MAELSTROM

CHAPTER THREE – LOUDER THAN WORDS

A/N - Thank you all for the amazing response to this story. I wasn't expecting this many readers, let alone the praise. Apologies for the length of this chapter...

And again, like the broken record I am, thank you to 47alwayswriting for her beta-ing and her encouragement. Go check out her stories if you haven't already, because they're amazeballs. Yes, I went there.

Disclaimer - do I really need to reiterate this? I own nothing.

"We speak for the dead. That's the job. We are all they've got once the wicked rob them of their voices. We owe them that. But we don't owe them our lives."

Captain Roy Montgomery, NYPD Twelfth Precinct. R.I.P.

Kate stares at the light flaring through the bookshelves that act as a wall between Castle's bedroom and office (only a writer would have bookshelves for a privacy screen, she smirks to herself). It's serene and peaceful, even with the almost painful contractions of her pupils every time the lightning crashes and bathes the room in vivid white.

She smiles, revelling in the unfamiliar and welcome touch of Castle's feet as they slide against hers. He's wrapped around her back like a comforting shawl; she's never felt so good about being the little spoon before. She squirms pleasantly as he presses his lips softly against the nape of her neck, arching her backside into him as his palm slowly, lazily explores her body.

He's very talented in bed, and she's not surprised about that. God knows, his reputation as a Page 6 playboy exists for a reason. But it's the gentle possessiveness after their earth-shaking sex that she's finding the most surprising thing about him. He can't stop touching her, whether he's making love to her or not.

She's always been a little reluctant to truly give in to post-sex snuggling, always a little awkward and standoffish, even with longer term partners like Josh. But she's not like that with Castle. As strange as it seems, cuddling, kissing, coming down from the high with Castle – it's the most natural thing in the world. She can't imagine not doing this with him.

How things change, she suddenly thinks, ruefully remembering what he was like at the start, and what she was like. How their adversarial relationship slowly led to this.

If she's completely honest with herself, yet again, she knows she's imagined what it would be like with Castle. There's always been that temptation. From the very start, she'd found him physically attractive, even though he was an exasperating ass. And even though actually meeting him had utterly destroyed any of the fangirlish crush she'd had for him through his writing and from that brief book signing years ago, it had been replaced with an infuriating attraction that she'd had to fight hard to succumb to.

He was definitely the most aggravating man she'd ever had to deal with; but there was a spark. She came pretty close to jumping his bones after that first case, just before she came to her senses and whispered teasingly in his ear before sauntering away. And as she'd gotten to know him, respect him and even like him, that temptation only grew.

Paradoxically, it also became easier to deny. At first it was because she enjoyed the game too much – their constant teasing, bantering, bickering – all part of the choreographed, sexy dance they both loved to engage in. It was safe. There was no real danger of it ever becoming real. Until it became very, very real.

Slowly, like stone being eroded by water, the real essence of their feelings was revealed. And with the revelations came the misunderstandings, the jealousies, the betrayals. Like Castle had brokenly and tearfully told her the night before – everything they'd been through. It was so much. So much more than any normal couple had to endure.

But then, they'd never been normal. Not even close.

Even before that day when she died on the grass alongside Montgomery, Castle hovering above her, pleading her to live and to love him – she knew that whatever they had together would be beyond intense. There could be no "one-foot-out-the-door" mentality with him. It would be all or nothing. The thought scared the absolute hell out of her.

That was why she hid from him for three months. That was why she pretended she'd not heard his desperate confession. Why she'd been so unsure of letting him know that she felt it too. And why, even after all that's happened in the past twenty-four hours (no scratch that – in the past three and a half years), she still can't bring herself to say those simple words to him.

I love you.

I love you, Castle. Rick. Richard Castle.

I love Richard Castle.

Even in her head, they sound surreal.

The truth, she knows, all goes back to the wall. Like the song said, it was all just bricks in the wall. She used disappointments, tragedies, and badly-timed declarations of love to add to the damnable thing, brick by brick. It kept her from jumping headlong into this. She knows part of it is still there, just waiting for an opportunity, one little misstep, one little misunderstanding, to start her rebuilding it and to trap her again. But she's come this far. She's stepped over the crumbled remains of it and she knows that she won't rebuild it.

All the while she's lying there in the circle of his arms, listening to the relentless rain and feeling his heart beat at her back – even while part of her mind is whirling and trying its best to spin her into a panic spiral, she knows the siren call of the wall won't prevail. Because she knows why she's here. She's chosen him over the job. She's chosen him over vengeance, and in spite of the secret he kept from her these past eight months.

