Sleeping Somewhere Cold
Set between 1x10 and 2x01

A hand drifts across her side, fingers curling around her wrist with a tug and she turns on her heel, hand flying to meet the man's face with a slap that echoes through the silence of the parking garage. He grabs that wrist, too, holding her still until she's backed against the cold cement wall, her hands pinned at her sides.

She doesn't bother fighting, eyes the man in front of her as he stares her down, the smile on his face making her stomach twist and her heart pound.

After years of training, she's learned not to panic. She's learned how to get herself out of situations like these, to fight the race of her heart and stay calm and work herself free.

But then there's a prick at her neck, and the man's smile widens with sick satisfaction that makes her nauseous, and dizzy, and her stomach clenches but her heart seem to slow all at the same time.

And piercing blue eyes are all she sees…until she doesn't see anything at all.

The world is still in shades of black and white and grey, blurred at the edges and darkened in spots that make it impossible to know where she is, what she's doing here. Who the man with the blue eyes was and if he's here, too.

She stares at the wall in front of her, blinking against the drugs that much still be coursing through her veins, stealing her ability to see, to speak, to think, even in the realm of consciousness. Her tongue feels heavy in her mouth, her eyes drooping closed with fatigue that lingers, like fog within her mind.

It takes too long to drift from blurry thoughts and vision to true consciousness. Too many long seconds or minutes she spends realizing new, terrifying things about her surroundings. Things that make her heart sink and a shiver run up her spine.

Her hands are tied behind her back, her wrists already burning from the rope locked around them. She's tied to a chair, too, by more rope that cuts through the fabric of her slacks and blouse to keep her from moving, from running from this hell that makes no sense.

A hand closes around her neck, the grip familiar, unwelcome. She doesn't bother fighting it this time, either, just stares at the wall in front of her, ignoring the spots of black that swim in her vision.

He jerks her head so it's leaning over the back of her chair, her gaze forced to meet the icy blue eyes that have her fighting against the shudder that threatens to wrack her body.

"We've been waiting for you," he sneers.

"We?"

It escapes her before she can stop it, curiosity bubbling from her chest and the moment she sees his smile, she knows she'll regret it.

He jerks her head forward, sending a jolt of pain down her spine, and then to the side so she can see whomever makes up the rest of this we. He's sitting in a chair, staring back at her, his eyes wide with fear.

She can't even tell if it's fear for himself, or for her.

Castle.

The man holding them captive only disappears for seconds at a time. Otherwise, he's lingering behind them, his gaze on the back of her head a threat in itself, his smile a promise of agony that has her breath catching in her throat.

He leaves the room with heavy steps and returns, holding a rusted metal basin above his head. He doesn't say a word, his gaze locked on hers as he sets the tub in front of her. The promise is still unspoken, but her blood runs cold, her mouth going dry as Castle turns to her, his eyes wide in her peripheral.

The man leans over the basin, his fingers curled tightly around the edges, his eyes even lighter, scarier than before as he sinks to her level, so he's close enough for her to feel his breath on her nose.

"You know why you're here?" he asks.

She nods, doesn't dare speak a word, even though she doesn't know. Even though she still can't tell if this guy is a psychopath or a professional. Even though Castle sitting beside her only deepens the mystery she can't solve as drugs linger in her bloodstream and blur her thoughts.

"Good," he spits.

And then he stands up, and leaves again. He returns with a second metal basin, even more rusty than the one sitting in front of her. He repeats the question to Castle, and she feels her eyes drift closed when he nods in response too, her heart racing with the possibility that he actually knows why they're here.

Why, after months, this is how she gets to see Castle again.

The man comes and goes after that, returning to this darkened hell with huge bottles of water. He fills each basin, watching their faces for signs of recognition, of fear.

It doesn't take years of training to know what he's about to do. But it takes everything she's ever learned to keep her gaze locked on his, steeled with determination to survive this. Whatever this is.

He dumps ice into each basin. A single cube bounces off the edge of the metal tub in front of her and falls to land between her feet. The man eyes it, and then looks up at her and smiles.

"Looks like you're going first, Detective."

She can't hear anything. It's all muffled, muted. The sound of whatever question the man is repeating to her, over and over again like mantra of torture that makes her stomach churn, her heart burn. She thinks she hears Castle's voice, nothing but a blur now. The very person she tried to get out of her thoughts for months is now something she clings to as she struggles not to fight.

The ice cubes gather over her head, holding her down just as much as the hand knotted in her hair, shoving her into the water. Just as much as the fatigue that has taken over her body and weakened her spine.

He shakes her head under the water, and the waves burn, freezing cold against her cheeks, across her forehead, her chapped lips, her eyelids and the tip of her nose. She forces out a breath, fighting to keep herself from inhaling the water, from letting herself choke on this man's cruel control over her.

