The Camelot
"Is a gun really necessary?" Kate asks, her fingers glossing over the wooden handle of the silver six-shooter holstered at her side.
In addition to the weapon, Bea's lended her a turquoise blouse and a pair of tan-colored chaps that are now layered over her jeans. With her white Stetson retrieved from the car, her red bandana tied around her neck, and feet slotted into boots made from genuine cowhide, she looks like she's about to step foot onto the set of a John Ford Western.
"More for show of force, really. Gotta let 'em know we mean business or they won't take us serious," Bea says, emerging from her closet with a shotgun.
Kate balks slightly, simultaneously in awe.
Bea's patchwork apron is gone, her Levi jeans now covered by cow-patterned chaps. She's also tucked in her blouse and added a black leather belt around her waist. Where the buckle should be is a piece of ornamental jewelry—a cluster of sapphires in the shape of…
"Is that—"
"The Blue Butterfly?" Bea fills in with a winsome smile.
"Yeah."
"That's 'cause it is. Well, one of 'em anyway. My meemaw worked props on the film back in the day. Snuck one of these suckers out. Gave it to my ma and then, my ma gave it to me. She's not real. Just a costume piece. But I like to think of her as a family heirloom; a touch of extra love."
The Blue Butterfly is a classic Western film from the '40s, starring Spencer Tracy and Katharine Hepburn; the actors first film together. Legend has it that when they first met, Hepburn said, "You know, Mr. Tracy, I'm afraid I'm a bit too tall for you," and Tracy allegedly replied, "Don't worry, I'll cut you down to my size." The old Hollywood stars had an infamous relationship on-and-off screen as they went on to work side-by-side, co-starring in a total of nine movies in the span of their careers.
They supposedly fell for each other on the set of The Blue Butterfly, but Tracy was a Catholic and wouldn't divorce his wife, Louise, so he and Hepburn carried on a decades-long affair instead; an open secret. It wasn't until after Louise's death in '83 that the fiercely-independent Hepburn finally publicly acknowledged her romance with Tracy (who had died of a heart attack in '67).
In The Blue Butterfly, Tracy plays an outlaw cowboy on the search for treasure and Hepburn plays the ruthless Sheriff, hunting him down. It's a thrilling chase of cat-and-mouse, a rousing adventure, and one of the most epic love stories ever told. Kate remembers how she and her mom would always look at each other as they quoted the last line of the movie together in silly, dramatized Western twangs:
You got it ass backwards, dollface. The treasure ain't no damn Blue Butterfly. It's you.
And sighed in content when the unorthodox couple fell into a passionate kiss, a halo of fire surrounding them as the overlay of a treasure map on the screen burnt away.
"I love that movie," Kate says. "One of my mom's favorites."
"They filmed it over in New Mexico," Bea says, strapping the shotgun onto her back. "You might've passed through there—Gallup?"
"Gallup? We were there," Kate replies. "Stayed at the El Rancho."
Bea gasps. "What rooms were you in? Please don't tell me it was 204 and 203."
"Yeah, actually," Kate answers trepidatiously. "Is that bad?"
"Didn't you wonder why they were discounted? They're said to be cursed."
"Cursed?"
"It's where Hepburn and Tracy stayed during filming and started their affair. Any couple who stays in either room is said to be doomed just like them."
"Oh," Kate says, unable to hide the swift disappointment in her tone. Of course they were cursed.
Bea eyes her sympathetically; knowing. "But you wouldn't have anything to worry about, would you? Because you and Rick are just buddies, right?"
"Right."
It doesn't matter, anyway. She doesn't believe in curses.
"You know, there is a way to break the curse," Bea says, reaching for Kate's shirt collar, straightening it with the smooth tug of her fingers. A lavender perfume wafts over her.
"Oh?" she says, trying for nonchalance and failing spectacularly, her heart swelling with stupid hope.
"Same way curses in all the great stories are broken—"
She bops the tip of Kate's nose.
"True love's kiss, of course."
And then, she vanishes through the doorway as Kate turns crimson.
"You guys have guns? Can I get one? Oh, pretty please!" Castle begs.
The writer's top half is outfitted in a white blouse with a black vest, while the bottom half is accompanied by black, fringed chaps and matching black boots—the definition of tall, dark, and handsome. A much sexier John Wayne. A more dashing Clint Eastwood.
"No license, no dice," she says, swatting his hand from her holster. "Besides, isn't the pen mightier than the sword and all that?"
"My pen just ran out of ink," he grumbles.
She stifles a laugh.
Rogan steps out onto the porch, shutting the front door behind him. He's dressed like a ranch hand, a yellow bandana hiked up over his nose and mouth in a not-so-subtle attempt to hide his injury.
