Close Encounters 3.5
She woke when he did, felt his warmth leaving the bed. Beckett opened her eyes and watched him disappear into the bathroom.
The CIA funeral for Mark Eastman would be early then.
She heard the shower sputter to life and the whine of the farmhouse's old pipes. Yesterday he'd bought her a dress, made her feel beautiful, desirable, for the first time in weeks. And he hadn't even really touched her; it hadn't been her careless and frenzied need for him while straddling a workout bench.
It was just the look in his eyes as he'd assessed what would make the dress work, and the comment about her underwear - two simple, small things.
But she was such a hot mess, and those two things - his appraisal and his desire - they remade her.
She could do this. She would do this. She'd stop leaning on him for every damn thing, and she'd get stronger, rebuild, make it so that he didn't have to cater to her every stupid weakness. She'd go to the public funeral today and that would be the starting point for her, for them really.
He could go back to the office then. He was inactive, he'd told her, but he could reclaim active status if he put in a little more time. She'd stop being a burden, a wounded bird that he had to nurse back to health, and he could be a spy again - even if it was just a desk job.
Black's warning - that he was in danger - rang through her mind again, but she couldn't help but think that Castle was better off at the company, surrounded by his team and officially reinstated rather than going off on these wild missions alone. Going rogue. Wouldn't he be safer with the full might of the CIA behind him?
Beckett curled slowly onto her side, the pack of ice still attached to the machine and gurgling as it kept the wound cool. She paused to be sure it would stay in place, and then she drew her knees up and waited for him.
His shower was fast; she heard the water shut off again in seconds, and his feet hitting the floor one by one as he got out. She could see his body in her mind's eye, wished she felt capable of doing something about it. Wished she could get out of bed easily and walk in on him drying off, unloose the towel from his hands and-
The door opened.
"Hey, you're awake."
She nodded. "What time's the CIA ceremony?"
"Eight," he said quietly. "Carrie will be there."
"His wife," she confirmed.
He nodded.
"Are you okay?"
He nodded again and moved for the dresser, tugged open a drawer that squeaked loudly in the silent room. She watched him pull out charcoal slacks and then boxer briefs and an undershirt. His skin was cast in pale blue as the morning sun came in through the curtains.
He tugged his pants up and buttoned them; they fit sleek and well-designed. She realized she hadn't seen a bad suit on him, but he had a particularly hard-to-dress body type. Such broad shoulders, narrow waist but firm thighs. And his biceps were thick. No wonder he knew to suggest a belt and boots for that sheath dress; he actually had tasteful and expensive clothes.
He was a spy, Kate. International man of mystery. Of course he did.
She watched him shrug the form-fitting undershirt on over his head, his abs clearly defined, his arms so strong.
Shit, it really did it for her. She felt strung out and exhausted even after ten hours of sleep, but he was turning her on just getting dressed.
So not fair.
He came to the bed and put a fist in the mattress, leaning over to brush a kiss at her cheek, glancing off her lips.
"It'll be a few hours. I'll probably go out for drinks with the rest of the team, if you don't mind."
"You should," she answered. "And you don't need my permission, Rick."
He flashed her a half-smile for that, stood back up to head for the closet. His black dress shirt had charcoal grey pinstripes, and he looked both somber and beautiful at the same time. His eyes were a million miles away.
He made her heart hurt.
Castle grabbed his suit jacket from the back of the chair, slid his arms into the sleeves as he looked at her from the foot of the bed.
"Try not to steal a horse again, Kate." He gave her a crooked smile that didn't reach his eyes. "I don't want to come back and have to comb the woods for you."
She sighed, searching for a comeback, but he was already out the door.
He stood ramrod straight with his team flanking him inside the long, open hall of the CIA's local headquarters in New York City. His father was at a podium near the wall, giving the simple, concise speech over the fallen.
Carrie Eastman was in black just to his right, standing at the front with her hands clutched around the glass case enclosing the Service Star. Ranged alongside her were the family members representing the other two agents Castle had lost in that hotel.
