Lost & Found

"My Achilles heel?"

It was the new nickname he'd given to her ankle. He'd been asking about her injury, if she was still okay to walk on it and when she said it was a little sore (it wasn't), he offered to carry her again (she suspected he might), and this time, she gave in with only a little fight (she had to keep up pretenses afterall).

If he was gonna hustle her, she was gonna hustle him right back. And she didn't think he'd mind the close-contact much. Her arms are banded around his neck, while his are hooked under her legs. She's wearing spandex shorts beneath her dress, so she's not flashing anyone as he makes the trek toward the front of the festival and their prearranged pick-up spot with Beth.

The writer's stomach had settled enough to eat a banana, per her recommendation. Part of the BRAT diet (banana, rice, applesauce, toast), she'd explained. Helps with the nausea and prevents further vomiting. Something her mom had drilled into her after her first hangover.

"Yeah. So you need to stay away from people named Paris, or possibly anything Paris-related. Because he was the one to fatally wound Achilles with an arrow to his heel—his one vulnerable spot."

"Oh, now we're in a Greek myth, is that it?"

"Multiple literary references in play, remember?" he rebuts before he continues to ramble. (Yeah, he's definitely feeling better). "Maybe you should avoid Parisian people entirely. Though you should probably stay away from them anyway. They're known to be rude towards outsiders."

"What happened to don't judge a book by its cover? Isn't that an unfair stereotype?"

"I'm just looking out for your safety."

"My hero," she says in soft amusement, tightening her grip on him in an affectionate squeeze.

"Apples!" he chokes out, one of his hands coming up to touch her elbow in a tap-out gesture.

"Shit, sorry." She loosens her hold and he sucks in a breath like a drowned man resurfaced. "Okay, now you're just being dramatic."

"Autoerotic asphyxiation is not the way I planned to go. Though it wouldn't be the worst way. Certainly beats death by cow meat."

She laughs as he smooths a few fingers over the sleeve of her jacket.

"This is real leather, huh? I wish I had something this cool. Where'd you get it?" he asks.

"Used to be my dad's. Until he gave it to my mom."

"Ah, so they were a little lawless before they decided to be lawmakers. Kinda ironic, isn't it?"

"Thought you were a huge fan of irony."

"Oh, I am, but you have to admit that's a pretty big shift. What changed?"

She shrugs. "They grew up."

"See? That's why I never wanna grow up. Doesn't seem nearly as fun."

She snorts a chuckle. "I don't think you have to worry about that."

A loud wailing suddenly grabs their attention and they spot a little boy, standing alone and crying.

"Hey, isn't that—?"

"Blitzkrieg."


"Hey, hey, it's okay. You're okay. Remember us? From the swimming hole? This is Rick. I'm Kate," she soothes.

The six year-old regards her with red-rimmed Bambi-wide eyes, lip wobbling and his nose smeared in snot. His gaze falls on Castle's stuffed animal. The writer immediately extends it toward him.

"Do you like lions? His name is Linus."

The kid tentatively reaches for it. The writer encourages him to grab it and a moment later, the boy's hugging the lion to his chest and hiccuping.

"Castle, give me your water." He passes her his plastic bottle, and she unscrews the top. When she offers it to the boy, he takes it, drinking from it hungrily. She murmurs to the writer, "Why don't you look inside the festival? See if his mom is around."

The writer nods and squeezes her shoulder as he leaves. She digs for the pack of travel tissues in her left pocket and starts to gently wipe the boy's face clean.

"My name means lion," the boy says.

"Jason?"

He shakes his head. "My old name. Leo. But I'm not supposed to tell. My new mommy says it's a secret."

"New mommy?"

"She said my old mommy is in heaven."

Oh.

"Why can't you use your old name?"

"Cause we're on an undercover mission. We'll get caught by the bad guys if I tell." He looks at her, suddenly worried; realizing his mistake. "You're not a bad guy, right? You saved me. That makes you a hero. And a hero is one of the good guys."

She huffs a small laugh. Okay, Castle, Jr.

"Is Linus one of the good guys?" the boy asks, holding up the lion.

"Course. He's brave and strong. Just like you," she says warmly, swiping some of his honey brown curls away and revealing a unique pattern on his temple. "Oh, this is cool." She coasts her thumb over it.

"My birdmark?"

She chuckles at his mispronunciation of birthmark. "Yeah, your birdmark. It looks like—"

"A lion's mane. That's what my old mommy called it." He pets the stuffed animal. "And Linus has one, too!"

"That's right," she smiles.

"Oh, Jason, there you are!" a voice cries and Kate recognizes the raven-haired woman who descends onto the boy, crushing him into a hug. Her name is Barbara, she recalls. Castle is right on her heels.

Jason (Leo?) starts to cry again. "Ow, that hurts!"

"His ribs," Kate notes. "They're probably bruised from the CPR compressions. What did the doctor say when you got him checked out?"

Barbara doesn't answer, focused on feeding the boy gingerbread cookies from a Ziploc in an attempt to calm him down. But for some reason, she thinks the woman is purposefully ignoring her.

"You did take him to a clinic, right?" Kate pushes.

The woman finally spares her a glance and a saccharine smile.

"Course I did. They gave him some ibuprofen and he's been resting all day. But he was getting restless, so I brought him out here, which is why we're out so late."

She doesn't know how she knows, but every word out of this woman's mouth is a lie.

