Planning on updating every other day at this point. Hope no one objects.
"This is a bad idea."
"Hush. No, it's not."
"You're right. It's a terrible idea. Muy mala."
Lanie stopped in her tracks, one hand on her hip and the other pointing directly at him as he turned back to face her. "Now, you listen here, Javier Esposito. We are doing this, whether or not you plan on complaining about it the whole time. So, if you're still wanting to go back to my place afterwards, then you damn well better shut up and just humor me, ok?"
"Ok, ok. I get it. No more complaining." He trudged after her, admiring her ass as concern lent her shorter legs a speedier pace. She was several steps ahead of him, so he felt safe in muttering a few select phrases in Spanish about his amante loca. Quietly, of course. His mama hadn't raised no fool.
"What's our story again?" he reached out and grabbed her arm, slowing her down just enough that she didn't completely outpace him.
Her head swiveled around, eyes narrowed and a frown marring her beautiful face. "Story? Whaddya mean, our story?"
"You know, like we happened to be walking by and decided to drop in, or…I know, we'll buy somethin' at the store, like soup or somethin' and tell her we wanted to give it to her. Our story," he trailed off as she cocked one eyebrow sky high and kept staring at him, shaking her head slightly. "What? We need a story. So she don't kill us for droppin' by unannounced."
Lanie gave a big sigh and resumed walking, though not as fast as before. "We don't need a story, Javi. She's been sick," each word was punctuated, as if he were a child with limited understanding. All he knew was that Beckett liked her privacy. Dropping by unannounced? That was definitely a violation of said privacy. "I talked to her earlier, told her I'd call again. She's not answering. Therefore, we're making sure she's ok."
"Yeah, but didn't you say she felt better? What if she went out, or she's tryin' to sleep or—or she's got a friend over?"
She stopped again, this time making him stumble since she had his arm in a death grip. "She was having some pains, enough to make her pant until it went away. Does that sound better to you?"
He shook his head. Beckett was well acquainted with pain. If it was bad enough that Lanie'd picked up on it over the phone, then it wasn't a trivial matter.
"Now, she might be asleep, but she's gonna wake up and tell me she's fine if she wants to get back to bed. And just what do you mean by a friend being over? I'm her friend. You think if I were there she'd not answer the phone if it rang like eight times in a row from another friend?"
He rolled his eyes. Women could sometimes be so…complicated. "Not that kind of friend. You know, a friend friend." He lifted his eyebrows speculatively, hoping she'd catch on without pushing him further.
She gaped at him for a moment before giving him a sharp finger poke in the shoulder and walking off alone.
"Hey, what was that for?" he complained, rubbing where she'd jabbed him. Woman had some powerful punch behind that pretty package.
"Because, you're an idiot sometimes, that's why. Now, come on. I'm worried about her. Got a bad feeling in my gut."
This time, he kept his thoughts to himself.
"Maybe she's not home. You've knocked like a million times." That observation earned him a glare.
"What if she's lying in there, helpless?"
"And what if she's down at the corner store, gettin' some coffee? Let's just wait a bit."
"Javi, there may not be time. Let me try calling her again." She whipped out her phone and punched redial. Instead of putting the handset up to her ear, she leaned against the door to Beckett's apartment.
"Listen," she hissed, eyes lighting up. "You hear that?"
"Hear what?"
"Come closer," she motioned. He humored her, and sure enough when he neared the door the faint strains of 'Hot Stuff' could be heard.
"That's her ringtone for you? Um, that's a bit weird, dontcha think?"
"Shhh," she waved him down, and then switched the phone off. "Castle put that on there a few months ago. You know how he was always messin' with her stuff. Now, we know her phone's in there. What're we gonna do next?"
"You got a key?"
"Do you honestly think we'd still be standing out here if I had a key? No, I don't have a key. This is Kate we're talking about. She doesn't just share keys."
"I could try and find the super…."
"At this time of night? We might be waiting for an hour or more." She looked at him through her lashes and licked her lips with the very tip of her tongue. "Do you think you could break the door down? It's awfully thick." Her voice was low and a little husky, and he couldn't stop thinking about that wicked tongue.
"Oh, I can break it down." He flexed, just a little, then deflated. "But Beckett would kill me."
Lanie stomped her foot, just slightly, but enough to startle him. "Javi, I'll pay for the damn door! Just get the thing open."
"Ok, but it's your fault if she shoots me." He knocked one more time, and called out, "Beckett? I'm coming in. Don't shoot."
It took three good kicks and he had to flash his badge at the old lady who lived down the hall, but he got the door open. Strutting inside, he saw the place looked as tidy and clean as it always had.
"I don't think she's home. Dial the phone again, see where it's at."
Lanie walked into the bedroom, following the sound of Donna Summer while he started whistling the same song and peeked into the kitchen. It was neat as a pin, nothing out of place.
"Huh," he heard Lanie mutter as she walked back out of the bedroom carrying two phones, eyes downcast. "It was just sitting on her bed. I guess she did leave it. Now I feel stupid."