Finally, he jerks her head back, out of the water and she gasps on a breath, her lungs burning, her chest tight.

"Ready to talk now?" he hisses in her ear.

She doesn't bother with an answer. Knows that what she has to say isn't what he wants to hear, that it will only end with her head submerged and her breath stolen once again.

Her gaze slides to Castle. He's still dry, spare for the streaks of tears on his cheeks. His eyes are wide as he stares back at her, lips parting around words he doesn't dare speak.

"No?" says the man. "Okay, then."

She sucks in a breath as he shoves her forward, her spine aching, her face burning as it crashes back into the water, past the layer of ice cubes that block her way, that threaten to cut through her skin, to steal her blood along with her life, along with her sanity.

But he's pulling her back into her seat before her chest can ache for air, before her head starts to spin from the lack of oxygen and ice of her blood coursing through her veins.

She sinks back against her chair, her head lolling back as the man releases her hair. Her gaze lands on him, on the angry clench of his jaw and the daggers in his icy eyes.

"She didn't do anything?" he hisses, but it's not directed at her. He's talking to Castle. "She didn't do anything?"

Her gaze drifts to Castle. He's twisted in his seat, the rope tied tight around his waist digging into his stomach through the layer of his shirt. His gaze is locked on the man still standing behind her, determination shining behind the glimmer of hope in his eyes, so far behind the haze of fear in his irises that she doubts their captor can tell.

"She didn't," he agrees. "You're here for me. Whoever hired you wants me. So stop torturing her. Come after me."

The man, their captor, scoffs, and his footsteps are heavy as he walks from behind her chair to stand in front of Castle. His shoulders are square, proud, demanding authority. His gaze is as icy as it's always been.

"She told you not to look into it, didn't she?" says the man, his voice laced with a certainty that has her stomach sinking. "She told you not to look into it. She begged you to, actually. Told you that if you did look into it, your partnership would be over."

Her eyes sting fall closed, her head sinking back against the chair.

"She told you she was like an addict, that she put it away for a reason and yet you went poking your nose in it anyway," hisses their captor, and Castle's swallow is audible. "So what did you expect when you told her you looked into it and then left? Did you think she was going to leave it alone? She wasn't capable of leaving it alone."

Her eyes slide open again, just enough to see Castle staring at her, his blue eyes shining with an apology, with a need for confirmation in the face of which she can't even manage a nod.

"You're right, though," whispers the man. "She does deserve a break. I guess that means it's your turn now."

And before she can move, before Castle can take a breath, his head is underwater.

All she manages is a whimper.

There's an angry red handprint with blue fingertips on the back of Castle's neck when their captor finally releases him. She watches as he sags forward in his chair, his forehead pressing hard against his knees, his wrists raw and bleeding from the rope around them.

Their captor laughs, a bitter sound that makes her stomach clench and her blood run cold.

"He's stronger than I thought," he whispers. "Never thought a writer could handle so much without saying a word." He shrugs. "Too bad. Whatever he knows isn't gonna get out now."

She swallows, staring past the man's hip at Castle's slack features, the discoloration of his lips, the cut at the corner of his mother and the other at his hairline, bloody but not bleeding.

Their captor reaches into his pocket and pulls out a pocket knife, snapping it open with a wave of his wrist that has a quiet whoosh filling the morbid emptiness of the room. He slashes the ropes around Castle's ankles first, without being careful to make sure he doesn't cut through skin.

And then he slashes through the rope at Castle's waist, and she watches with a stuttering exhale as their captor shoves at his shoulder and sends his limp body toppling to the floor.

"He didn't deserve that," she hisses. "He doesn't deserve any of this."

The man turns to her, and without saying a word, steps so he's standing behind her once again. His hand tangles in the wet strands of her hair, and he jerks her head so her neck is straight and she's staring at the wall in front of her.

"He poked his nose where it didn't belong," says the man, the words a whisper against the shell of her ear, making a shudder of disgust run up her spine. It only makes him tighten his grip on her hair. "We both know he had no business looking into the case. You kicked him out of your life for it. I did this." He jerks her head back, and then forward again. "He deserved this. Just like your mother deserved what she got."

And then she's underwater, swallowing back a first gulp of water that leaves her shivering inside and out. She hears his laugh through the muffle of the water, feels him shove her even deeper into the basin before he flings her back, forcing her spine to snap straight, her eyes snapping open as her heart races.

"So, are you going to tell me what you know?" he asks. "Before your writer friend dies. Before you both meet the same fate as your poor, dead mommy."