"C'mon, baby. It's way past your bedtime. Say thank you to Kate and Rick," Barbara coaxes.

"Fank you," Jason says, mumbling around gingerbread.

"Thank you again, really. It's lucky you guys were around. Guess I should buy a leash for him, huh?" Barbara jokes.

Yeah, maybe. But it strikes her as odd that Jason needs to constantly be rescued from dangerous situations.

"Happy to help," Castle says. "And Linus is all yours, kid. I think he likes you better."

Jason beams and snuggles the stuffed animal closer. Her heart wrenches, a powerful need to protect him, rooting in her. Is he really in safe hands?

"You need to monitor him for the next 12 hours, okay? He's still at risk for a secondary drowning. If he has any trouble breathing, coughing fits, or any type of chest pain, you need to get him to a hospital immediately."

Barbara clears her throat. "Yeah, I think I've got it from here. Thanks." She leaves them with a short and curt Night and tows Jason down the block with her at a rapid stride. Almost nervous.

Strange.

"Castle, I think we need to follow them."

"Follow—? Why would we do that?"

"Something's wrong."

"What makes you say that?"

"She should've known about the secondary drowning symptoms. I don't think she took him to the doctor. And I don't think he's safe with her."

"He's fine. Kids run off. Happens all the time."

"He almost drowned, Rick. She wasn't watching him and he almost drowned. He was by himself at the art market in Santa Fe, wasn't he? The other kids. Their parents were there, but he was by himself, right? And now he gets lost again? Doesn't that strike you as strange? As some sort of pattern?"

"You think she's purposefully leaving him alone? To what end?"

"You're the one with a minor in psychology. Isn't there some sort of mental disorder to explain this?"

"Explain what exactly?"

"The neglect. The abandonment." She lists off her fingers. "What if she likes the attention? What if she gets a kick out of putting him at risk?"

"Like a Munchausen-by-proxy thing?"

"Munchausen by what?"

"Munchausen's is when you you lie about an illness for attention, and when you have it by proxy, it means—"

"You're lying about someone else's illness for attention," she puts together.

"But if she had something like that, she would've definitely taken him to the doctor. People with Munchausen-by-proxy thrive in hospital settings. It's their whole M.O."

She steps close to him, her mind racing.

"Unless she's trying to avoid places that require documentation. He said his old mom was in heaven. And his new mom told him his real name needs to be kept a secret, and the reason is because they're playing a game of undercover spies. But what if the reason is because she took him and she's not actually his mom at all?"

"Jesus, Kate. You think he's been kidnapped? What if it is just a game of undercover spies?"

"I don't know. I just…I have a gut feeling. Something's off."

"Oh, so you don't believe in fate, but your gut has magical properties."

Her brow furrows.

"You're not listening!"

"I am listening. You want us to follow that woman and her son and do what? Contact Child Protective Services? We don't know enough about their situation to make that call. They're obviously going through a difficult time, and we don't need to complicate it with unfounded theories."

Her skin itches with irritation. Unfounded—?

"See, that's not what Richard Castle would say." She circles him, adopting the posture of bravado he slips on when commanding a crowd. "He would say there's a reason we keep crossing paths. That the universe is trying to tell us something. He would paint a picture of a little boy who's been leaving us clues, like breadcrumbs, every time we see him, signs that he's in trouble." She stops in front of him. "Because the Richard Castle I know would say that if this were a fairytale story, then this is the one where a boy's been lured off the beaten path by a witch woman and her gingerbread."

He stares at her for a long moment, speechless.

"And her name is Barbara. Sounds awfully close to Baba Yaga."

"Baba Yaga?"

"Slavic folklore. A witch-like ogress who essentially steals children from their beds at night and eats them for breakfast."

"Kate," he sighs, dragging a hand over his face. "We've had a long day. We're both tired. And what's really troubling is that you're basing your logic on fairytales and folklore and I'm the voice of reason. You're messing with the natural order."

"Wow." She steps back from him. "You really don't believe me."

The sound of a honk and a flicker of headlights signals Beth's arrival, interrupting whatever the writer plans on saying next.

But she doesn't want to hear it anyway.


She forcefully slams the front passenger door shut, her blood boiling.

The writer buckles into the back seat, alone and indignant. "We shouldn't butt into a stranger's business."

She barks out a harsh laugh. "Please tell me you see the irony in that."

He pokes his head between the two front seats.

"His mom died. And he's probably still adjusting to his new reality. Part of which likely includes running away from time to time as a way of coping. You're reading too much into it."

She clenches her teeth to contain her seething fury. "Reading too much into it?"

"Maybe…just maybe, you're projecting a little. Making it personal," he says, his voice soft and coddling, as if he were speaking to a child.

Right. Because her mom is dead. And because she's the one who runs away from her problems as a way of coping.

But she's the one making it personal?

God, he really knows how to piss her off.

She crosses her arms and pointedly looks at Beth.

"Can you please inform Rick I'm no longer speaking to him?"

Beth blinks. "Good God, Bea was right about you two." She pulls away from the curb. "You need a roll in the hay. As soon as heavenly possible."

Kate scoffs derisively. "I wouldn't touch him with a ten-foot pole right now."

"Beckett, c'mon."

She spins in her seat to face him.

"I just thought, of all people, you would back my play."

"And what play is that? Call the police?"

Beth rolls to a stop at a traffic light. "Woah. Call the police? For what?"

They fill her in on the drive back, bickering back-and-forth as they do.

