She grabs the Motorola off the table after Esposito's gone and stalks, clutching it, to the other side of the room. A total change from how she was when she was standing in a towel, pressing his body into her as she ran her fingers over his arm. She must have really believed he'd leave her. Go home with Esposito, abandon her in the drab motel room to fend for herself.
He tries to formulate words, tries to figure how to tell her that he won't leave her, will never leave her willingly again, but then she's pressing the phone to her ear and murmuring a quiet "Hey, Dad," and stepping into the bathroom, shutting the door firmly behind her.
He can't make out the words, but he can hear her voice, low and calm and reassuring, echoing through the door. He sinks into the chair she recently vacated, closes his eyes, and lets it anchor him, the steady lift and fall of her voice, the easy pauses, the smooth cadence of her speech.
When she emerges, she seems softer, the line of her jaw a little looser, the angle of her shoulders slightly more relaxed. "My dad says thanks," she offers, her face smooth, expressionless. He knows from her tone that this is the only apology she'll offer.
He stands, walks over to her, gently curls one hand at her elbow and the other around her back. "Anything for his daughter," he whispers, brushing his lips over the crown of her head, tugging her closer, so that the front of her body is just a breath away from his, so that he can soak in the warmth and life of her.
"It's not that I don't want you," she murmurs, the words rumbling against his clavicle. "You know that, right?"
He squeezes his fingers around her elbow, keeps his mouth pressed lightly against the top of her forehead. "I know. I understand." And he does – it's the same impossible choice that he would want her to make, her comfort for his, her safety for his, and it's neither of their faults that they are in a place, now, where their most fundamental desires keep clashing against one another. He just wants to be with her. She just wants him to be safe.
She pulls away first, sighing softly, stepping back to pick up her dirty jeans and shirt. "We should probably go," she says.
"You don't think you'll be presentable in my boxers?" he murmurs, smiling.
"Mmm. Not really the kind of low profile statement we should be making." He starts to cobble together a retort about profiles and the kind of statements he'd like to make, but she thumps him soundly in the side. "Focus, Castle. Come on. I'll let you buy a new outfit for me."
He gapes. "You tell me to focus and then you say that?"
She winds north through the back roads for over an hour, through small towns and fields and woods. Finally, they drive past a strip of stark, industrial shops, right past what seems like an ideal used car lot, a rundown building with an assortment of cars in various stages of deterioration.
"Thought you wanted to switch cars first?" he asks.
"Mmm," she hums, suddenly swerving onto a side road that winds into a quickly-thickening forest.
She drives for another mile in silence, her jaw tight, her knuckles clenched around the steering wheel, until she hits a sharp bend in the road at a dense part of the forest.
She glances over at him, assessing. "Hold on," she murmurs, and then she's twisting the wheel and driving into the woods and he's letting out the least manly squeak to ever leave his body.
Twenty feet off the road, the hood is nudged into a tree and she's twisting the key, cutting the engine off like she drives his town car through a forest every day and he can't help but stare at her with some combination of admiration and horror. "Did you just drive my car into a tree?"
She smiles, but it's underpinned with a kind of hesitance that makes him swallow. "Just – wanted to make it a little harder to find. Just in case. Sorry. I'll buy you a new one."
"No, no need, really. That was kind of hot."
She rolls her eyes, but the hesitance leaves her expression. "Get the bags, Castle."
"Does this mean we have to walk?" he asks as he yanks the duffles out of the back.
"Castle, it's a mile and a half down paved roads."
He studies the car. "Oh, oh, can we please torch it? Do you have a lighter?"
"No."
"No to which question?"
"Just no."
He shifts, distributing the weight of the bags. "Maybe we could find a baseball bat and trash it. Oh, or a tree limb."
She holds out a hand. "Did someone sneak you an upper while I wasn't looking? Give me a bag."
"Just high on the thrill of the chase. The crash, I guess. And no, stop launching an assault on my manliness. You've done enough to me through damaging my car."
"I think we need to walk silently to the dealership."
"Contemplative silent like Thoreau in the woods, or stealth silent like sneaky ninjas?"
"Any kind of silent that starts now, Castle," she says, but as she speaks there's a smile in her voice and she falls into step directly beside him, her knuckle brushing against the back of his hand with every swing of every step.
He can't help but adore the delightfully creepy car dealership, at least until the moment the thickly-muscled thirty-something steps out of the dilapidated building and fixes his eyes on Beckett.
"I'm Terry," he says, reaching out a hand to her. He doesn't so much as glance at Castle.
"Lisa," she says, shaking his hand. He doesn't let go soon enough for Castle's taste.
