls onto her side, nestles against him, fingers splayed on his ribs; he wishes he could feel that.
"Just a minute," she says, in that tone that forbids all contradiction. Her lashes flutter down her cheeks, black against white. She looks so young.
He gives in.
Just a minute.