"Okay, let's say we do get the police involved. We wouldn't even know where to start. We don't know where they're staying, what their last name is. License plate. Nothing," Castle argues.

"Beth could call around to the other motels. Give them a description. See if there's anyone matching it. And the first names that we do have." Kate glances at Beth. "That is…if you don't mind. I know it's a lot to ask, and—"

Beth puts the car into park in front of the motel. "You really believe this child is in danger?"

"Yes," Kate says with conviction.

Beth looks to the writer for his vote and he raises his hands in supplication. "I just don't want to ring any bells that can't be unrung."

Jackass.

"How does this sound? I'll find out where they're staying. And once I get a full name, I'll have my brother-in-law run it. He works at the Sheriff's department, so he can be discreet and we'll see if this woman has any priors before makin' any sudden moves."

"Seriously? That sounds amazing. Thank you," Kate gushes gratefully before glaring daggers at the writer.

"I'm sor—"

She exits with another forceful slam of the car door.


Kate flips to the first page of Dr. Carter's book while Castle takes a shower. He said he needed a quick rinse to fully wash himself of his stomach incident. Though she suspects it's more so he needs a quick breather from her to mull over their fight in private. She had used the bathroom first to brush her teeth, wash her face clean, scrape her curls into a loose bun, and change into her pajamas (her favorite oversized magenta sleepshirt and a pair of leggings).

But she doesn't want to mull over their fight, so she focuses on Dr. Carter's Foreword instead.

Grief can be an ugly beast. It can rip you to shreds, slice you open, and choke you until you can't breathe. But it's also a beautiful thingan expression of love. Of how much you love. And losing a loved one is unlike any other pain because even though the person you loved is gone, your love for them isn't. It's still there. Still trapped inside you, with no place to go. So you break. You let the grief tear you limb from limb, cut you to your core, and suffocate you until you're nothing more than pieces of yourself. A vase knocked off its pedestal and smashed to bits.

But broken things can be mended.

In Japan, they practice the art of Kintsugi, a repair technique that fills the cracks of broken ceramics with gold (a tradition that's more than 500 years old). The reason they use gold is to highlight the flaws and imperfections of a piece rather than hide them. By embracing the scars, something much stronger and more beautiful is created.

It's a reminder that things fall apart, but they can be made whole again once you choose to accept that some things, like grief, will always be a part of you, but it's not the only thing that defines you.

Kate shuts the book and sets it aside, a lump in her throat, unable to stomach anymore, Dr. Carter's words hitting too close. It terrifies her…that this feeling might never go away. That the ache of missing her mother will always be with her. That she'll never learn how to accept it.

Oh, shit.

Maybe Castle was right. Maybe she was projecting.

The writer emerges from the bathroom then, in a plain maroon shirt and black basketball shorts, his head down as he veers toward the pullout.

"Where you going?"

He stops in tracks, and looks at her, fearful, like he's been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

"I thought…ten foot pole—"

"A deal's a deal," she says firmly. Her mouth quirks up. "Even if you tricked me."

He smiles a little. Relaxes his stiffened stance.

"Is that what this is about?" he asks and gestures at the pillow wall she's erected in the middle of the bed.

"Well, there had to be some consequence."

"So cuddling is out of the question?"

"Castle," she huffs slightly, her cheeks warming.

He settles onto the left side, sitting up, and tucks the quilted comforter around his waist. She, sitting up on the right. Like a goddamn sitcom couple. Fucking Mike and Carol Brady. Except for the pillows separating them. And for the lack of their usual witty repartee.

"No dream-catcher?"

"Hmm?"

He nods at her lampshade, absent of any totem.

"Oh, I couldn't find it. Must've misplaced it somewhere."

His lips curve into a frown. "I shouldn't have left mine in the car." His dream-catcher was hanging on the dashboard mirror of his Mustang next to a pair of red fuzzy dice he'd picked up from Bea's shop.

"I think we'll live."

"Right." He pats his lap. "So, uh, what time did you wanna get up? Should we set an alarm?"

"I asked Beth for an 8:45 a.m. wake up call. Which gives us plenty of time to catch up on sleep before my annulment appointment at 9:30."

Beth's Uncle Tuck happened to be a county judge and could fit them in anytime they wanted.

He nods, thoughtful and after a long, awkward silence, he gently asks, "Are we okay?"

"Why wouldn't we be okay?"

And yeah, it's passive aggressive. But she's still a little pissed.

He was supposed to be her partner. He was supposed to be on her team.

Not doubt her at every turn. Or make her feel stupid and irrational.

"Kate, I'm sorry."

"Do you even know what you're apologizing for?"

"I, um…"

"You know what, you were right. We're both tired and we should get some sleep." She switches off her lamp light, punches her pillow, and lays her head down. "Night."

She hears a quiet sigh from him as he shifts and turns off his own lamp, plunging the room into darkness.

"Don't let the bedbugs bite," he murmurs.

Normally, it's the kind of thing from him that would make her smile, but a tear sneaks out of the corner of her eye instead.

The one time she needed him to believe, and he left her stranded. It hurts. It really fucking hurts.

And now, they're on opposite sides of a wall.

Purple shirt vs Red shirt. On opposite sides of a rainbow.

Only there isn't a spectrum of color and light between them.

Just a dark void.


He's lost.

He's in the middle of the woods, and everything's pitch black, the moon blocked out by a thicket of trees.