He strode over to her, reaching out and rubbing her arms gently. "Hey, now. She'll know how worried you were. It'll be ok."
She looked up at him, tears brimming in her eyes. "I was worried. I am worried. But she must be ok if she's not here, right?"
"Yeah, chica, I'm sure she is. Now, what're we gonna do about that door? We gonna wait for her to come home?"
Lanie nodded, and they settled briefly on the couch. She cuddled up to him, and he was just thinking about how nice it was to hold her in his arms when she suddenly stiffened and sat up. "Did you check the bathroom?" she asked, eyes full of renewed anxiety.
He shook his head. "Nope. Not really sure where it is, to be honest."
She leapt up. "I can't relax until I know it's empty. Be right back." She strode off, and he sat back, indolent now that the crisis seemed over. He let his thoughts drift forward a few hours to what he planned to be doing with her in the privacy of her bedroom.
"Javi!" She screamed his name, and for just a brief moment he thought he was imagining her crying out in his fantasy.
The blood curdling wail that followed was no part of any fantasy he'd ever indulged in.
"JAVI!" The fear and desperation palpable in her voice was like a wild animal clamped onto his neck. His hair stood on end and he felt his guts vibrate, threatening incontinence. He would never forget that shriek, as long as he lived. It would stalk his nightmares and hide in the deep recesses of his brain, ready to pounce at the first sign of fright. But nothing that he ever faced—for the rest of his life—would ever be quite as terrifying as her screaming his name from Beckett's bathroom.
Nothing.
Rick didn't think he'd ever been so scared in his life as he'd been yesterday. Slaughter had basically waltzed into the salvage yard in the Bronx where Vales was hanging with what looked like twenty well-armed henchmen. Without any backup, unless you counted a writer who'd been tossed a back-up piece.
Which Rick decidedly did not.
He still wasn't sure how they'd made it out alive, after Slaughter had pulled his gun on Vales, prompting all the henchmen to pull out everything from semi-automatics to high powered rifles. Talk about a Mexican Standoff.
Yet, somehow Slaughter had managed to bluster his way out of it once more. Rick was rapidly coming to the conclusion that this whole decision to tail someone other than Beckett had been about the worst idea he'd had, and that was including his two ex-wives.
He would have loved to talk over the situation with someone, maybe figure out a way to bow out gracefully, but he'd not seen Beckett or the boys for days. Beckett was likely at the trial she'd been prepping for, but he hoped the boys didn't have some interesting case that they were pursuing without him.
If only he'd listened to Espo in the beginning. He'd tried to tell him that Slaughter was bad news, but he'd been so desperate to get away from Beckett for a while. Slaughter had appealed in that he was nearly a polar opposite of his former partner. But that appeal had quickly been erased.
This morning, when his phone had buzzed with the message from Slaughter telling him where to meet, he'd had to fight the urge to pull the covers over his head and ignore the whole thing. But, he wasn't a quitter. Which was why he climbed into the passenger seat of Slaughter's department-issued sedan an hour later.
"You don't listen to those whiners, Sherlock. You got balls. And yeah, I may have needlessly put you in a little harm's way there with Vales, but seeing as it paid off?"
Slaughter's usual mix of bravado and bullshit had lost all of its charm. He couldn't even remember why he'd ever thought it interesting in the first place. He was about to tell him to take his half-hearted apology and shove it when he finally processed the very last words the man had thrown at him. Wait, what?
"What do you mean, paid off?"
Suddenly there was a pounding from the trunk. Each blow seemed to hit him in the solar plexus. His stomach dropped. This was not going to turn out well.
He took no pleasure in being proven right. Slaughter had grabbed Gilberto Mendoza, the so-called weak link in the Vales organization. Apparently, the preferred interrogation technique for Slaughter was to start with physical abuse. It only ended after Rick had agreed to speak on Slaughter's behalf at a civilian review board meeting for excessive force.
He just couldn't bring himself to think about the irony.
Of course Slaughter then didn't even seem to care that he threw the brakes on just before it appeared that a delivery van was going to crush Rick's side of the car. All in a day's work to the crazy cop, but for Richard Castle it was the last straw.
Almost.
He was stuck with Slaughter—he'd been driving and Rick had no idea where they were. An industrial area, sparsely populated. The perfect place to soften up a suspect, apparently. When Slaughter pulled Gilberto out of the trunk and threatened his little brother, Rick was ready to walk away and see if he could figure out where the hell they were and call a cab. The problem was that he felt guilty about leaving the kid alone with Slaughter. Not that the asshole listened to him…much. But what would he do without him there?
Then, when Gilberto confessed that Vales killed Glitch, Rick could almost hear the clang of prison bars slamming shut—or was that the trap that kept him tied to this deranged detective? He offered up the Twelfth's precinct for the interrogation, since Slaughter didn't really belong anywhere. He hoped by taking Gilberto there, that if Slaughter lost it at least there were people around that knew Rick. They'd help if things got out of control.
When they paraded their 'perp' through the precinct and he didn't see Beckett or the boys anywhere, he got a little concerned. The trial had to be over by now, surely? Or at least Kate…Beckett's part in it.