She's chosen him over the desolation of loneliness, and the acid bite of nebulous hatred.

Because, as she hung by her fingertips on that rooftop, with only sheer willpower keeping her there, and even before she thought she heard his voice, all she could think of was the sorrow in knowing what Castle's reaction would be if he found out about her death by a newspaper headline. Or from Javi or Kevin. Or Captain Gates. Or her dad...

Maybe she should feel guilty, that the thoughts that flashed through her mind as she came so close to death weren't even of her father. But as she strokes the back of Castle's hand as it plays lightly over her belly, she can't even feel a smidgen of remorse.

All of a sudden, she needs to feel him in her arms; she turns, sliding over the sheet, and buries her face in his shoulder, wrapping her arms around him fiercely. He's not even surprised – he just envelopes her in a hug that takes her breath away. Literally. She winces slightly as he squeezes her bruised ribs, unable to stop the slight hiss of pain.

Memories of Maddox and their fight on the rooftop of the Rosslyn Hotel suddenly flash through her mind, and as well as the anger and ferocity of her feelings towards the assassin, and his callous cruelty. She's suddenly aware of just how close she came to dying. It terrifies her in a way that confronting her own mortality never has before, and she has looked into that deep abyss of impending doom many times. But now – she has so much to lose. And she came so close to losing it before it even became a reality. She can't help but shudder at the thought.

Castle pulls back slightly at her wince, concerned. His face tightens as he seems to recognise the damage to her skin - the legacy of her tussle on the rooftop – for the first time. No doubt taking in the bruising that's rising across her ribs, the tender spot under them where Maddox viciously slammed his knee into her. She realises that she must look a wreck. Not that he seemed to care before, as he worshipped and ravished her body with a reverence that had her regretting, yet again, that they'd not done this sooner. But whereas before his eyes were filled with wonder and a healthy dose of lust, she sees now that they're narrowed and questioning.

She knows what he's going to ask – she knew it was coming. And she steels herself for another confession.

Her mind drifts to that morning, as she stood at Johanna Beckett's grave. The sunlight was so incongruous as it bathed her in its warmth, but it couldn't touch the freezing cold at her core. She'd let her tears flow unhindered as she grieved the loss of her innocence, her mother's life, and as she thought then, any kind of life she might have had with Castle. His betrayal was only part of her sorrow.

At that moment, she had thought she would never forgive him for his lies of omission. But hours later, she had almost met her doom. And all she could think about was him.

And now, she feels a pang of regret that in making her decision, in choosing him, she will probably never know what truly happened to her mother in that arctic alley thirteen years ago. But as she stares into the troubled eyes of her lover, the man who started the whole ball rolling again, she knows that she can let it go. That her mother would think it's okay. That Johanna would probably tell her something reminiscent of what Montgomery said to her last year - "I'm dead, Katie. You're still alive. Live your life, darling. Please."

She's going to do just that. Embrace life, for the first time in so long. And that means not hiding anything from this man. But she knows herself, and how keeping things to herself, bottled up, is more than just a compulsion. It's been the way she's defined herself for such a long time. It's second nature. Even she were not burdened with that protective but ultimately self-destructive tendency, it would still be so hard to relate the detailed story of the last twelve hours, with the pain and the humiliation so raw.

She's naked in his arms, but that's not enough. She knows it, and he knows it. He needs her to be open with him, and she knows she owes it to him. Not to mention to herself.

"Beckett. Tell me what happened. You said you almost died."

Her eyes momentarily evade his. She's clearly uncomfortable about elaborating on her doorstep confession, as she stood there pleading with him in that soft voice with tears marring her fine features. He won't let her off the hook, as she didn't let him off the hook in the pursuit of his shameful confession.

"I need to know." His voice is gentle, but insistent. He tilts her head up with a fingertip under her chin, slightly forcefully, so she can't avoid his gaze.

She's silent, and her eyes give nothing away, unwavering and hooded. But she nods, and softly, haltingly tells the story.

Of how they tracked down the man who went under the name of Maddox through the car he rented – the long-shot that was the blurry videocaption of the casually-brandished keychain paying off and eventually leading to the Rosslyn Hotel.

Of how he got the drop on them in his room as they pored over the photo album he had procured from the late Captain Montgomery's office. How he took Espo down mercilessly, as if the former Special Forces soldier were just a rookie.

Her voice gets softer and hoarser as she tells him, in choppy sentences, about the fight, and how she ended up hanging from a rooftop.