Fake names on top of their fake names. He supposes the ramshackle building and rundown cars don't make it seem like it's the type of place that'll be checking IDs and issuing titles. "Carl," he says, tilting himself in front of Beckett, grasping Terry's fingers a little too firmly. "We're looking to buy a car. A cheap car. We have cash."
He's not sure how the guy'll take it, them wandering into the lot with two duffle bags, promising cash for a car, but he just shrugs, says, "Have a look around," and gestures expansively to the small array of sedans.
Beckett's suddenly, uncharacteristically quiet as they wander the lot, Terry trailing just behind them. She hangs a step back, lets her hair fall in a curtain over her face, stays quiet as he peruses the cars. He hones in on a black '88 Taurus and gets the keys from Terry to see if the slightly battered car will start. Beckett stays standing just to the right of the driver's side wheel. Terry sidles up to her a little too casually. Castle holds his breath to make out their conversation.
"Hey, sweetie."
Beckett hums an unintelligible response, doesn't spin on a heel and kick the idiot's ass for calling her sweetie. Castle feels his throat tighten – is she having a panic attack? Does she have some kind of internal injury that's only just now making itself known?
"Couldn't help but notice your bruises," Terry says, indicating to her neck. "Your husband like to smack you around? He get a little rough with you sometimes?"
The car coughs to a start, and he's glad, it gives him a minute to breathe through it, to inhale around the stranger's thought of him wrapping his hands around Kate Beckett's neck and squeezing, squeezing hard enough to make her gasp for breath, hard enough to press those livid marks into her throat.
"M'fine," she murmurs, stepping away, closer to the car, and he finally, finally gets it. Everything now depends on their flying under the radar – her life, his life, their future – and there is nothing about Beckett that is unnoticeable. Perking up and giving the guy an attitude might make her more memorable, but he won't forget her anyway, the tall, gorgeous woman with the bruises around her throat. Even staying quiet and mumbling incoherent responses, there's nothing she can do to change that. She can tone it down, but she can't change the captivating, crackling energy that surrounds her, the pull that inevitably draws everyone's gazes to her.
She's so amazing at so many things, but passing under the radar will never be one of them.
A messy $1,000 is scrawled on the windshield of the car, and he reaches into the duffle bag that's sitting next to him to covertly count out the money. This isn't his usual price range of vehicle, and he thinks maybe he should try to haggle the price down, but he'd pay double just to get this guy away from Beckett as quickly as possible.
"We'll take it," he says, stepping out of the car with the cash, pressing the bills firmly into Terry's palm.
The other man, unfortunately, won't quite let it go. He grabs Beckett's wrist as she starts to walk around to the passenger seat. Castle feels the muscles in his biceps tense, but he presses his fingers together, forces himself to stand quietly for a moment, to let Beckett work it out. He can tell from the sharpness of her inhale just how frustrated she is.
"You don't need to go with him," Terry says. If he doesn't let go of Beckett's wrist soon, Castle's ready to confirm every one of his suspicions by punching him in the face.
"I do," Beckett says, her voice low, dangerous, as she yanks her hand away with enough strength that Terry stumbles back a step.
She stalks over to the passenger seat, throws the duffle bags from there into the back, slams the door violently. Castle slides in after her.
"Drive," she growls at him.
"You don't want to try to get a title?" Castle asks, even though he already knows the answer.
"This isn't the kind of place you get a title, Castle. Just drive."
He turns the key, and the engine slowly chugs to life. Terry stays watching as they pull back out onto the road. Castle can feel the man's eyes on the back of their car even after they're miles away, can feel the intensity of his gaze, cataloging them, internalizing them.
They're both silent as Castle winds north on the road, past the turnoff where they dumped his (far more maneuverable and comfortable) sedan.
"It's the damn bruises," she says out of the blue, brushing her hand over her neck. "He wouldn't have noticed so much…" she trails off, sighs. "He's going to remember us, now."
"It's not just the bruises, Kate," he says gently.
"Hmm?" she murmurs, still only partially paying attention, her gaze unfocused out the window.
"It's you," he says, reaching over to snag her hand. Her wedding ring is cold against him, makes his fingers trip over her knuckles. "You're not forgettable. With or without bruises."
She finally turns to face him, smiles a little wickedly. "You're not so forgettable yourself, Castle."
He sighs. "Not like that," he says, finally understanding how it might be frustrating to have someone constantly joking with you when you are trying to make a point.
She doesn't stop smiling. "I know. I just mean – you make an impression too, you know. Without trying to. Probably even when you're trying not to, not that that's ever happened."
"We're doomed," he murmurs, but her expression doesn't darken like he thinks it might after the words tumble free.
"At least we're doomed together."