He needs to keep running. Or the man in the mask will kill him.

But he doesn't know where to go. Where to hide.

A branch snaps and his heart seizes in his chest.

It's him.

And before he knows it, he's being slammed into a tree trunk, a gloved hand around his throat, squeezing tighter and tighter.

"No. Please don't! Please don't kill me! I won't say anything. I won't tell!"

"Stop fighting me!" the masked man growls.

But his voice sounds warped. Foggy. Far-away.

A different voice breaks through. A familiar voice. Her voice.

"Castle, it's me. It's Kate."

Kate.

"Stop fighting me and wake up!"

His eyes rip open and he stops struggling against the weight on top of him. A weight that's straddling his stomach and pinning his arms above his head. A weight that is Kate Beckett.

"Kate?"

"Oh, thank god." She frees her grasp from his wrists and bookends his face with her hands as her forehead knocks into his. "You're awake."

Adrenaline rushes into his blood and his heart pounds so hard and fast, he's sure she can hear it.

"Are you okay?" she asks quietly.

But he doesn't know how to answer. It's difficult to concentrate. All his senses are in overdrive. She is straddling him. Touching him. Stroking his cheeks. His jaw. Her breath, washing over him.

Very, very difficult to concentrate.

"You're breaking the rules," he says dumbly.

She puffs out a soft, warm breath mixed with relief and amusement.

"You were thrashing about. This was the only way to prevent you from kicking me again."

"Shit, I kicked you? I'm sorry."

He hates that he hurt her. Hates that he's driven them apart. He was a fucking idiot (again). She was just trying to make sure a little boy was safe and he threw her grief in her face.

And now, she's torn down the wall between them, and her fingers are carding through his hair, so natural, so sweet and intimate and comforting. He doesn't deserve it. Or her.

"'S alright," she murmurs. "Do you wanna talk about it?"

He really doesn't deserve her kindness. Her compassion. Not in this moment.

But he's greedy, and he'll take anything she's willing to give.

"He was trying to kill me," he confesses.

"Who was?"

"The masked man, the one—"

"From Hollander's Woods?"

He nods.

"I was lost and alone and he was choking me, but then I heard your voice. You brought me back." He tangles a hand in her hair, the other at the nape of her neck, clutching her, soaking in the comfort of her presence, the warmth and weight of her. "My hero."

He can't make out her eyes in the dark, can't read the expression on her face, but the slope of her nose nudges his and her lips hover over his but don't touch. He yearns for the sanctuary of her mouth.

This must be his punishment. To be this close, but unable to drink from her; taste her.

Like Tantalus, who sacrificed his son and served him to the Greek gods, only to be punished by Zeus to stand in a pool of water and under a fruit tree, forever forbidden to slake his thirst or satiate his hunger, for each time he tried to take a sip, the water would recede and every time he tried to pluck a piece of fruit, the branches of the tree would raise up, just out of reach.

"I only woke you out of self-preservation," she says finally, light and teasing.

He huffs a small laugh. "So you weren't looking for a roll in the hay?"

But it's the wrong thing to say. (Why the hell did he say that?). Because now she's pushing off him, and returning to her side of the bed, facing away from him, their physical connection severed.

Water, receding. Branches, raising out of reach.

"Wait, I'm sorry. That's not…"

He wishes he could erase the distance between them, engrave his apology on her lips. Earn back her forgiveness with the worship of his tongue. But he can't. He won't break their vow. She means too much to him. So he uses his words to bridge the gap of misunderstanding. The only thing he has left.

"I'm sorry about earlier. I was an ass and you were just being protective. I think…I was the one projecting."

She turns back to him.

"What do you mean?"

"You were talking about neglect and abandonment, and I…well, it made me think of—"

"Your dad."

"Yeah, kinda. But moreso, some unresolved stuff with my mother."

"Your mother?" she echoes gently.

"I love her to pieces and she was juggling a lot as a working actress and a single mother, but sometimes…I was the ball that got dropped. Left behind with a school friend I barely knew or at an unfamiliar boarding school when she had to go on tour. Or stuck with a so-called nanny, which was more often than not, an irresponsible middle-aged woman who watched daytime television instead of me, while she drank all the wine in the house."

He's quiet for a beat.

"I don't blame her for any of it. We were struggling and she didn't have anyone else to help her out. She was doing the best she could, and I wasn't always easy. I would run off on her from time to time. Because that was my way of acting out. My way of trying to get her to see me."

"Oh, Rick."

"So I thought maybe it was the same for them, you know? Maybe Blitzkrieg was just trying to get his new mom's attention. And she was doing the best she could in a difficult situation. And when you jumped straight from neglectful mother to mentally unstable mother, I just…I took it personally and overreacted."

"You know I don't think—your mom, she's not—"

"I know."

He hears her quiet sigh of relief, and then she speaks.

"I'm sorry, too. I think it's possible I was jumping to conclusions and getting a little carried away, but I really do have this feeling that something's not right."

"One might call that feeling a hunch. And all great detectives follow their hunches."

"Oh, so I'm a detective now?"

"You're like a real-life Nancy Drew. And she solved every case. So if you say you have a hunch, then I'm with you. I'll back your play. That's what partners are for, right?"

And that must be the right thing to say because she's fisting a hand into his shirt and tugging him to her and enveloping him in a full-body hug. Fuck. It takes every ounce of his self-control not to react to the entanglement of her legs with his, the crush of her chest, the perfect alignment of her hips, her head burying in the hollow of his throat.

