Disclaimer: I do not own Castle or the recognizable characters who appear in this story. Any other names, for characters or businesses, are fictional, uncompensated, or are in the public domain.
Castle takes a long, fortifying breath as his cab slows to a stop in front of the precinct. He'd finally given up waiting at home, unable to sit still and worried his mother would arrive and offer her advice on the situation, too. So, he grabbed his gym bag and departed, catching a cab that must know some secret route or wormhole that's delivered him to the precinct so quickly.
He's still closing the door to the cab when he hears Beckett call his name. She's standing outside the building, waiting in an alcove near the door. She looks nervous, too. He's glad to see it – her anxiousness is less worrying than her mood at Dr. Burke's office and probably implies some uncertainty on her part. If she called him here to kick him out, she'd look more resolved. Right?
"Hey, Beckett," Castle returns carefully, striding towards her. She spins and holds the door open as she greets him in return, her voice just as wary as was his.
"Thanks for meeting me here," she manages to say, treading carefully. Her tone is odd and her attention seems unduly focused on his gym bag.
Thankfully, the desk sergeant offers a welcome distraction from their tense greeting.
"Evening, Detective," he nods to Beckett before turning his head and smiling and offering a fist to bump. "Good to see you, Castle."
"Hey, Rex," Castle greets with a smirk, moving to bump fists but stopping just short for a moment before finally closing the gap to tap hands. The desk sergeant laughs and chuffs out a murmured "Asshole" that's still loud enough for Beckett to hear, though she pretends otherwise as she hits the elevator call button.
"Don't mess with Castle in the elevator, Detective," the sergeant calls out as the partners enter the elevator and the doors begin to slide closed. "He'll kick your ass!"
Castle's head falls as the elevator begins to rise. "So much for privacy," he mumbles. "I suppose everyone's seen the tape?"
His comment surprises Beckett. It's unlike him to be shy, especially about something like this. She can still remember his enthusiastic crowing about disarming Tisdale on their first case together. Perhaps his discomfort is about expectations – it's easy to surprise people when they expect little. But that doesn't seem right, either.
"I think Gates encouraged distribution of the tape," Beckett speculates, providing some answers for her partner even if she doesn't yet know what's bothering him. "She certainly didn't discourage it – I saw several people watching it on their computers, and Ryan said some of the guys were talking about it."
"Fabulous," Castle grouses, leaning against the back of the elevator and lifting his head to look at the ceiling.
"I think she was trying to be kind," Beckett offers. "You were amazing in here," she says, gesturing at the enclosed space. "For all the trouble she's given you, I think this is a way of apologizing. Of letting people see you're more than just an observer, letting them see how capable you are."
Castle purses his mouth but doesn't otherwise answer. She's about to follow up when they arrive on the Homicide floor, where Beckett's forced to reveal her intentions for their meeting. "Will you hold the elevator? I just need to grab something from my desk before we head down."
Castle looks confused and wary, but he acquiesces. Beckett strides from the elevator to her desk, where she unlocks a drawer and withdraws a gym bag of her own. With a quick wave to a few of the unlucky souls who drew the night shift, she's back to the elevator in moments.
"What's going on?" Castle asks as Beckett presses the button for the basement.
"I think you were right, Castle," she offers, though she's looking down rather than at her partner. "Psychological therapy wasn't working, not for this. Time for some physical therapy."
"You've got to be joking," he offers. Beckett doesn't look up and she doesn't answer. "Here? In the precinct?"
Beckett shrugs. "Better here than Burke's office."
"Not sure about that," Castle replies, thinking about the set-up, "not when neither one of us want to be here."
"What do you mean?" she asks, uncomfortable with his insight.
"You weren't even comfortable going straight down to the locker room," he suddenly realizes. "You didn't want O'Halloran to see us going down in the elevator," he theorizes, mentioning the desk sergeant. "You could've had your bag with you or down in the locker room. But instead we went up to Homicide."
"People talk," she answers with a huff. "It bothers me even if it doesn't bother you."
"It does bother me," he parries in response. "Running off to spend time where you and Demming bonded?" he asks in reply. "Not exactly at the top of my to-do list."
There's no way to get into that topic without starting a discussion they can't have in the elevator. So, Beckett waits, holding her comments even when they arrive in the basement. As they exit the elevator, though, Castle turns away from the locker room.
Beckett assumes he's leaving when he heads up the stairs and pushes through the door that leads out to the alley next to the precinct. Still, she follows. Beckett remains silent even when he hails a cab, waiting to see if he signals for her to join him or instead departs.
Castle remains quiet while holding the taxi's door open for her and then joining her inside. Other than providing an address she doesn't recognize, he maintains his silence. It's unnerving, Beckett realizes. As she did when she took him home after the attempted kidnapping, she realizes how difficult it is to fill the air as he so often does. But the quiet is growing oppressive, impeding her own thoughts about their upcoming talk, so she asks the first thing that pops into her mind.