Dominguez had been outside behind the building, guarding the back entrance when he'd been shot once in the base of the skull with his own weapon. His mother was here now, wiping at her eyes with a crumpled white tissue, being silent with her grief.
It'd been Burch, stationed outside the room in the hallway, whose fight with Maddox had given Castle and Eastman the seconds' headstart they'd needed not to become third and fourth victims. Maddox had snapped Burch's neck in a move Castle had seen but hadn't been able to prevent; he'd fired two shots at the assassin even as Maddox used Burch's body as a shield.
And then the race up the stairs, the exchange of gunfire, the door to the roof slamming open as Castle had come out crouched and ready for it.
He'd been careful; there was that at least. He hadn't been reckless with it. But Maddox had the vantage point and he'd known the layout. Probably had the roof scoped for an easy escape.
Eastman, firing from the doorway of the roof, had provided cover as Castle headed for the air conditioning units. In position, Castle had returned the favor.
Too late.
Eastman shot in the chest, gunned down on that hotel rooftop.
The wall of silver stars had long ago exceeded the pattern of fifty made to look like the US flag. Three more were now added as Black read their names.
When the last star was pressed into the marble wall, Castle closed his eyes.
It wasn't just about Beckett's mother's murder any more.
This was war.
Beckett didn't question him; she knew she wouldn't want to talk, if it was her.
But when he laced his fingers in hers and led her outside, she realized he was going to say something.
She kept quiet, let him lead her through the gate and around the empty pasture. The grass was thick and smelled sweet as it was crushed under their feet. She didn't have the strength to step cleanly, her gait was awkward, but Castle kept the pace easy, didn't push.
She figured the walk was a test, see how far she could go, how long her endurance would last. For tomorrow's funeral.
"We need to talk about what happens when you're allowed back in New York," he said suddenly.
She stumbled and he was there, fingers at her elbow, but even though his touch was light, it still pulled.
She had to be able to do this. Alone.
She straightened up. "New York?"
His fingers gripped hard and then released. "It's not safe for you."
"It's not safe for you either," she grunted, avoiding the fence awkwardly. Her ability to turn was hampered by the pull in her back, but she managed. "But you're not hiding out. Did you forget that Maddox was aiming for you?"
"I'll never forget," he said roughly. "It will haunt me for the rest of my life, Kate."
She sighed, her heart squeezing, and even though it made keeping her balance all the more difficult, she hooked his fingers with her own.
"New York," she started. "When I'm cleared for duty, I think I should be safe enough, Castle. You're the one they think is a threat."
"That may be true, but don't think they won't use you to get to me."
Shit. "Can't let that stop us," she said finally.
"Beckett. I can't lose you too. Not after all of this. All that's been lost."
"Castle," she sighed, wished she could stop and rest but there was no place for it. She didn't know what to say, how to say the things that ought to be said between them after something like this.
"I won't endanger your life," he said quickly, his fingers tightening in hers. "I won't. I was thinking. . ."
"I'm not hiding," she said, knew exactly where he was going with this. "I will not hide out while you go after this guy alone. Bracken-"
"I'm going to take him out of the game," he said. "Cut off the head of the dragon."
She stopped at the fence, stared at him. "What? No. You can't do that."
"It's the only way. I kill him and you'll be safe, your mother's death - Eastman-"
"Castle, no. You can't. A CIA operative taking out an American citizen is treason, Castle."
"It's justice."
"That's not justice; that's vengeance."
"It's what has to be done," he said. His hands came to the fence rail at either side of her hips, his body crowding hers. She'd figured out his moves though, and his crowding couldn't bully her.
"Not like that," she said back, poking at his sternum. "That's not what my mother stood for, and I won't let you throw away your life on this-"
"Who said I'd be caught?" He'd turned seductive and charming, trying to get his way. "You do know I'm quite good at my job, Beckett."
She stared at him. "No. No. Not like this. There are rules."