Oh, God. This is the real nightmare. He's going to combust.

But by some miracle, he doesn't, and he's able to hug her back without embarrassing himself.

They stay like that, entwined in each other, for a long moment, a comfortable silence falling between them until Kate whispers into the pillar of his neck.

"For what it's worth, I know your mom loves you and it sucks she couldn't always be there for you, but she still managed to raise a great guy. Pretty damn extraordinary, really."

Oh.

Oh, wow.

No one's ever said something like that to him.

"Kate," he rasps, his voice thick with gratitude; eyes burning with tears. He loves her so fucking much.

"And just so you know, I'm not going anywhere." His heart swells hard against his ribcage. "I've been told you can't have a good road trip story solo. It's against literary law."

The biggest grin splits his mouth wide and he presses her closer.

"I so wish I could kiss you right now."

She snuffles a laugh, and murmurs, "Ditto," as she nuzzles his neck. Actually nuzzles him. Kate Beckett is the most adorable human in the entire world. He can't believe he gets to have her like this. Can't believe she wants him. "Can I interest you in a good, old-fashioned cuddle instead?" she asks seductively.

Evil, sexy minx.

"This not doing it for you?"

She puffs a laugh.

"Turn around, I wanna try something." He opens his mouth to respond, but she intercedes with— "And don't you dare make an inappropriate joke right now."

"I wasn't gonna say anything!" (He totally was).

"Uh huh. Just turn around, will you?"

"So bossy."

"Please," she cajoles tenderly.

He complies, curious, and repositions himself. And then she's spooning him, molding to his back, her leg fitting between his thighs, her arm slinging over his waist and curling up the plane of his chest.

She's cradling him like he's something precious and he's never felt so safe.

"Never been the little spoon before," he says quietly. "I like it."

She kisses his neck, directly on his hickey, quick and brief, and he gasps dramatically.

"You rogue!"

She giggles, a playful and girlish thing.

"Just renewing the promise."

He picks up the hand she's laid on his chest and kisses her palm before setting it back down, and her fingers splay over the spot where his bandaged stitches are, right near his heart.

"I'll allow it."

He's had cracks made in his heart by the father he never knew, the mother who wasn't always there, and the girl who left him stranded in the middle of Grand Central Station.

But the girl so determined to push him away, now holding him close, the beat of her heart, strong and steady and sure at his back…she fills the empty spaces, seals the cracks. She's the repair for his broken heart.

And he doesn't feel so lost anymore. With her, he feels a sense of peace.

As he drifts off in her embrace, the murmur of her voice whispering sweet dreams in his ear, he realizes, for the first time in a longtime…

He's finally been found.


The landline trills and she disengages from the writer with a small groan, her hand shooting out to scoop the phone up.

"Hello?" she says, speaking softly.

"Kate? It's Beth. I have an update and thought you'd like to hear it first thing."

"You got something?"

The cow-shaped clock on her nightstand shows it's just after seven. Despite the interruption of Castle's nightmare at around four, she slept really well. It's the third time they've been up together in the middle of the night. The third time secrets were shared in the dark. The intimacy they share is unlike anything she's ever experienced. She's never felt closer to anyone.

It dawns on her suddenly that she hadn't had any nightmares of her own. For the first time in months, she didn't have one bad dream or wake up in a cold sweat, a scream tearing from her throat.

It's like…he was her dream-catcher, her nightmare caught up in him. Like she infected him with her darkness, forcing him to wander with her in the shadows.

It's a silly thought. Absolutely nonsensical. But she makes a promise to herself to find her missing totem before night falls again. She wants to walk in the light with him; have hopes and dreams again.

"Oh, I've got something alright," Beth says, "Her name is Barbara Hamlin and she's stayin' at the Drury Inn on the west side of town. My friend Earl recognized 'em and said they're still checked-in."

"Any priors?" she asks, her voice low, but she's not sure it matters. The writer hasn't budged, seemingly in a deep coma.

"A couple shopliftin' misdemeanors. She's from Arlington, Virginia. Divorced. And there's no record of her having a son, but she had a daughter."

"Had?" she asks.

"Leukemia. Passed 'bout seven months back. Only six years old."

"God, that's awful," Kate says. "Only six?"

"I know. I can't imagine."

"But no record of a son, you said?"

"That's right, but Jason, Leo, or whatever his name is could be her nephew or a foster kid. If he's callin' her his new mom, could be she's in the process of adoptin' him, and they're still sortin' out legal stuff, which would explain why nothin's poppin' up in the system in terms of how they're connected."

She runs a hand through her mess of curls, thinking of her conversation with Castle.

Maybe Blitzkrieg was just trying to get his new mom's attention. And she was doing the best she could in a difficult situation.

She sighs. "Yeah, it seems like they're both going through a hard time and I'm just seeing things that aren't there." She really thought…she was so sure. But maybe she had blinders on, her vision clouded by grief and she couldn't see the truth. "Well, uh, I think we can unsound the alarm then. Thank you for looking into it."

"I'm sorry I couldn't be of more help."

"Are you kidding? You went above and beyond. I really appreciate it."

"I've always been a fan of mystery, so it wasn't too much trouble. I just wish our resources weren't so limited. It's too bad we don't know somebody with access to a federal database. They'd be able to check missin' person files from all over the country."

"Yeah, too bad," Kate says ruefully, her gaze drifting to her nightstand and landing on Dr. Carter's book.