He notices Bea and her firearm.
"You really comin', Auntie? You said you'd never cross the threshold again."
Kate shares a questioning look with the writer. What's that about?
"If you think I'm lettin' my niece or Richard Castle walk into that lion's den with your lily-livered ass as their only protection, you're barkin' up the wrong tree," Bea says, cocking her shotgun.
Castle goes slack-jaw. "I think I want to be her when I grow up," he murmurs to Kate.
"Yeah, if you grow up."
"Well, well, well…look at what the cat dragged in."
A swarthy, weather-beaten man with a dark mustache and long, curly hair fit for a Musketeer approaches them as they enter The Camelot, a ramshackle joint that's dimly lit by fake plastic torches.
The windows around them are covered by red velvet and moth-eaten curtains, while the floor is coated in sawdust and wooden wall panels are papered with stonework designs, yellowed and peeling at the edges. (A cheap facsimile of its namesake).
"Didn't think I'd live to see the day when Bea Potts decided to grace us with her almighty presence again," the man says and the writer's eyes almost pop out of his head when he notices the hook in place of the guy's left hand and a gnarled eyepatch over his right eye. He also wears a red button-up and a black bolero hat.
No-fucking-way. A pirate-cowboy? He's even got a tiny, gold earring piercing one of his lobes. Could this get any better?
"Merlin," Bea says, nodding curtly. (His name is Merlin? Hell, yeah). "Still slicker than pig snot on a radiator, I see."
He really should've brought his Moleskine.
"You callin' me sneaky and untrustworthy?" Merlin says, fuming.
"I told y'all my nephew was off-limits," she says, jerking her head at Rogan.
"So much for not snitchin'," Merlin mutters. "You can forget gettin' knighted, Butch Cassidy."
Rogan hangs his head as Castle suppresses a snort. Butch Cassidy? Rogan might share a bit of a physical resemblance to the infamous leader of the outlaw gang known as the Wild Bunch with his square-head and closely-cropped hair, but he has none of the cool charisma of the real desperado, or his notorious partner, The Sundance Kid.
If the writer had to give Rogan a name, he'd anoint Beckett's ill-mannered husband: The Deadbeat Kid.
Castle nudges Beckett. Murmurs low, "Do you think Merlin's his real name?"
"Shh," she scolds in a whisper. "No talking, remember?"
But her berating alerts Merlin, his gaze raking over them.
"Who do we have here?" he asks with interest.
Bea hastens to block them from view. "They're under my ward. Don't even think about settin' your paws on 'em."
"I'll do whatever I damn well please. I'm the one in charge here," Merlin huffs.
"Where are Gwen and Arthur?"
"Runnin' an errand. What's it to ya?"
"You and your upstandin' crew commandeered some electronics from my home. But I don't care about collectin' 'em back. Just need the tape inside the VHS."
"If you want the tape, you're gonna have to pay the toll, Princess," Merlin says, defiant.
"Thought you might say that," Bea replies, nonplussed.
And then she does something that the writer can only chronicle as a yodel.
In response, the alder arch wood doors burst open at the front entrance, and a gaggle of women stream through in a blaze of glory, some in pioneer dresses, others in blouses and chaps, and the rest in saloon dancer ensembles. All toting weapons.
The knitting gals had come running when Bea activated the phone tree. Or as they insisted on being called when meeting him ten minutes prior: His-Ladies-In-Waiting.
His hand still cramps from all the autographs.
"You bellowed?" Two women at the front of the pack chime together.
The Tooley Sisters, if he remembers correctly—the fifty-something twins who look nothing alike.
Lenora is spindly and lean, menacing in her gingham getup, whereas Cecilia is hefty and buff, a force to be reckoned with in her Zorro-inspired costume. If Bea is their Sheriff, these two are her gunslinging deputies. (Or as he's dubbed them: Lumiere and Cogsworth).
Merlin snaps his fingers, and a group of ten to fifteen men rise from a cluster of round tables in the back, chairs scuffing the hardwood and burrs on boots clinking. They gather behind their leader, gruff and grizzly, hands resting on holsters, jaws popping while chewing away at tobacco: the illustrious Knights of the Round Table from the final frontier.
It's as if they're in West Side Story; the Jets versus the Sharks. Knights versus Ladies. Nothing short of an epic stand-off.
He's dreamed of scenarios like these.
Though he did not imagine he'd be the only one without a gun.
The tension-filled silence is as thick as clotted cream, neither Merlin nor Bea blinking.
Black Hat against White Hat.
If this were a game of chess, white would initiate the first attack, but Bea doesn't move an inch.