"Rules he bulldozes right through. Bracken will kill you. Or me. Or someone else we love. He sent Raglan for Montgomery, Maddox for me. He won't stop now."
"You can't do this," she groaned. He was such a damn, pig-headed bully. He always thought he alone knew best. "You kill him and he'll never have to answer for what he's done."
"If it keeps you safe, if it gives us a chance, Kate Beckett, I will do everything in my power to take out Senator Bracken. He'll answer to me."
"Don't be one of them, Castle. Don't sink to their level. Our integrity is all-"
"I'm not a cop, Beckett. Don't confuse my job with yours."
She lifted her chin, glared at him. "Then be better than this. Be better."
"But I'm not better," he said quietly. "I murder people for a living. This is who I am."
She'd prove it to him; she would.
He wasn't what he said; he wasn't a murderer. No man could touch her like that and also have coldness in his heart. The way he anticipated her needs, how he relentlessly did what was best for her despite her refusal to see herself clearly - he was good to her, good for her, and she could be good for him. She would be.
If she had her strength, she'd seduce him into obedience, make him beg. If she had any of her usual methods available, she'd make him see, make him understand what he was, what he could be.
Bracken - the bastard - deserved to stand before the city and answer for his actions; the terrible truth had to be known, exposed.
But she was still broken. She couldn't do as she liked, and she knew that.
Still. She'd find a way.
"Dinner?" he said as they came in the front door.
"Yeah," she agreed, her stomach cramping after their fifteen minute walk. "But let me do it."
"Beckett-"
"I can make scrambled eggs, Castle. Watch me."
His smile was slow but it came; he followed her into the kitchen and hovered close by, as if he thought he'd need to catch her.
"Sit," she commanded. She could make him dinner; she couldn't seduce him with her body, but maybe she could with his. Stomach, heart, all that. She had to start doing this alone so that he could get back to his job, get back to making a case against Bracken and not plans to murder him.
Castle hesitated at the counter, watched her for a moment more, and then he turned and went to the table, sat down heavily.
She had months of recovery left, months in which she could slowly change his mind. And she would.
She had to.
This time when he unpacked the wound and put fresh alginate in the open hole at her back, she was ready for the pain. She was braced.
It still burned, her nerves sang, but she could handle it.
She was silent until he was done and then she drew her knees to her chest and forced herself to sit up. He was watching her like she'd performed a miracle.
"Beckett."
"I'm okay."
He blinked but nodded, and she reached for his hand to stay him.
"I don't need the ice," she said quietly. "Just you. Crawl in with me?"
She saw it cascade in his eyes, a waterfall of emotion. Had he always been so translucent or was it that she could read him so well?
He got out of the chair he'd pulled up beside the bed and stood, his hand shaking hers off only to card through her hair and cup her cheek. She turned her head and pressed her lips to his palm.
"Scoot over, Beckett."
She smiled and carefully eased her body over, her back alive with effort, letting itself be known. She ignored it and waited for him to come.
He'd changed into pajama pants, shirtless in the warmth of their bedroom, and she reached out and trailed her fingers over his shoulder as he came closer.
"Where do you want me?" he murmured, an eyebrow raised at her. She hadn't thought she'd be able to get him to lighten up, cast off his dour mood. But she saw a smile lurking around his mouth. And she'd put it there. By being strong, by covering up the pain and the weakness. She'd done that.
She liked his smile. She'd missed it.
"Lean back," she said, pushing on his chest. Her fingers burned with the heat of him, made her able to pretend that nothing was wrong with her.
When he was lying down, she arranged herself over him, her knee slipping between his and her head over his heart. She heard and felt his long sigh, and then his hand came up to the back of her neck and held her there.
He'd said good-bye to three of his team today. She'd been shot at her Captain's funeral, so she knew something about the weight of a day like this one. She curled her arm up at his chest and stroked her fingers over his sternum, pressed a kiss to his skin.
She would make this right.
Even if she had to align herself with his father to do it, she would keep him from killing Bracken. She would be strong enough to stop him.
He was right.