Wait a minute.

That's it.

Dr. Carter.

Former Chief Medical Examiner of the United States.


"Dr. Carter? Sorry to call so early. This is Kate Beckett. We met yesterday and—"

"Yes, of course. How are you? How's Rick? He kiss you like I told him to?"

"You—uh," she splutters. "No, um, not yet."

"Not yet, huh?"

"I was calling about—well, I was wondering if I could ask you for a favor."

"Need help hiding a dead body?"

Kate chuckles half-heartedly.

"More like help finding somebody very much alive. Do you know anyone who works in the FBI? I'm trying to track some information down about a possible missing person."

"You don't know if they're missing?"

"See, I have this hunch…"

And she presents the case of the lost little boy, covering the highlights. His charcoal fight with Castle at the Santa Fe art market. The almost drowning at the oasis in Santa Rosa. And the strange interaction at the festival the night before.

"...he has a mop of honey brown curls, hazel eyes, and a birthmark on his temple that's round with squiggly edges. He said his old mom called it his Lion's—"

"—Mane."

Kate's brow knits together.

"Yeah, how did you—"

"Lord have mercy."

"What?"

"You said you know where he is, that he's still at this motel inn?"

"Yeah, why?"

"Kate, I need you to hang up and call the police. You're right. That woman is not his mother. And that boy? His real name is Leo. He's been missing for six months and he's also my godson. His actual mother is a good friend and old colleague of mine in D.C. An FBI Profiler. Special Agent Jordan Shaw."


A loud, insistent trilling spears into the deep trenches of his sleep. He swims to the surface of consciousness with a groan and fumbles for the phone ringing off the hook.

"'Lo?"

"Good mornin', Rick," Beth says cheerily.

"Morning," he replies, his voice gruff with sleep and he stretches, arms wide, back arching, spine popping. But sudden panic crawls over his skin when he sees Kate's side of the bed empty, her stuff gone, and the sheets cool to touch under the inspection of his fingertips. She wouldn't… "Have you seen Kate?"

"She's out on an errand. Said you needed the extra sleep, and she rescheduled her appointment to 10:30."

Relief crashes through him. She didn't run. She's not going anywhere. He looks at the cow clock, which says 9:30.

"Oh. Okay. Any word on the kid?"

"Kate said she'd debrief you on that. You've got half an hour to get ready and meet her out front. And she wanted me to tell you, Don't be late. We've got a very important date."

He hangs up with a smile and notices a note on the nightstand with a silver-wrapped Hershey's Kiss perched atop it. He unwraps the chocolate candy and pops it into his mouth as he reads her neat block handwriting.

For you, Sleeping Beauty. Since I couldn't kiss you awake.

xo, Kate

Damn. He thought he was a cheesy, but Kate Beckett is giving him a run for his money.

P.S. Don't forget to brush your teeth, Vomit Breath.

He swallows the sweet treat and laughs.

A knock on the door pulls his attention and he opens it to discover a tray of breakfast food and a medium-sized gift box waiting for him on the other side, as if delivered by an invisible servant.

The food tray has a card printed with Eat me, while a card in front of a steaming cup of coffee reads Drink me, and the gift box has one written with, Wear me.

Oh.

Oh, wow.

She's doing Alice in Wonderland.

She really is crazy about him, isn't she?

He's never had someone reciprocate his playfulness on this level before. Never had someone make a grand gesture like this; go to such lengths to surprise him. And the day isn't even about him.

If he wasn't already ridiculously in love with her, he'd fall for her just for this, but he's already deep down the rabbit hole.

He eagerly removes the top of the box and stills at the sight of a brown leather jacket inside.

Holy fucking shit.

It looks exactly like the kind Indiana Jones would wear. He skims the material with his fingers. It's real leather, too. The genuine article.

He…he has no words.

But he's starting to think Kate Beckett might just be his soulmate.


"No fucking way. Jordan Shaw?"

She told him that she'd spoken briefly with the special agent after giving her statement earlier. Jordan was profuse in her thanks. So profuse and so overcome, in fact, that she had to end the call because she couldn't stop crying.

"You know her?"

"She cracked open that Hudson Valley Strangler case in the 80s when she was just twenty-five. She profiled that he drove a Yugo, and they got him off of a speeding ticket."

"Didn't they find a girl tied up in the back?"

"Uh huh. She saved that girl's life," he says. "And you saved her son's. Twice. I mean, when you have a hunch, you sure as hell have a hunch. I told you, Kate. You're a goddamn superhero. And I will never, ever doubt you again."

After they arrested Barbara Hamlin (like the Pied Piper of Hamlin, the writer commented), she stayed with Leo in lieu of a social worker until Dr. Carter had arrived. The former medical examiner had been at the airport in Santa Fe when Kate called, so she'd been able to quickly charter a private helicopter to Amarillo, making the trip in a little under an hour. Jordan was currently up in the air on an FBI jet, but her flight from D.C. wasn't arriving for a couple more hours.

When her daughter died and her husband left her, Barbara was so consumed by her grief, that she didn't think twice when she saw Leo at the playground one day. Jordan had been turned away from him, distracted by a work call, and Barbara got it into her head that because she wasn't paying attention, Jordan didn't deserve to be a mother. The department psychiatrist had also diagnosed her with Munchausen-by-proxy syndrome, which had been triggered by the death of her daughter.

Kate bites back a smile.