She doesn't need to give him details. Lord knows his imagination is good enough to supply them, fill in the blanks, and leave his gut twisted in tension and self-recrimination.

You should have been there, you stupid asshole.

He's stayed silent throughout her story; for once he didn't feel the need to interject with questions or pithy comments. He knows she's leaving things out – he can see through her tells pretty well, even when – no, especially when – she's lying in his arms. But he knows it's hard for her, so he doesn't push it.

The story ends. Ryan – Kevin Ryan, not him (and it should have been me, damn it) saved her life. Pulled her up from the brink of oblivion. And while he's glad she told him – and that she lived to tell him – the conflicting emotions and shameful thoughts run rampant. Selfish, unwanted thoughts swirling with self-damning ones.

You had to fall in love with a woman this headstrong, didn't you, Rick?

My god, why did I start this? Why did I dig into this case in the first place? She should NEVER have been put in that position.

She couldn't help herself, could she? She just had to poke the wasps' nest.

Why didn't I just TELL her what I knew? We could have prevented this...

On and on they roll, a loud, messy cacophony in his head, feuding voices screaming for his attention, while he does his best to ignore them and remain silent. He's afraid to speak; he doesn't know what to say. A not uncommon occurrence when it comes to Kate Beckett – as his mother once berated him.

"For a man who makes his living with words, you sure have a hell of a time finding them when it counts."

He's reminded of that again as she grasps his chin, forcing him to face her and look her in the eyes. "Castle, say something. Your silence...it's kinda unnerving."

He forces out a chuckle. "Sorry. I just... I'm just so glad you're okay." It's pathetic, really, and he's ashamed of his awkwardness. Glad she's okay? Good God, man, you're not just glad. You're ECSTATIC. What the hell is wrong with you?

But she seems a little relieved; she smiles and lightly kisses him. Gazes fondly at him, and all the misgivings he's had about her, ever – they all seem to fade into insignificance when she looks at him like that.

"I should send Ryan a million bucks or something. Thank you card at the least. If he hadn't been there..."

"Yeah," she hums. "Thank god. I couldn't even be angry at him for telling Gates."

He does a double-take - she hadn't said anything about that. "Oh man. Gates knows? How much does she know?" He's suddenly worried about the scope of the whole coverup they've perpetrated for the last year. And how nasty the fallout might be for them all – but especially for her – if ex-Internal Affairs Iron Gates has the entire story in front of her.

And Montgomery's name will be mud...

"Not sure, to be honest. Anyway, it doesn't matter any more. It's done. I'm done with it."

She unconsciously echoes the same words he told her last night. Her words disquiet him. This doesn't sound like the Beckett he knows – the tenacious fighter who runs headlong into danger. Sure, she tearfully apologised and then made him forget every entreaty in his head that had him damning her and her memory to the trashcan of his history – but this sounds so... final. Almost defeatist.

He hesitantly glides his hand from where it rests on her shoulder, across her sharp collarbone, to the hollow of her throat, and then down between her breasts, to tenderly circle the scar with his thumb. Her scar. Their scar. A tidal wave of emotion threatens to overwhelm him as he takes in that blemish – that vivid reminder of how close he came to losing her. And he can't believe that she means it, that she's really willing to just throw away her quest for him. Even though he wanted her to do it, begged her.

He's still finding it so hard to be candid with her, even after all they've shared. She's opened up to him in the past few hours more than she ever has before, physically and emotionally, but he still finds himself wary of this newfound forthrightness. It's a strange new dynamic and while he loves it, and her more for it, he doesn't know how tenuous it is, and he's afraid of scaring her back into her burrow like she's a wild animal he just managed to coax into eating out of his hand. Even so, he knows there's more to the story. There almost always is. And his natural curiosity, his greatest asset but also a curse, rears its ugly head again.

"What do you think happened to Maddox?" he suddenly blurts out. Funny how as soon as she does what he wants her to do - forget about the whole thing - his curiosity is piqued. "I mean, leaving you there to die? Isn't that the biggest cliché a supervillain can be guilty of, short of telling you the whole plan and cackling evilly...?"

He trails off as she shoots him the old, familiar Beckett glare, and he's oddly reassured at its return. But also a little guilty as he realises he was making a joke about her almost dying.

"Sorry. I know – my coping mechanisms can be a little inappropriate," he mutters.

"Just a little?" she retorts, but there's not much sting in her words as a small smile replaces the grim look. It's short-lived, though, as she sobers once again.

"I meant it, though. I am done. I choose you." She punctuates each sentence with a kiss. As if she's sealing each promise.