Kate isn't sure where to look, her gaze flitting between the burly spread of cowboys and the ragtag collection of plucky women.
Castle must be loving this.
She clocks him in her peripheral vision, spying an unmistakable expression of pure elation on his face; a little boy who's been told Christmas has come early.
Absolutely adorable.
She bites the bottom of her lip, halting the growth of her grin. His mouth's probably frothing at the prospect of a potential showdown.
His fingertips are frantically tapping the side of his thigh in an unceasing rhythm, likely yearning for the feel of his pen. She almost reaches for his hand, wanting to soothe his nerves, but a loud sneeze spontaneously pierces through the heavy quiet, interrupting her new quest.
Followed by an unnatural yowl of pain.
Quick as lighting, a salvo of weapons are brandished and aimed at the perpetrator.
Rogan lifts a hand up in surrender, the other hovering over his bandaged nose. His bandana has fallen, hanging from his neck, the red-purple bruise patterns staining his under-eye now glaringly visible.
"The hell happened to your face, boy?" Merlin asks, horrified.
He points an accusing finger at Kate.
Coward.
And she suddenly finds herself at the business end of a legion of revolvers. Strangely, she's unfazed. Though she is annoyed that she's too slow on the draw, her gun still holstered.
"I'm only gonna say this once," Bea says, deadly calm, her shotgun engaged, the Ladies in suit behind her, gun-hammers cocked back. "Kindly remove those ugly snouts sniffin' round my niece."
"Since when you gotta niece?" Sneers a short and stocky man in blue-and-white plaid. He stands to Merlin's right, a red cowboy hat on his head.
"Since my thick-headed nephew hitched his wagon to her, Sir Snivel."
"It's Sir Percival," the man rebuts, indignant.
"We both know damn well your name's Leslie."
"Why I oughta—" he snarls, lunging; breaking the dam.
Like an avalanche of water set loose from its mooring, the opposing factions slam into each other with colossal force.
A few shots go off, bullets barrelling into drywall and chipping into tabletops, while fists collide in a flurry.
Before Kate's able to process any of it, a large weight knocks her over.
She hits the deck, her hat tumbling to the ground and her head banging on the floor. All the air rushes from her lungs as her eyes swim with bright, new pain.
"Fuck, I'm sorry. Are you okay?"
Gentle fingers cup the back of her skull and she inhales sharply.
"Castle!"
"We need to move," he urges, huddled above her.
"Ya think?"
In the hubbub of the brawl that's broken out, she and the writer manage to army crawl to a nearby table, taking shelter underneath. She spits the sawdust off her tongue and pats the grime from her clothes, while Castle does the same. Outside their safe haven, glass smashes and wood splinters.
Their eyes meet and a snort rumbles in her chest. The writer still has sawdust all over his visage.
"You've got—" they both say, reaching for the other, leaning in at the same time, their foreheads bumping softly.
Her breath catches in her throat as their noses brush, and everything stills, the world falling away, the only thing now occupying her brain—the three inches of space between their lips.
Adrenaline spills through her veins, her heart thumping loudly in her ears. She longs to close the distance, a parched traveler desperate for the cool, liquid taste of salvation.
But neither of them budge.
Two unmoving chess pieces.
A body lands right next to them in a loud thud, popping the ballooning tension, and the world rushes back in, a cacophony of noise.
It's one of the Ladies, the top of her frock torn, a hot pink corset underneath on full display.
The pair exchange nervous ohs and sorrys, quickly separating, the top of their domes hitting the bottom of the table in their hurried departures.
"Fuck," she expels in a hiss of air, the already tender spot on her head, throbbing painfully.
"Shit, you alright?"
"Fine," she grits out.
He doesn't believe her for a second, but they're both steadfastly ignoring what almost just happened…storing another almost-kiss away in the closet of denial.
He pivots.
"I so wish I had popcorn right now."
The Hot Pink Corset Lady is hauled up by a helping hand, and someone kicks Kate's hat.
It slides to a stop directly in front of her.
Without another thought, she picks it up, twirling it onto her head as she stands and joins the fray.
She ducks, just missing the wide haymaker of a Knight, who loses his balance when he doesn't hit anything. She sticks her boot out, tripping him, and he tumbles down, collapsing in a satisfying thunk.
"That was so hot," Castle says, scrambling to her side. She rolls her eyes with a slight smile.
The Tooley Sisters clothesline a Knight that charges at them, and he falls with a hard thump. Another Knight has an arm around the waist of a Lady and she sinks her nails into his skin, prompting an unearthly screech from her captor.
Okay.
This is getting out of control.
Kate unholsters her six-shooter and fires five shots in rapid succession, each bullet burying into the ceiling tile. Plaster rains down and the electricity flickers.