She totally pulled it off.
The wide, tan belt made the black dress tuck in just right at her hips, showing off the svelte line of her body and accenting the narrowness of her waist. The boots pulled it together, made her legs sinfully long.
Castle stood behind her, staring at the pale reach of her arms as she smoothed her hands over the dress before the bathroom mirror. He'd seen the anxious way she fretted at the material when he'd first put it on her and she'd gotten a glimpse of it. Even a sack of a dress couldn't disguise how beautiful she was, how her skin was luminescent and her eyes were so alive.
He'd wanted her to feel it too, to look at herself and believe it.
And he wanted her at that funeral. He needed her at that funeral, but he was disappointed in himself for it.
He reached out and snagged his fingers in her hair, curled the strands around his fist, then put his nose to her neck and breathed.
"Castle," she whispered. "Are you okay?"
No.
Her hand came back to his thigh, gripped his hip, hanging on to him. He slid his free arm around her waist, tried not to hurt her, tried not to pull on her. Her skin was warm and burning him through the thin material of the dress.
"Castle."
He sucked in a long, strangled breath and felt her sway. He should insist she stay here; he knew she'd skipped physical therapy just so she'd have the energy to come today. He should do right by her. She needed to heal.
"We have to go," she said softly.
He swallowed hard and lifted his head, loosened his hand from her hair. He should tell her to stay here; he should be man enough to attend this funeral alone.
Kate shifted slowly in the loose embrace of his arm, pressed her hand to his dress shirt, her eyes lifting to meet his.
"Thank you," she said, her voice quiet but strong. "I needed to feel like a human being again."
His throat closed up on all the words he should have said.
Funerals made him anxious now; his blood was beating hard through his body and every little sound made his head turn. He couldn't stand down from high alert and he wondered how Beckett could look so collected, so effortlessly graceful and poised.
They were standing at the back of eight rows of folding chairs, under a white tent set up at the graveside. He wanted to say something to Carrie, who was at the front taking people's condolences, but he hesitated at Beckett's side.
Maybe they should just sit.
Kate nudged him towards the line forming down the main aisle, nodded her head towards Carrie. He watched her holding her own, her back straight and the pain completely wiped from her face, and he reached out to take her hand. Kate gave him a quiet smile, one filled with determination, and her thumb rubbed over his, sensual and warm.
When he lifted his head, he saw Carrie was studying him. Her eyes were soft and she broke the receiving line to come to them, her arms out when she got near.
Castle allowed the hug, released her with something like relief. She turned immediately to Beckett and attempted the same, but Castle caught Carrie's hands before she could squeeze Beckett's back.
Kate flashed him a narrow look, but Carrie's confusion was all over her face. Confusion and a sense of recognition.
"Sorry," he said with a tight smile. "This is Kate. She was-"
"Shot," Carrie said suddenly, her face blank. "I saw it on the news. About two months ago. Oh my God, Richard, that was you."
Carrie swiveled to him with a look of horror, then gripped Beckett by the hand.
"Me?" he said quietly. Had his presence been reported in the local news? He'd thought his father had suppressed that.
"In the footage. It was you. Detective, you saved his life."
Beckett was grimacing but he nodded. "She did. Carrie Eastman, meet Detective Kate Beckett. The woman who jumped in front of a bullet for me."
Kate pinched the webbing between his thumb and finger with her nails and he jerked, glared at her.
"Good to meet you," Beckett said firmly. "Although I wish the circumstances were different."
Before Carrie could say anything, Castle stepped in closer, kept his voice low. "There's footage?"
"Cell phone video. It's at some distance. The pallbearers taking out the casket - that's what you see first - and then you hear the shot, shots, and then her."
Kate gave him a swift look.
"Her," he repeated, and he could see again the slick slide of life right out of Kate's face as she'd been shot in front of him.
Carrie raised an eyebrow then glanced once to Kate like she wasn't sure she should say.
"Carrie," he said quietly. "Am I on the video?"