"Even when I was hanging there, you were all I could think about. I even..." and her voice fades.

"What?"

"It's...stupid." She ducks her head, suddenly embarrassed.

"Hey." Again, he gently tips her face up so she can't avoid his gaze. "Please, tell me. It's obviously important."

She chuckles, but even in the dim he can see the color rising to her cheeks. Whatever she's holding back is actually mortifying to her.

"It's just that...while Ryan was running to the edge, calling my name...I swear at that moment I heard your voice. It was you calling my name. And when he pulled me up...God. Poor guy, I feel so bad for him. He saved my life and all I could do was say your name."

He silently processes this. He can imagine her all too vividly, hanging from the edge and answering what she thought was his call. His guilt, ever close to the surface of his mind, comes rushing up again.

"I really thought it was you," she continues, murmuring now. "And that's when I realised...that you mattered more."

He now knows what it feels like to feel free as a bird, heart aloft, and at the same time like that same bird being cruelly crushed underfoot. It's an odd sensation. He's horrified.

I should have been there. Oh God, why wasn't I there?

He hadn't had her back. He'd left her. And she almost died. It doesn't matter what he'd told her the night before. He'd made a promise to her, even if she'd never known about it. He'd said he would protect her. He'd told the Mystery Man, Montgomery's friend, that he would keep her safe. And in the end, he just couldn't do it. He's ashamed of his cowardice and his pride.

It almost got her killed. She might have been ready to throw her life away, but he'd almost let her.

"I...I shouldn't have walked away last night. I should have...I don't know, even physically restrained you..."

...she's dismayed as she sees him choking back a sob at his utterance. Oh, Castle...

"Don't you understand?" She reaches up and cups his cheeks in her hands, pulling his forehead down to meet hers. Staring deep into those shimmering eyes. The look on his face – he's so miserable, his face so downcast, and she has to nip that in the bud right now. She can't have him blaming himself, yet again.

"You did the right thing. You told me. All those things I said...that was before. I understand now. Really." She shoots him a rueful little grin. "And besides, you know I can kick your ass, right? 'Physically restrained me'? Really?"

Her attempt at humor doesn't quite work. He just sadly smiles in return. And she suddenly remembers that night in the hangar with Montgomery, when he did physically lift her up and carry her away, away from her benefactor and betrayer. And they left him to die.

She has a feeling he's remembering the same thing too. She forces the memory away – it's not something she wants to deal with now. This current hurt is more important.

She ponders the pain she felt last night towards Castle. The anger. And how it seems so irrelevant now. Eons have passed since she'd thought he had walked out of her life for good, and she finds it hard to believe that she could ever have thought that she could let him go.

The silence between them deepens, stretches. Louder than words.

She's never been good at words, and while he's usually a master of them, it seems that they've deserted him. So for once, she has to be the one to try and articulate what this all means to her.

"I know you didn't betray me now, Castle. I know you were protecting me, and why. I...look, I still wish you'd told me sooner, but I understand why you didn't."

He nods slightly, his eyes hooded. He can't stop staring at the scar that mars her chest. "You'd've gotten yourself killed. I just couldn't let that happen..."

"I know. I know." She reaches down to grasp his hand, and presses his fingers once more into the scar. Letting him feel it. Its rough edges. All of its meaning.

"I would've fallen into that rabbit hole again. I told my therapist that I wanted to be more, that I didn't want to let Mom's death define me anymore. And you...all this time, you were helping me do that in your own way."

And he has been there. After three months of silence, and then eight more of keeping him at arms' length – but never further than that because she still selfishly needed him – even after she broke his heart, he was there. Watching her. Waiting for her. Loving her.

He's watching her now, and his eyes seem to be swimming. Or maybe it's that her own vision is blurred. But his love for her is written so clearly on his face, it might as well be tattooed into his forehead.

And though she still can't bring herself to say those words to him, she knows that he knows. It's so obvious in the way she's holding him, with her arms and with her gaze. She doesn't need to shout it from the rooftops.

Still, she has so much to say. So much she wants to say. But even after all the talking they've done tonight, words seem inadequate and clumsy.

So she settles for simple.

"Thank you." Her voice catches around a lump in her throat. "Thank you, for looking out for me. Thank you for being there."

His voice in return is choked, and so quiet that she barely hears him. But that lovely word – their word, so imbued with meaning – she thinks she would hear it if she were still standing outside in the storm gazing up at his window.

"Always."