"Enough!" she yells.
The entire room freezes.
She locates Merlin, honing in on his red shirt.
He and Bea are locked in some sort of one-armed mutual chokehold, Merlin's hook about to scratch the apple of her cheek. They uncoil as she advances on them, her shooter aimed at the unruly cowboy.
"We can end this. Just give me the tape, and we'll be out of your hair," Kate says.
"I'm afraid there's still the matter of payment. Which now includes the cost of damages."
"Trust me. You do not want to be the guy that makes my life harder," she says evenly. "I've got one bullet left." Then, a little crazed, "And wouldn't you know it? It's got your name on it."
"You're not really going to shoot me," Merlin scoffs.
She cocks the hammer back. Points the weapon at his crotch.
"Try me."
Merlin gulps.
But then, a slimy smile slowly stretches over his mouth and her stomach drops like hot lead at the tell-tale click of another weapon engaging; cool steel pressing against the back of her head.
Great.
"Why doesn't everyone just put their weapons down?" a voice pipes in.
"Castle," she warns. She's in the middle of something.
But he doesn't listen, steaming onward.
"We can settle this like gentlemen. Er, gentlewomen…ladies. You know what I mean. There's another way we can do this, people," he says, beseechingly.
He hops over debris on his way to a cobblestone fireplace in the center of the bar that has spider webs hanging from the flu, pulling everyone's focus.
"A one-on-one duel, perhaps. Just like they did in the Old West. Or maybe—" he arranges his arms like Vanna White presenting a solved word puzzle on Wheel of Fortune as he throws attention to a pair of swords pinned to the wall in an X-formation above the mantel, "A duel of honor."
Merlin assesses the writer, eyes flirting with intrigue. "A duel of honor?"
Kate swears she sees the cowboy actually lick his lips. Well, damn. The writer really knew how to attract all types.
"If I win, we get the tape. The debt is cleared and there's no payment of the toll."
"And if you lose?" Merlin smirks. "Are you gonna be the one paying?"
Castle glances at her, and she imperceptibly shakes her head. They've already talked about this. She isn't going to let him buy her her freedom. She's not a cattle for sale.
"Or we could make things more interesting. A Rumpelstiltskin deal."
"Rumpel-what now?"
"You know, the old story? The one where the miller boasts to the king that his daughter can spin straw into gold. So the king locks her in a tower, demands she spin all the straw into gold by morning upon threat of death. No one?"
"Get to the point, Pretty Boy," Merlin demands.
"Well, an imp-like creature appears and offers to complete the task on her behalf in exchange for her jewelry. This process happens twice, and the king promises to marry her if she can achieve success one more time. But on the third day, when the imp shows up, the miller's daughter has nothing to exchange. She's out of jewelry to give."
Every single person is engrossed; spellbound—The Bard, spinning his yarn into gold.
"So the imp asks for her…anyone?" Castle calls out to his audience. No one responds. She'd say something, but it's been a while since she's cracked open a book of fairytales, her memory fuzzy. "Don't you guys read?"
"Firstborn," Bea answers. "He asks for her firstborn."
"Yes! Thank you. He asks for her firstborn."
Bea tips her hat, much obliged.
"You mean to say you're offerin' up your firstborn to me?" Merlin puts together.
"I was thinking something less dire…a little twist on the premise. If I lose, then I promise I'll name my firstborn son after you."
The crowd oohs with interest at the proposition.
"A kid named Merlin? He'd be doomed!" Rogan cackles.
"Something wrong with the name Merlin?" The wizard-named cowboy challenges.
Rogan backtracks. Fumbles, "Uh, no. Great name. Best one around."
"He's really only got one oar in the water, huh?" Merlin says to Bea, sympathetic.
"If brains were leather, he wouldn't have enough to saddle a June Bug," Bea harrumphs.
"Yeah, yeah. He's a box of rocks," says an impatient Sir Leslie-Percival. He turns toward the writer. "I wanna hear the end of the story. Does the miller's daughter agree to give the imp her firstborn?" he asks eagerly.
"Yeah, does she marry the king?" another Knight questions.
"What happens next?" a third choruses.
Castle looks to Merlin in deference. The head cowboy gestures go on, granting his court jester an encore performance.
The writer winks at her before continuing, his spectators riveted as he recounts the rest of the tale, telling them the miller's daughter does agree to the deal and she does indeed marry the king and a year later, she gives birth. Which is when the imp returns to collect his reward.
Naturally, the new queen refuses to give up her child, instead offering up all the kingdom's riches in exchange. But the imp only wants one thing.
"This imp is a mighty odd fellow," one of the Ladies comments. Others murmur in agreement. "What's he want with a baby anyway? All they do is poop and cry."