"Not your face," she said finally. "I just thought - it just seemed familiar when I saw it. The camera phone must have been behind you. I think they said some teenager, impressed by seeing the ceremony, so many cops-"
"The Sea of Blue," Kate said quietly.
Castle glanced at her face, saw the bloodless tinge to her lips. But he didn't think it was pain, only memory.
He wanted to interrogate Carrie Eastman, find out what the news had been saying about the shooting, find out just what information had gotten past the CIA's careful coverup - or had been purposefully leaked by his damn father.
But this wasn't the time or place.
He made a mental note to check out news footage and leaned in to give Carrie another hug. "I think you're wanted. We'll take our seats."
Eastman's wife turned and glanced towards the front where her parents were standing, along with a few others. He didn't know those people, didn't know any of these people, actually, and he wondered if Eastman had.
Or if they were here for Carrie.
She finally left them with a squeeze of Castle's hand, and he turned to Kate.
She was swallowing quickly, her hands in fists, so he led her to the back row and helped her to sit down.
"How are you doing?" he murmured quietly.
"I'm fine," she said. "I'm okay. Really."
He watched her a moment more and then accepted it, true or not.
"I like her," Kate said suddenly. "I like her a lot."
He nodded, his throat closing and words unable to make it out.
"I can't help think. . ." Kate trailed off.
"What?"
She turned her eyes to him, anguish rooted deep. "Is that going to be me one day?"
He fisted his hands to keep from reaching out to her. "I can't promise that it won't be." The weight of those words made him wretched.
She slid her hand onto his knee and squeezed. "Rick."
He lifted his eyes to her.
She shook her head. "And neither can I promise it won't be you."
Somehow, in some twisted and messed up way, that made him feel better. They both had jobs that could take one of them away from the other.
Black had sent him the cell phone video immediately after Castle had put in the request. His phone burred with the incoming attachment and he put his hand in his pocket to feel it.
Beckett was in therapy with Dr King when Castle finally pulled his phone out and looked at the message. The video file was shorter than he'd expected, and he knew the CIA guys had gone over it at the time for leads on Maddox, but he couldn't help his sense of horror at seeing just the first still frame of it - the back doors of the hearse and the edge of the coffin.
He couldn't watch this alone. He needed to have Beckett here, somehow, have her touchable. Where he could reassure himself that it was over and she was alive.
But he didn't necessarily want her to have to see it either.
He pushed his phone back into his pocket and decided to wait for the right time, feeling the heavy weight of that video on him. When Beckett left the psychologist's session, she went straight for the barn outside; he saw her sitting in the sun with her eyes closed, and he wondered what she was thinking. Processing. It looked intense.
Castle changed into work out clothes and lifted weights until the task ahead of him receded and he could wipe his mind with the grueling effort of muscle. Beckett would have physical therapy tomorrow, not today because of the funeral, so he put himself through his routine quickly, didn't want her to come looking for him here.
When he was through, he showered in the attached bathroom turned locker room, then he pulled on clean sweats and a tshirt. He scrubbed his hands through his wet hair and rubbed his face, but the specter of that video file had come back to haunt him.
Fuck. He had to look at it. He had to be sure there was no way he'd been made, his cover blown. It was already bad enough that her team knew he was an operative. Ask the right questions and the connections could be made.
It wouldn't just be Bracken after her then. It'd be his enemies from around the globe.
Damn. He had to watch that video.
She was asleep in bed when he came in after his shower.
Perfect timing.
He couldn't ask for better.
Castle pulled the chair close to the bed and scratched at his jaw, watched Beckett for a moment. On her stomach, lines around her eyes like the pain hadn't left her, even in sleep.
He unlocked his phone and the message was still up on the screen, front and center. The video attachment with the still image made him swallow hard, but he tapped it and let it play.
At first the audio surprised him - loud with the rustle of feet, wind in clothes, the teenager talking to someone. The camera jerked and waved over a sea of police officers, stilled on a few, panned the crowd again. The teenager was being a jackass, rude, and Castle turned the volume down a little, his eyes on the screen.