She stops trying to hold back the tears. There's no need now – not when she's bared her body and soul to this man more than she ever has with anyone before. She buries her face once more into the crook of his neck and breathes deeply, taking in their combined scent, composing herself so she doesn't spend the rest of the night blubbering on him. Because it would be such a pity to go to sleep still sad. Not that she has to be anywhere tomorrow...

And with that, she remembers. She really doesn't have to be anywhere tomorrow. She's not even a cop anymore.

In the silence that speaks so much louder than words, he holds her in his arms. Still so unbelieving that she's here, and that she's been so open with him. Kate Beckett, the woman who would sometimes rather gnaw off her own hand than share her feelings. He's so happy, he's still half-convinced that this is all a figment of his imagination.

And then, she chuckles. It almost sounds rueful.

"Don't know what I'm gonna do now, though. With my life."

"With...your life? What?" He's confused and slightly alarmed as he clutches her shoulders and pushes her away so he can stare at her again.

"Well... I quit."

He's still not getting it. He's hearing words but they're not registering.

"Quit? Quit what?"

She raises an eyebrow, smiling in a slightly sardonic way. "My job, Castle. What else would I be talking about?"

She's managed to surprise him yet again. He would never dream that she would give up being a cop. It's what she is – more than a job, it's her entire life.

"But...why?"

"Well. Gates was gonna suspend me anyway. And...well."

He can see the cogs in her head turning as she ponders her own words. Through his shock, he can see that she's just realising that she hadn't thought it through all that deeply either.

But steely resolve suddenly transforms her features, and there – there is the Beckett he's known all this time and loved so fiercely. The determined, tenacious woman who doesn't back down.

"I did it for you, Castle. And for me. It's one way to distance myself from the case."

The full implications of her words hit him. He realises just how much her life has been turned upside down and back to front by his presence in it. How much he's changed her.

"You... f- for me? Oh Kate... I..." And he's speechless again.

She tenderly runs a finger over his lips, as if to stop him from attempting to run his mouth. "I can't go back there. I'd just be so close to temptation. It's like I said all those years ago, you know? I'm like a recovering alcoholic craving one last drink. It'll never be enough. And I really don't care anymore. Not...not enough to stop.." she trails off, and kisses him.

"Not enough to stop this."

Her words comfort him, and amaze him. Just when he thought he couldn't fall for her any deeper than he already has, there she goes and challenges his perceptions again. But the guilt still lingers. He can't help but think of the wounds he opened with his curiosity. The dragon he awoke.

He knows all this, and if he had a keyboard and about five minutes, he could eruditely express them to her. But all he can do is stammer out: "If...I can't help but think...if I hadn't...if I hadn't gone digging in the first place..."

But she's not having any of it.

"Shh. We've been through this before. Years ago, I believe," she says fondly, but unable to hide her slight exasperation. "And if you hadn't done that, gone digging, we might not be here now. This might not be happening right now. So don't lie there second-guessing, okay? Because I do not regret this. At all."

Her voice, so clear and emphatic, is his lifeline.

He smiles. It might take him a little while to really believe her, and to absolve himself completely of the guilt he feels for so irrevocably upending her life, but it's a start.

They're both damaged people, but together, maybe they can fix themselves. Forgive themselves and each other for their transgressions. For the lies they told themselves and each other.

Even with his writer's imagination, he can't even predict where they'll be in a few days' time, let alone months or years. He tries to see it and he can't. But he knows that that isn't a bad omen – it's an indication of how good it is right now, and how good it feels, and that he can't imagine it being any better.

He certainly knows that the sudden feel of her hand as it glides down to cup his butt is one of the best things he's ever felt in his life. This is one dream that has definitely come true...

And he can see it on her face – that mischievous expression she gets when teasing him. The sly grin. Those sexy eyes, now hooded with need for him. And the memory of her face as she was underneath him, writhing with him – he now knows that look and he'll never forget it. And his old, smug self crows in triumph at the fact that he did that to her...

He still hasn't said a word since she spoke – he hasn't had any to say, not while he's been so content to drink in her beauty and revel in the feel of her. But he can tell she's slightly impatient...and judging by her actions, for more than just words.

And there's no need for any more words for the immediate future – not when the hand that was on his butt is now sliding over his hip to his front, and starting a fire...

Once more, the blood rushing through his ears silences the pounding of the storm still raging outside, and momentarily quells the maelstrom of emotions that they've put themselves through tonight. With the rustle of sheets, hushed whispers that quickly escalate into loud entreaties, and the wonder that is their joined bodies, they forget about everything except the here and now.

Let's go with the flow, wherever it goes, we're more than alive

Pink Floyd - "Louder Than Words"