"Okay, Wiseass. Glad to hear it. Now put this on."

She pushes the motorcycle helmet she purchased for him into his chest and moves to strap his duffle onto the rear rack of her bike.

"It's a little tight."

She'd gotten him an old-school style helmet. Like something out of Easy Rider. Russet red with retro stripes of color down the middle.

"That's how it should be, Pumpkin Head."

"Hey!"

She grins at him.

"C'mere."

He dutifully trots up to her and she adjusts it, making sure it's snug but not suffocating, and secures the strap under his chin. She also liberates the sunglasses tucked into his shirt and glides them on for him.

"There you go."

"How do I look?" He strikes a pose. Pops his collar. "Am I totally bitchin' or what?"

She snorts a laugh.

"I was gonna say refined yet rugged. But totally bitchin' works, too."

He's a total hunk. And so very cute. She suppresses the familiar urge to kiss him.

"All thanks to this totally bitchin' jacket. Thank you again. Have I mentioned how much I love it?"

He has. Multiple times. And while she pretends to be slightly annoyed at his overly effusive gratitude, she's glad by how much joy it brings him. There'd been a leather boutique next to the motorcycle gear shop downtown, and when she saw it in the window, she thought of him; just knew she had to get it.

She'd also bought herself a pair of black leather pants, and it was totally worth the splurge of her poker winnings, if the writer miming a heart attack when he'd first seen her in them is any indication.

"Couldn't have you riding my bike without proper attire."

She kicks the stand up, eases a leg over the seat saddle, and starts the engine. When the writer doesn't immediately join her, she looks over to him, only to find him staring at her, slack-jawed.

She smirks.

He really can't handle the sight of her in tight, black leather, can he? It sends a thrill through her, knowing she has the power to affect him this much; this easily. But they don't have time to gawk and dawdle.

"You comin'?" she shouts, jolting him back to Earth.

"Uh, yeah."

He tentatively slides in behind her, his hands hovering politely over her hips. She rolls her eyes. Now he chooses to be a gentleman?

She yanks his arms forward and wraps them around her waist.

"You're gonna need to hold on tight and don't let go, okay?"

He doesn't hesitate then in squeezing her in a vise-like grip, molding himself to her and sealing any gaps.

"This is so much better than how I dreamed it."

Well, fuck. His stupid words have dirty images flooding her brain and sparks of arousal flaring in her belly. Coupled with the vibration of the engine reverberating in her limbs and his all-encompassing hold on her, so deliciously tight and secure, she's on the verge of combusting.

God-fucking-damnit.

He has the power to affect her just as much, just as easily, doesn't he?

"You better not enjoy this too much," she says, slamming the visor of her helmet down, along with her arousal.

(Annulment first. Dirty thoughts later.)

"I'll let you know in a minute."


She roars to a stop in front of the Sheriff's office, which is across the street from the courthouse and just a few blocks from Gene's repair shop.

"Oh my god, I feel so alive. That was fucking awesome!" Castle exclaims.

She chuckles as she dismounts with him.

He yanks his helmet off. "Woah, do you feel dizzy? I feel dizzy."

She removes her own helmet and shakes out her hair, her curls now loose waves.

"Holy shit, that was so hot. Do that again."

She rolls her eyes with a smirking grin and instead licks her palm and reaches out to smooth down the hair sticking up on the back of his head.

"Okay, that was even hotter. Are you trying to kill me?"

"You think this is hot? Just wait until you see my navel ring."

She saunters away with a sway in her hips. When she glances over her shoulder to check on him, she smiles smugly at the dumbfounded expression on his face.

"You have, uh, a nave—but I've seen you in bathing suits, you didn't—"

"Strategically covered in one-pieces." She motions for him to follow her. "This way, Big Guy. You wanted to say hi to Leo, right?"

"Yeah, you go ahead. I'm gonna need a moment to process this."


"The clinic physician said he was slightly dehydrated and a little malnourished. But he has no signs of secondary drowning, so we're in the clear there," Dr. Carter informs her. Leo sits on his godmother's lap, marking up a coloring book in front of him.

"Oh, that's great. Not about the—well, you know—"

"A very merry unbirthday to you. Yes, you!" the writer sings jubilantly, sailing into their assigned interview room with a tray of drinks and a greasy white bag. "Coffee, tea, or hot chocolate, anyone?"

Leo perks up. "Chocolate!"

"Here you go, little man," Castle says, passing him an insulated cup of the warm, sugary drink as he sets the tray down on the steel table. He opens the bag next. "Want a donut?" He looks to Dr. Carter. "It's okay, right?"

"He loves the ones with sprinkles," she says with an approving smile.

"Let's see…" He makes a show of searching for one and like a rabbit out of hat, extracts a donut with white frosting and rainbow sprinkles. "Ah ha!" He leans forward and offers it to Leo on a napkin. "Just what the doctor ordered."

He retrieves a chocolate glaze one for himself and bumps his against Leo's with a cheers! before they both take a huge bite, crumbs flying everywhere.

She wishes she had her camera.

"Ladies?" the writer asks muffled, his mouth filled with fried dough, as he motions toward his ad hoc tea party. She shakes her head at him in amusement and lifts the cup labeled Kate. After a sip of the grande skim latte (mhm, yummy), she crooks a finger at him.

"C'mere, Mad Hatter." He rounds the table and she captures his chin between her fingers. "You've got something—" She rubs her thumb over his skin, erasing a smudge of chocolate icing. "There."