"Why Rex?" she asks. "You called O'Halloran 'Rex,' but his name's Brian. Isn't it?" she asks, realizing she's actually not sure.
Castle remains quiet while staring out the side window. She assumes he's ignoring her until he speaks without turning to face her. "It's short for Tyrannosaurus Rex," he explains quietly.
"Because…," Beckett prompts, wondering if there's some joke about O'Halloran's ferocity or eating habits at the heart of his nickname. It's got to be something like that to explain his teasing reaction.
"Gates isn't fond of him. We've got that in common," he prefaces quietly. "But in his case, it's because he keeps breaking the dress code. 'Looking unprofessional,' according to Gates."
Beckett makes an inquisitive noise rather than articulating her disbelief. It seems like a petty concern. But it also seems like a silly thing over which to invite Gates' wrath.
"Have you ever seen O'Halloran without his sleeves rolled up?" Castle asks rhetorically, not waiting for a reply. "He's got itty-bitty T. Rex arms," Castle explains, not looking at Beckett but still drawing his elbows to his side and flailing his hands in front of him. "Any shirt broad enough to span his shoulders has sleeves so long the cuffs cover half his hands. So he rolls his sleeves. He does the same thing out of uniform. I noticed it at the bar and gave him some trouble about it."
"The Old Haunt?" Beckett asks, imagining Castle tending bar for officers from the Twelfth.
"No, just drinks after work," he answers with a shrug, acting as if going out for beers with other cops is a regular thing. Actually, she realizes, maybe it is. Like his encounter with Dixon, this is just one more example of the life Castle's managed to create for himself at the precinct, one more example of what Beckett hadn't noticed about her partner. It's additional context for his comment to Gates about how being at the precinct has become a 'central part of his life.' And, she reminds herself, it's one more thing from which he was cut off while she was away and Gates had kicked him out.
Her ruminations are interrupted by the end of their taxi ride. Castle pays the cabbie before leading Beckett toward a nondescript, warehouse-style office building. He unlocks the door to admit them to the building, then leads her to an old-fashioned freight elevator. Dropping his bag, he's forced to use both hands to pull back the accordion-style fenced door. She waits for the joke about this being the first part of the workout, but it never arrives. Instead, Castle gestures for her to enter the elevator before wrenching the grate closed again. The elevator creaks upward until Castle repeats the process to release them onto the sixth floor.
The elevator deposited them in a dimly-lit open-plan space that easily rivals the size of the Homicide floor back at the Twelfth. There's an elevated sparring ring in the center, the floor cushioned to help take the sting out of falls. Different stations encircle the ring, including heavy and speed bags, free weights, a few cardio machines, and, oddly, a weapons rack featuring a collection of staves, swords, spears, and a few more exotic instruments she doesn't recognize despite their obvious lethality. "Changing room," he says while pointing to a door in the corner, before heading toward a different door.
Like the rest of this facility, it's obvious the changing room used to be an office or something similar, but it has the requisite amenities. Beckett changes quickly before exiting to meet Castle. She's a little unnerved by the building and his familiarity here, but she asked for this session so she'll go along.
Castle's already managed to change and turn on the lights by the time she emerges. He's standing in front of the rack apparently surveying the devices, though she recognizes that he's lost in thought. Her approach jars him back to the present. Dropping his bag and turning in place, he makes a sweeping gesture. "Here we are, Detective. What kind of PT did you have in mind?"
"We're going to spar," she answers definitively, happy to get her plan for the evening back on track. "You're gonna show me what you've learned."
"I don't think so, Beckett," he replies, shaking his head. "We fight enough already. We don't need new ways to hurt each other."
Ouch, she thinks, first touch goes to Castle. "Suit up, partner," she challenges instead, walking toward the ring. "You usually wear headgear and sparring mitts, right? That's why the bruises don't extend to your hands, neck, or face."
"'Not a word' doesn't seem to have sunk in," Castle complains, standing his ground. "Me, Dr. Burke – I suppose you told Ryan and Espo about my battle wounds, too?" he asks facetiously.
"I did, actually," she answers immediately, recognizing the rare but telltale signs of his anger. "When we saw the tape from the elevator we tried to figure out how you learned to take care of yourself. I was thinking out loud, wondering if the bruises were remnants of training sessions."
"Thanks," Castle replies sarcastically. "So nice to know how closely you guarded my secret."
"I guess I stink at keeping secrets," she replies with an affected shrug that's designed to goad him as much as her words. "Whether they start at crime scenes or cemeteries."
Ouch, Castle thinks. Apparently they're not waiting until they get in the ring to let the shots start flying. "You're not going to goad me into sparring, Beckett."
"What's the matter, Castle?" she asks, her own mounting anger making her challenge more of a taunt. "You scared?" she asks, studying his face for any reaction. When he gives her nothing, she pushes harder. "You are scared. Not of getting hurt. You're scared of harming your poor, frail partner, aren't you? The broken woman who's just…"
"Stop it," Castle growls in reply. "Just stop it. You're not frail or broken."