"Shh! No interruptin'," a Knight reprimands.
The writer carries forth, detailing how the imp says he'll release the queen from their deal if she can guess his true name within three days. The queen must reel off upward of a thousand options, but none of them are correct.
Before the final day, she wanders into the woods at night, searching for the imp in a last-ditch effort to beg for her child when she spies him dancing around a fire, chanting, Tonight tonight, my plans I make. Tomorrow tomorrow, the baby I take. The queen will never win the game, for Rumpelstiltskin is my name.
"Course she was never gonna guess that. No one in the history of ever has had such a funny-soundin' name," a Lady jeers.
"Shut your trap, Priscilla!" Sir Leslie-Percival roars, rising to his feet.
Priscilla stands, confrontation-ready, and he immediately recoils.
"Almost done!" the writer says lightly and they return to their seats, becalmed. "So she flees the woods before he can see her and the morning of the third day arrives. The imp gives her one last chance. The queen feigns ignorance at first, letting the imp think he's won with a few false guesses until she hits him with Rumpelstiltskin."
"Ha!" Sir Leslie-Percival rejoices.
Everyone stares at him and he smiles nervously.
"Now there are a couple different versions on what goes down next," the writer says, reigning them back in. "One says Rumpelstiltskin loses his temper and simply runs away in a huff. But I like the one where he becomes so enraged, he drives his foot so far into the ground that he creates a chasm and falls into it, never to be seen again. And the king and queen and their child all live happily ever after," he finishes with panache and flair.
The entire place erupts with claps and whistles. Never missing an opportunity to ham it up, the writer bows and she's irritated at how incredibly endeared she is, easily beguiled like everyone else; another sucker for his magnetizing charm and bravado. He could probably convince them all painting a fence is a grand old time, a regular Tom Sawyer.
Merlin joins him in front of the fireplace, thrusting his hand into a fist, and the room instantly quiets.
He faces the writer, removing his cowboy hat and tucking it under his arm. And then, to a round of surprised gasps, he bows his head in respect.
"I find your terms amenable."
"You do?"
"On one condition," Merlin says, unfastening the swords from the wall, while the writer assists, and they heave the blades from their mounts in unison. "You also fight one-handed."
"Course," the writer says immediately. "Until the first draw of blood?"
"Deal."
They're about to shake on it when Kate steps forward.
"Hold on. Time out!" she shouts. "First draw of blood? Is that really necessary? Can't you do, I don't know, until first gentle tap or whatever?"
"Boring!" a voice shouts.
"Yeah, we want blood!"
"Blood, blood, blood," the room chants.
She levels the writer with a glare.
"Can I talk to you for a second?"
"They're actually calling for blood," she whispers angrily as they withdraw to a private corner.
"I know, isn't it great?"
She pokes him in the chest.
"Ow!"
"What is wrong with you?"
"Relax. I went to school on a fencing scholarship. I've got this. In a way, I've been training for this very moment for years."
She pokes him again. He yelps.
"This isn't a day at Disneyland, Castle."
"I don't know. I'm pretty sure there's a Captain Hook thing happening there," he says, throwing a thumb at Merlin. "And Beauty and the Beast is definitely in the mix. I mean, multiple genres and literary references are at play here." He gestures at their clothes. "The Western." The decorations. "Arthurian Legend."
"And what, because you think this is some Western-Fantasy-Fairytale crossover, it's okay to put yourself in danger and make foolish promises? This isn't a daring adventure and you're not the unlikely hero. I don't need you to fight for me or whatever. Not to mention, I promised your mother I'd keep you out of trouble."
"You should've known that that was a foolish promise to make. And I'm not fighting for you."
"Really," she scoffs. "What for then?"
"The fun of it, duh! How often am I gonna get the chance to participate in a good old-fashioned duel in this century? Nothing you can say will dissuade me," he says staunchly. Then, coy, "But maybe there's something you can do…"
"Oh?" she says, suspect.
"Your dad might've told me no funny business, but he didn't say anything to you, did he?" She's errantly reminded of Lanie's words…Ball's in your court, honey.
"Are you trying to blackmail me into kissing you?"
"Well, when you put it like that…"
She hitches up an eyebrow. Puts a hand to her chest in mock-offense. "I'm a married woman, Castle." Smirks, playful. "You would dare put me in such a position; besmirch my honor?"
"Oh, now you're all about the bit," he mopes.
"Hey! Are you and the missus done quibblin'?" Merlin shouts. The Knights and Ladies pound their feet on the ground, the whole place rumbling in anticipation.
The writer looks at her, grinning roguishly. "What's it gonna be, Fair Maiden?"