He pressed a hand to his forehead and watched the camera come to rest on the hearse, the back doors already open. There was Beckett, last in line of pallbearers, her face grim under the brim of her uniform hat. Her white gloved hand twitched against her thigh, the precursor to her movement, but then the shot moved away to include the hearse again, the coffin beginning to slide out.
And then the shot, explosive and jarring in the phone's small speakers, and the camera jerked on a crooked path straight to Beckett, and Castle's back, and her face. Fuck. Her face as he gripped her by the arms, fuck it all, why had he just fucking held her in the path of that damn bullet?
He groaned and closed his eyes, heart pounding too hard, heard the screams and the kid's hoarse yelling, then more gunfire. He pushed open his eyes and saw the camera hadn't faltered, stayed on the two of them even as Beckett was down on the ground - all that could be seen past his own bulk was the white of her gloved hand.
And then another series of shots - when Maddox had been caught, he assumed - and the camera was swerving to follow and then nothing.
His hands were slick with sweat.
"Rick." He felt her fingers tugging at the phone. His hand stopped working and she snagged the phone from him; he lifted his head to see her wounded eyes.
"Kate," he choked out.
"I didn't want you to have see that," she said, her lips pressed. She averted her eyes and moved to sit up, the phone cradled to her chest with her stiff arm. "Shit. I didn't want you to see me getting shot in the back like a coward again. What a fucking idiot I was to just stand there-"
"What?" he gasped, his chest ripping open at the look on her face now. Now. Not in that video, but here. Like she was-
"I couldn't even-"
He reached out and grasped her by the shoulders, yanked her roughly up into his arms, tightening his hold around her - alive and warm and struggling against him and alive.
"You saved my life," he muttered, pressed his mouth to her neck, her cheek, her jaw. "You weren't - shit, you can't possibly be critiquing yourself for that. Inelegant and fucking gut-wrenching as it was - damn it, Kate. What the hell?"
She made a noise in her throat and he realized he was hurting her, had to let her go with a flush of shame, gripping her by her good shoulder to keep her from falling back to the bed. Her face was white with it.
"I'm sorry. I just - I forgot. Kate. God, I'm-"
"I'm fine," she growled, shaking her head. "Fine. Stop apologizing."
But it was still on her face, and he saw now that it wasn't just the current pain, but the image she had of herself as failing. Failing. A failure to him, to herself, over and over. Damn it. He knew she'd felt like that, knew she was covering over some ugly wounds, but he hadn't realized how deep her sense of perfectionism and duty and. . .
What was this?
"Beckett," he said, tried to figure it out, tried to divine her secrets with the calling of her name.
She lifted her head to him with a rueful look. Self-deprecating. Resigned.
Oh fuck.
Love.
She loved him and she'd gotten shot to save his life, but if her love had been better, stronger, faster, she'd not be making him feel so guilty and concerned and worried and-
Fuck.
They were messed up.
He crawled into bed with her because he didn't know what the hell to say to that, didn't know what to do other than what he always did.
He pulled her chest to his and clutched the back of her neck, his phone hitting the floor as he arranged her over himself, and he shut his eyes to it.
He had a thousand stupid things he could say, a million clogging his throat to get out. He flexed his fingers at her neck like he might write his love into her skin itself, but still-
Still he said nothing.
Because it wouldn't be enough.
He had to stop hovering over her. He had to stop worrying and fretting and acting like she'd collapse at any moment. He had to go back to work and leave her alone to heal. She wanted to be strong for him; she felt guilty for his concern, guilty because he loved her too, and all this guilt swimming between them wasn't doing her any good.
He had to let her do this on her own, because she was Kate Beckett. That was how she worked.
He'd known that. At one point, he'd figured that out.
But in his selfishness for her, he'd forgotten. He'd been pickle and mint to her wound; he'd put her on a damn camel and sent her to the wrong fucking embassy instead of being good for her. Instead of being healing.
He could be good for her again.