He stares at her in wonder.

"You are trying to kill me. I knew it."

She arches an eyebrow. "If I were trying to kill you, I'd tell you about this trick that I do." Her voice lowers, dripping in innuendo. "With ice cubes."

The cerulean in his eyes swirls black with lust and her heart accelerates. Oh, shit.

"You know I can see and hear you, right?" Dr. Carter cuts in and they both flush with embarrassment and take a reflexive step back from each other, mumbling sorrys, like two teenagers caught in the act. Whoops.

"Did you know my old mommy's coming back from heaven?" Leo asks excitedly, drawing their attention. "Daddy, too!"

Out of the mouths of damn babes. Her eyes well with unbidden tears and her chest aches. Castle discreetly hands her a napkin and she covertly dabs the saltwater away.

"I did, bud. That's great," she says hoarsely.

Her mom's never coming back, but she's endlessly grateful she was able to reunite him with his.

"Wanna color with me?"

"Oh, um—" She glances at Dr. Carter.

"You have your appointment, don't you? You should go. The press's been sniffing around anyway, trying to unmask the Good Samaritan who found him. And if you wanna stay anonymous, I suggest you scram. Because the sooner you do, the sooner I come into some money," she says with a wink.

Her cheeks redden.

"Another time, bud," she says to the boy. They both hug him on their way out as well as the former medical examiner. And then, she's grabbing the writer's hand and hauling him out of the building.

"We're late. We're late. For a very important date."


"That's it?"

"That's it," confirms the Honorable Tucker "Tuck" Fairbanks, sliding Kate's signed and stamped form into a fresh file folder. It was done. She was free.

"Don't you need to see the proof?" Castle presses.

"I don't think anyone in their right mind would marry Rogan O'Leary sober." He gestures at Beckett. "So if you say you were under the influence at the time, then I believe you."

"You know him?" she asks.

"I wish I didn't."

Castle picks the tape up from the judge's desk. "So you don't need to file this somewhere? Like as evidence?"

"You've pleaded your case. Both parties signed. I approved it. That's that. What you do with that tape is of no concern to me."

"No concern? Bu—but you don't understand. The things we did…the battles waged—I mean, I have stitches!" he squeaks in protest. "And it wasn't even necessary?"

He was being punked. He had to be.

Tuck shrugs, infuriatingly nonchalant. "If you'd like me to view it, I can."

Beckett smiles wanly. "No, uh, that's alright. But I did promise him that he could watch it. He hasn't seen it yet."

"Our audio visual unit is right over there." Tuck waves a hand to the corner of the room. "Have at it."

"Thank you," she says. "And thank you for—"

"No need to thank me, darlin'. Pleasure was all mine. Godspeed," he says as he exits the chamber.


"Ready?" she asks, about to press play.

"Wait." He bats her hand away and hits the eject button. "Don't show me."

"You danced to ABBA in your underwear with a horde of half-naked men for this. What gives?"

He doesn't want her to be sad. They're supposed to be celebrating her newfound freedom, not dredging up past mistakes. She doesn't need to be reminded of something she did while coping with unimaginable pain. He's hurt her enough and doesn't want to cause her anymore, if he can help it. And he doesn't want to watch her marry someone else. Especially to someone who doesn't deserve her in the slightest. His stomach curdles at the thought.

"I don't want to live in the past anymore. And I don't want to make you relive it," he declares.

Surprise blooms in her gaze, followed by a blossom of tender affection.

"Are you sure?" she asks softly.

He removes the tape from the VHS and presents it to her like a sacrificial offering.

"Off with their head."

She brightens with understanding and unhinges the top section and wrenches the ribbon from inside the cassette, zealously unspooling the long black strip of silky film. It whirls around her in a glittering spiral. Once emptied, she throws the plastic casing to the ground and stomps on it with her heavy combat boots, effectively crushing it to pieces.

Sexy as hell.

She looks at him, giddy. Kate Beckett is giddy. That's more like it.

"Feel better?" he chuckles.

"Much."

"Anything else you'd like to do? Rob a bank? Solve a murder? Fly around Earth at the speed of light?"

She smirks.

"I have a better idea."

And then she's rising on her toes, reaching for him, eyes full of rich intent, her lips finally about to touch his, when a booming symphony of trumpets, flutes, and clarinets startles them apart.

His fucking Star Wars ringtone.

"You've got to be kidding me!" he cries out.

She huffs a laugh of amused frustration and slips the phone from his pocket.

"What are you doing? Don't pick it up. Do not—"

"Could be important." She flips the device open and puts it to her ear, her lips curling into a teasing Chesire grin and her eyes shining with mischief. "Richard Castle's phone. What can I do you for?"

Cruel, cruel woman.

"You live to torment me, don't you?" he whispers in a low voice, picking strips of cassette ribbon out of her hair.

She scrunches her nose and sticks her tongue out. Oh, that is just low. Acting all cute and adorable. How can he stay mad?

"Yes, he's available." Her fingers play with the collar of his jacket. "May I ask who's calling?"

At their answer, her face darkens and the light vanishes from her eyes, like someone's blown out the torch.

"What? Who is it? What's wrong?"

She lowers the phone into the space between them, dazed and confused.

"It's Kyra."


xxx


Disclaimer: While Dr. Carter's book (I Speak For the Dead) is real, the "foreword" provided in this chapter is my fictionalized version.