God-fucking-damnit.
Like hell is she kissing him for the first time as part of some ploy.
She unties the red bandana from around her neck and knots it around his. He stares at her, mouth open in shock.
"You'll need a token, yeah? For good luck?" she argues.
He lights up with joy. "Does this mean I'll get an actual kiss if I win?"
She flips him off.
He sighs, forlorn.
"Such a tease."
What's left of the tables and chairs have been pushed off to the side, while the remaining wreckage is swept into a corner and sawdust is cleared from a section of the floor to create an oval-shaped arena.
"Is it just me or are there more people in here?" Kate asks, surveying the large mass of onlookers sequestered behind a line of tables. Around thirty to forty by her estimation and more walking through the door by the minute.
"Likely Darlene's doin'. Fancies herself the town gossip. Probably phoned everyone she knew while we were cleanin'. This is the most excitin' thing to happen round here in ages," Bea replies.
Kate just hopes no one ends up breaking another chair over someone's head anytime soon.
She watches the writer and Merlin wipe and shine their swords with a dry cloth and run a knife sharpener along the edges. God, why were they sharpening them?
"Keep chewin' your lip like that, ain't goin' be nothin' left," Bea says.
"Don't you have a bad feeling about this?"
"Boys will be boys," Bea sighs.
"I hate that phrase. All it does is excuse bad behavior," Kate huffs.
A warm arm slides around her shoulders. "You're gonna worry yourself sick, darlin'. Take a breath for me," Bea soothes and Kate complies, inhaling shakily, her nose detecting lavender and a hint of honeysuckle, the new but somehow familiar scent having a calming effect on her. "Maybe this'll help, too." Bea hands her a glass shot filled with an amber liquid. Kate promptly slings it back.
Mmm. Whiskey. Really good whiskey.
"Thanks," she says with an appreciative smile until she notices cash surreptitiously changing hands between a Knight and a Lady. Her mouth bends into a frown.
"Are they making bets?"
Bea chuckles heartily. "Merlin's gotta get his money somehow. Looks to be an even split so far. I put fifty on our boy. Though he's already got plenty of supporters. Word's out 'bout his fencin' background."
"Is Merlin experienced?"
"He used to be part of a travelin' troupe for Renaissance Faires, stagin' combat and the like. Til he lost his hand, that is."
"In a sword fight?"
"Freak accident with a horse. Fell off in a joust and got his hand trampled on. Wasn't much left to salvage, so they cut it clean off. The troupe let him go after."
"That's awful," Kate says, "And the eye?"
"Eye's fine. Patch is just for show. He thought, why not lean into what everyone's already thinkin'? Real interestin' fella if you take the time to know him."
Yeah, extremely interesting. Now she's even more worried. This isn't just a game for Merlin. He's the wronged man with something to prove versus the boy idiot trying to impress a girl.
"He's just so very brave," Priscilla sighs in front of them, gazing at the writer with stars in her eyes.
"More like so very stupid," Kate mutters bitterly.
"Some say stupidity and bravery are the same thing," Bea titters as the two combatants finish polishing their swords and take their positions.
A heavy batter of nausea curdles in her gut.
Yeah.
She's got a really bad feeling about this.
"En garde!"
A camera flash goes off as the two cross their swords in a greeting clank.
"That'll be Lois. Local reporter," Bea explains before she even asks. The place is packed and overflowing with what seems like half the town (the population being approximately 223). The curtains have been hurled open and the single-panel windows washed so people can observe from outside.
Both their hats are off and Merlin's removed his eyepatch. A few of the Ladies toss roses at Castle's feet and he blows them kisses. (Where the hell did they get roses?).
He blows his last kiss in her and Bea's direction. She crosses her arms in protest (she's not condoning this), while Bea pretends to catch it and pats it to her cheek before he's putting one hand behind his back and bracing himself for battle with an all-too pleased smile. Wiseass.
"Allez!" Sir Leslie-Percival announces in a loud, sonorous voice.
Someone hits play on a boombox, and Eye of the Tiger by Survivor blares from the speakers. No doubt the writer's doing. Such a drama queen.
As the crashing beat of electric guitar sings through the air, blades strike against each other in a reverberating clang.
Almost in tune with the soundtrack, the two fighters thrust, slash, and parry.
It's the eye of the tiger
It's the thrill of the fight
Rising up to the challenge of our rival
The audience oohs and ahs as they dodge and lunge, a mesmerizing back-and-forth.
From what she can tell, they're equally matched. Castle's footwork is fancier, but Merlin is scrappy, his sword a natural extension of his arm.
Their blades glance and glide until a complex maneuver from the writer has their weapons trapped in a deadlock, sweat beading down both their foreheads.