He stood in the observation room and watched, with growing disbelief, as Slaughter essentially coached Gilberto into a confession. The story, which made sense superficially at least, was that Vales had wanted to horn in on turf occupied by the Westies and the Jamaicans. He'd convinced Glitch to dig up the 3 Jamaicans' bodies, cut off their heads and use it to spark a gang war between the two rivals. Vales had then killed Glitch and made it appear that the Jamaicans had done it for revenge.
The problem was that Gilberto had no idea how many times Glitch had been shot. Slaughter had to tap it out on the table for him to get the details right. It was all one big lie and all Rick knew was that he didn't want it crashing down on him.
Slaughter swaggered out of the interrogation room, a sight that made Rick sick to his stomach.
"What do you think you're doing?"
"Closing this case. I got an arrest warrant for Vales burning a hole in my pocket."
"You coached that kid through his interrogation."
"Nah, nah, I just…refreshed…his recollection."
"Really? Because the way he was talking he didn't even witness that murder."
Slaughter put his hand on Rick's chest, stopping whatever else he was about to say.
"Hey. Vales has bodies on him like you wouldn't believe: women, children, cops. I got a chance to put him away and I'm gonna take it. The question is, are you in or out?"
Rick narrowed his eyes. "I guess I'm out."
"Well, that's a shame. I had high hopes for you, Sherlock. Never thought you'd punk out on me like this." He turned and strode out, leaving Rick watching. He felt like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders until he caught a glimpse of Gilberto slumped in his seat in the interrogation room. He had to make this right, somehow.
Pivoting, he surveyed the bullpen. The desks of the three people he most wanted to see remained empty, mocking him. His eyes traveled further, then snapped back to Gates' office. Was that?
It was. Ryan and Espo were in her office. Thank goodness. He'd just wait for them, ask them for help. He had no doubt they'd offer support—they were friends. Partners, of a sort.
He continued watching them as he waited, and soon observed that it was Espo doing most of the talking. Neither Ryan nor Gates looked very happy, and something that Espo said must have been truly shocking as Gates' hand flew to her mouth and Ryan stared at the floor, shoulders slumped. He looked like someone had just kicked his puppy in front of him.
It didn't take much longer for them to finish, and he watched as the two men shuffled out of the captain's office, frames bent by some unseen burden.
"Hey, guys. I was wondering if you'd mind helping me with something?" He watched as they both mindlessly grabbed their coats, as if they'd not heard him. "Guys?" There was sorrow etched in both of their faces, and…fear? His heart started pounding as he tried to figure out what on earth was going on.
"Whaddya need, Castle?" Ryan asked, tired eyes trained on him as Espo shut his computer down.
"Well, you see, it's Slaughter. He just…"
"I told you that guy was bad news, Castle." Espo's tone was harsh. Rick's neck stiffened and he felt a wave of heat flash through his body, but tamped down his response. He was asking for help, after all.
"I know, I know, but now he's really gone too far. He's got the wrong guy and…"
"Listen, whatever it is he's got you mixed up in, well, too bad. You chose to follow him over us—."
"Chose to? I didn't…"
"—And now you gotta figure it all out by yourself. We don't got time for this, ok? You comin', Ryan?" Espo stalked off and Rick cocked his head, looking over at Ryan with his mouth gaped open.
"What in the world was that all about?"
Ryan just stared at him for a second, and then shuffled his feet. "It's been a rough day. Javi's not himself—none of us are. Sorry we can't back you."
As Ryan was turning away, Rick's mouth went dry. He had to find help, had to. Would even take it from people—or a particular person—he'd really, really prefer not to deal with right now. "What about Beckett? Maybe she'd take time out of her busy schedule with the trial since you guys won't help me." It came out sounding harsh and sarcastic, even to him, but he couldn't keep the bitterness out of his voice when he talked about her.
He watched in confusion as Ryan stumbled, then stopped and turned. His face was a mask, but his caustic reply hit Rick with the force of a howitzer. "No, Castle. She can't help you, either. You've no idea, do you? I've got to get to the ho...nevermind. Espo's waiting. You'll have to find someone else to babysit you."
Blood pounded in Rick's ears and his vision clouded over as Ryan turned his back on him and left him standing alone. None of them wanted to help him? He was the one who'd been lied to, all this time. He was the one they ought to be begging to come back, not the other way around. Well, he'd written best-selling books for years before he'd ever met them. He didn't need them. He was better off without them.
Comments?
I'm going to reiterate my initial A/N: this fic is an exploration of what I think it might take to drive Kate Beckett to the edge. It is not fluffy. While there is a happy ending, the path to get there is dark and tragic. Chapter 9 is the worst it will be. I never expected this topic to draw a lot of interest, and if you've had enough, I understand. I wrote it when I was in a (relatively) dark place, and I wrote it because I felt I had to. So, sorry if I'm bumming you out, but you don't have to keep reading. For those who do, I am more than grateful for your comments/tweets/PMs.