"Prove it," she challenges in reply before turning on her heel and striding over to the shelf next to the ring, pulling out protective head gear and mitts.
With another growl, Castle follows. He approaches without a word, batting her hand that'd reached for head gear and instead pointing further down the shelf to one that'll be the right size. He reinforces his familiarity with the setup by grabbing the gear he usually wears and strapping up quickly.
They still haven't spoken by the time they've finished donning the protective gear. Each is lost in thought, and from the signs of tension it looks like each is nursing wounds or preparing to raise the issues that bother them most. By unspoken agreement, this evening seems to be their defining moment, the point at which they either figure out how to go forward or go their separate ways.
Castle walks the few short steps up to the ring. Stopping on the top step, he steps on one of the ropes that surrounds the ring and lifts the one above it, providing a gap for Beckett to step through. The simple, silent act reminds her of how they are at crime scenes, with Castle stepping ahead to lift the yellow police cordon for her. She shakes her head, driving away the distraction even as she wonders if she should instead be focusing on those memories.
Moments later, they're facing each other in the middle of the ring. Now that they're here, Beckett's not sure how to get things started. Then she remembers Castle's words from the surveillance tape, the ones that caused enough fear and anger to match the anguish and affection. She holds both hands out, looking pointedly at her partner to get him to tap their gloves to start their session.
"You're working on my case," she opens accusingly, as soon as his mitts tap hers. Dropping into a defensive stance, she surveys her partner. "You never stopped," she says while taking a jab at his mid-section.
Castle blocks her jab but remains quiet. Instead, he shifts his feet into a fighting stance, bouncing on his knees to limber up.
"You're probably working on mom's case, too," she accuses, feinting a jab before launching a kick. He blocks her again, but again doesn't follow up with a strike of his own. Instead, he holds his ground. And his tongue.
"So?" she pokes, launching an arcing roundhouse that he avoids with a surprisingly light side-step. "Talk, dammit!" she growls, dodging to the side in a vain effort to land a kidney shot. "For three years I can't get you to shut up and now you won't talk?" she complains, darting around him in the ring.
"I'm a slow learner," Castle finally replies with a small shrug and a large smirk.
Though she knows his reply was designed to set her off, Beckett can't stop herself. All the stress, worry, and confusion that's been swirling in her mind since she listened to the surveillance tape finally ignites. She throws herself at him, leading with a punishing flurry of punches and kicks that uses every trick she's learned from the academy through her sessions with Espo. And any deficit caused by her physical recuperation is more than replaced with pure emotion.
Of her opening salvo, not a single blow lands true. Castle blocks, dodges, and weaves. He absorbs some glancing blows but openly ignores every opening for a counterstrike. The ferocity of Beckett's assault ramps up as she recognizes his restraint, either because she's not worried about playing defense or because she's pushing to the point of forcing him to fully engage.
After several long minutes she's panting in exertion, realizing far too late that she's pushing herself too hard. Her scars throb, stealing energy and breath as she continues to lash out. If this was a real fight she'd be dead, she realizes bitterly. Castle stands before her, nearly untouched and still fresh. If he decided to start swinging now she knows she'd lack the energy to fend him off.
"Hit me!" she yells, nearly begging. "I want you to hit me!"
"No," Castle vows, again blocking her punch before spinning to avoid her kick. "Never."
"You hit blondie," Beckett reminds him of the elevator scene, taking the opportunity to circle him in the ring to try to catch her breath. "What's the matter," she asks with another verbal and physical jab, "you think I'm not strong enough?"
"Beckett…," Castle starts speak before she cuts him off.
"Your feeble partner," she charges, going on the offensive again, "too broken and brittle to manage for herself?"
"You're being ridiculous," he offers while knocking aside another strike.
"I'm being honest," she replies, swiping ineffectually at her cheeks with the sparring mitts. As much as she wants to think it's sweat that's starting to blur her vision and make it even more difficult to focus on Castle, she knows better. Apparently choking on frustration from her physical and emotional inadequacies isn't sufficient, she laments pathetically, but now she's actually going to cry in front of her partner. Yeah, now he'll believe she's strong.
"Why won't you hit me?!" she pleads, taking swings that are increasingly sloppy and exhausted. "You're supposed to hit me," she groans, flailing so much that she doesn't notice Castle lower his guard. "You're supposed to hurt me back," she sobs as her punches finally land on his chest, the blows falling repeatedly and with less force than Castle absorbed when a young Alexis threw an occasional tantrum.
Castle slowly reaches around his partner and draws her close as her arms fall to her sides in a heartbreaking combination of exhaustion, frustration, and shame. Saying nothing, he gathers her in and holds her tight to his chest as she sobs quietly.
A/N: I'd hoped to finish this story by tomorrow, but that's not looking likely. I'll post these chapters tonight, then get some rest. Far too early in the morning I'll be heading up to NYC to meet some other Castle fanfic authors for lunch. It's a long ride, so if I can stay awake I might manage to bring this story to a conclusion. More soon, I hope!