Even with all the doors open and the overhead fans spinning at full-speed, a dry heat suffocates the space. A hard, grunting shove from Merlin and they separate.
They circle one another, each searching for an opening, a chink in the armor.
Merlin breaks their detente, darting forward, but Castle gracefully whirls past his opponent, his sword arcing down mid-turn and nicking Merlin's shirt sleeve.
The room gasps.
"Hold it!"
The fighters pause, breathing hard, as Sir Leslie-Percival trots up to Merlin for evaluation. He inspects the tear in fabric, prodding a finger through the hole.
A long beat.
"No blood!" he finally yells and the Knights whoop and cheer. God-fucking-damnit. The pair reset and Sir Leslie-Percival again shouts, "Allez!"
Face to face, out in the heat
Hanging tough, staying hungry
They stack the odds 'til we take to the street
The writer, invigorated by his near success, goes on the offense, but Merlin easily side-steps him, smacking the flat of the blade on Castle's backside as the writer passes him by.
"Ho!" Merlin shouts joyously; the laugh of a madman.
Oh, God.
The cowboy's been toying with him this whole time, letting Castle think he has the upper hand, playing him like a puppet on a string.
And the last known survivor
Stalks his prey in the night
The writer stumbles from the whack. Quickly steadies himself, about-faces, sweat dripping and breath panting, sword raised, and for the first time…a flicker of doubt in his eyes; his confidence wavering.
Merlin grins wickedly. "Do you yield?"
She wants to scream yes on his behalf, but it's a futile notion. The writer's not going to back down from a challenge; his pride, too great. Like Odysseus, hubris—his fatal flaw.
When the Knights begin to heckle him with low jibes and the Ladies counteract, lauding words of support, his face sets in fierce determination.
He starts unbuttoning his shirt with one hand. Shrugs out of it and flings it away. A Lady catches the blouse and clutches the material to her chest in a state of pure ecstacy. Another Lady next to her faints.
Jesus Christ.
You'd think he's Bruce Springsteen or something.
"No mercy," he growls.
Oh, fuck.
No, not The Boss.
Better.
Goddamn Tarzan…rough and rugged and red-blooded and so altogether male. Embarrassingly, the beast thing is totally doing it for her, stirring something primal within; something animal.
He, her Kryptonite, weakening her at the knees.
"Oh, my," Bea murmurs under her breath.
"See, I was planning on naming my firstborn son Cosmo," Castle says.
Went the distance, now I'm not going to stop
Just a man and his will to survive
Merlin spins his sword in his hand with practiced ease.
"'Fraid there's 'bout to be a change in them there plans."
The writer's grip tightens around the pommel of his sword, knuckles whitening before he's charging at the red-shirted cowboy like a horned bull.
It's the eye of the tiger
Everything seems to slow in the next moment as she watches, in horror, as Merlin the Matador swishes his blade ultrafast, a mere glint of light as it slashes across Castle's chest.
A startled cry.
And then…
The writer falls.
Castle swigs straight from the whiskey bottle; bites down on a strip of leather.
Grasps her hand, hard and tight. Nods.
Bea is about to pierce him with a needle when she's jostled from behind.
Kate draws her gun, quick as lightning, and swings it at the teeming horde of bodies crowding their slapdash surgery set-up at the bar. "Give her some fucking room!" she orders in a snarl.
Hell hath no fury, but she sure does.
The rubberneckers retreat, fearful, grumbling something about Annie Oakley.
The cut on his upper pectoral, just above his heart, is a quarter-inch deep and a half-inch wide. Small and shallow but serious enough to require stitches. God, there'd been so much blood.
Ten minutes, three stitches, and a few whimpers later, she's lost all the feeling in her left hand.
"Sure you don't need some laudanum, hon?" Bea says to him.
The writer swigs another draft of whiskey. "Tis but a flesh wound," he quips.
Kate rolls her eyes. Severs their link, contracting and relaxing her fingers to re-encourage blood flow. "If he's quoting Monty Python, he's doing just fine."
Bea chortles. Asks her, "And how's your head?"
"Screwed on straight. Unlike some people's," she says, flat and sarcastic, the swelling of her earlier bump already reduced to size.
Bea chortles again and leaves them to attend to other wounded soldiers who haven't yet been treated.
"Sorry I lost," he says, wiping his face with a hand towel looped around his neck.
"Sorry you lost Cosmo."
He shrugs. "Merlin's got a pretty good ring to it, don't you think?"
"That's something you'll have to hash out with your future wife," she says on a short laugh.
"Oh, c'mon. What would you say if we were married?"
"We are not getting married!"
"Relax, it's just for pretend."
"I don't wanna pretend," she says, heart tripping in her chest.
"Scared you'll like it?" He grins, full of mischief.
"I think one fake marriage is all I can handle at the moment," she huffs. "Besides," she says as steals the whiskey from him, "Wouldn't work out anyway." Swigs. "We're cursed."
"Cursed?"
"Haven't you noticed? Bad things keep happening to us."
He shifts on his bar stool.
"And we keep coming out on the other side, stronger than ever," he argues. "We're superheroes, remember? And comic book rules dictate we're invincible. So yeah—" He steals the whiskey back, "We might end up with some scars and get knocked down, but we always get back up." Swig.
She hates that she loves it…how he sees the world; them. Hates how his golden words and silver linings are her most prized possessions. Hates that she's falling for him…
Witnessing him get hurt had been a sucker-punch to the gut, snatching all the wind from her sails and forcing her to realize her feelings have long since voyaged beyond the crush horizon and into uncharted territory.
She allows him a small smile, but it's tinged with melancholy.
"It's not supposed to be this hard though, right?" she rebuts, fiddling with the bandana around his throat. Some luck, she is. He has stitches because of her. They'll probably end up in the Bermuda Triangle at this rate.
His eyes, a deep whirlpool of blue, latch onto hers. His hand anchors to her jaw.
"Sometimes the hardest things in life are the things most worth doing."
Jesus-fucking-Christ.
She's never met anyone who talks the way he does.
How's a girl to respond to such sweet poetry?
She can't kiss him. She won't.
Not yet.
She's technically married, afterall.
Instead, she turns her head so that her lips smear against his palm; a chaste kiss, the only thing she can give right now.
His hand falls in jolted surprise and she catches it on the down-swing, slotting their fingers together. The pad of her thumb tenderly sweeps over his knuckles in a slow circle.
"I'm so glad that you're okay," she whispers.
Wonder and awe crest over his features.
"Didn't think you'd care so much, Tin Woman," he jokes.
"I'm not totally heartless," she says, frowning slightly. She detangles their fingers and pinches his bicep. "So don't you ever do something like that again. Not with your straw for brains, Scarecrow."
He puffs out a small chuckle. "What would you suggest I rather do?"
Her gaze alights on a bowl of fruit on the bar counter behind him. An idea sparks. She reaches past him to grab an apple from the top of the pile.
"Let me handle it."
Merlin lounges lazily on a large, oak chair in front of the fireplace, a king on his throne. Someone's even fashioned him a crown of roses.
He's chattering and laughing, surrounded by his Knights, a pint of foamy beer in hand. Sir Leslie-Percival tallies their cash winnings nearby.
She coughs theatrically.
They all pause to look at her, blinking owlishly.
She squares her shoulders. Removes her hat.
Merlin's lips quirks up.
"Yes?"
"You got your money," she says, nodding at the stacks of bills. "I want my tape."
He points his hook at the bullet holes in the ceiling. "Forgettin' the cost of damages, sweetheart."
She closes her eyes. Takes a breath to smother her boiling rage; clear her head.
He responds to ego. Likes games. Putting on a show.
Well, she can play, too. And she'll give him a show.
Her eyes fly open.
"I've got two thousand dollars," she announces. Then, slams her apple on a footstool in front of him. "And I bet you can't shoot this target from ten paces away."
A refrain of dramatic oohs from the Knights around him.
His mouth twists into a smirk like he thinks she's being cute.
"You challengin' me?"
"That's right. If you hit it, then the money's all yours. If I hit it, you give me my tape."
He leans forward, curious. Spears the apple with his hook.
"And if we both hit it?" he asks, examining the red fruit with a raised eyebrow.
"Best two out of three."
He polishes the apple with his sleeve as he considers her request.
After a moment, he bites down in a loud crunch.
As he chews, he looks her up and down and notes the excited babble of his loyal subjects; his Greek chorus.
He passes his beer off to a lackey Knight. Swallows.
"Okay," he says, sticking out his hand. "You've got yourself a deal, Miss…?"
She clasps her hand with his.
"Beckett. Kate Beckett."
xxx
A/N: I had such a ball with this update—Fairytales and Westerns and Arthurian Legends, oh my!
Disclaimer: Obviously, The Blue Butterfly is a fictional film (a result of my overactive imagination), but the torrid love affair of Spencer Tracy and Katharine Hepburn did happen! Except the first film they actually filmed together was Woman of the Year ('42) and the El Rancho curse is made up.
I hope you enjoyed your stay in Fantasyland (Oz? Neverland?) this week. Please tip your writer on the way out. She accepts follows, favorites, and reviews (the more, the merrier)!