Her teeth chatter as she speaks, chopping her sentence into bits, her determination to fight crumpling with every word. "You know what I know?" She sucks in a breath, ignoring the stabbing pain at the expansion of her ribs and the burn of air down her throat. "I know that she was my moth—"

He cuts her off by crashing her face back into the water, his threat dying as the world goes mute and her eyes slam closed against the onslaught of cold.

Her heart slows. Her head spins. Her hands, curled into fists at her back, loosen.

And he pulls her back to the surface, back into her seat.

She's shivering uncontrollably now, her insides quivering as much as the rest of her, her eyes staying closed even above water because it takes too much energy to open them.

And yet she still finds the strength to speak.

"She didn't deserve to…die. But…she did."

He slams her into the water again, leaving her there longer this time, until the edges of her thoughts are hazy and her mind is foggy and all she can do is stay there, her eyes closed, her mouth clamped shut, exhaling through her nose to keep the water away.

She sags back when he pulls her out, her neck giving out, her head sinking into his palm, into his control.

"I…know…that…whoever," she pauses, sucks in a breath that hurts more than it helps, "hired…you…killed…her."

He sneers. "Too bad you won't live to tell everyone."

She crashes back into the water, but this time he lets her go, knows she's too weak to fight it, to pull herself out of…everything she's gotten herself into.

So she stays there, her eyes closed, her head spinning, her heart a slow, steady beat just constant enough to tell her she's still alive, that he hasn't killed her yet.

The edges of her world, of her thoughts are blurring, the burn in her chest all too familiar, when he pulls her back once again.

"Any last words?" he asks.

She coughs. "You…won't…ge...way…this."

His smile would make her shiver, if she wasn't already quivering with every breath, every flutter of her eyelids against the blur of the world around her, the black spots dotting her vision.

"Watch me."

He plunges her into the water once more. The ice cubes have melted, but the cold water still burns and scrapes at her skin, freezing the blood in the wound that stings on her forehead. Her eyes stay open this time, staring at the bottom of the basin, at the spots of black that tell her consciousness is something she's just barely clinging to.

He doesn't hold onto her when he pulls her back, lets her sink against the chair so her neck is leaning back painfully, so she's exposed and weak and shaking from the cold.

She hears him pull the knife out once again, but she's too numb to feel it when he cuts the ropes at her ankles, or the one at her waist.

It barely takes the gentle shove he presses to her shoulder to send her toppling over, falling onto the concrete floor without the strength to fight.

"Goodbye, Detective Beckett," he says. "Say hi to mommy when you see her."

Her heart clenches. She whimpers.

And then her vision blurs, and fades until there's nothing.

Nothing.

She wakes to fingers combing through her hair, a hand pressed against the side of her neck, a muffled voice whispering something about a pulse.

There's a shout from nearby, one of success and glee even though her heart beats with the exact opposite.

Her teeth are clattering again, her blood still cold, her entire body shaking with shivers. She forces her eyes open, ignoring the burn as she does so, fighting the blur of her vision.

"Espo," she manages, her voice a raspy, inaudible whisper.

He smiles down at her. It's probably meant to be reassuring, but he just looks glad she's alive. All it does is make her remember how close to death she was.

"You're okay, Beckett," he tells her. "So is Castle."

She nods, and lets her eyes fall closed again, just slowly enough to see Espo turn his head to the side. She stays conscious just long enough to hear him tell dispatch they need two ambulances, one for her and one for Castle.

And then there's nothing again.

They poke and prod her, covering her mouth with an oxygen mask, tending to the cut on her head, stabbing an IV into her arm and stripping her off her soaking wet, chilled clothing.

Esposito stays in the corner of the room the entire time. Not watching her, but guarding her, and she would have asked why if not for the doctors and nurses surrounding her.

One draws blood. Another connects her to a vital monitor, snapping something onto her index and the machine by her head whirs to life. And the last says something about administering heated fluids to treat the hypothermia.

The doctor presses against her stomach, turns her head in every direction, shines a light in her eyes and asks her questions and ends up ordering a head CT anyway, just to be sure.

They slip a gown onto her arms to cover her chest, and tuck blankets around her so she's covered from the tips of her toes to right below her chin.

She's still shivering when they wheel her into her room later, just strong enough to fight the clatter of her teeth. The doctor informs her there's no sign of head trauma, or any other serious injuries, and tells her that she'll be staying overnight to get treatment for the hypothermia. She's too weak to argue.

And then she's left alone with Esposito, who's leaning against the door, keeping it closed with his weight.

Now, he looks more worried than anything else, and it has her gnawing at her lip.

"What the hell did you and Castle do to have a hitman torture you and leave you to die?" he asks.

Her pulse stutters, her eyes falling closed, because the last thing she wants to do is answer.

A nurse wheels him into her room just before the ending of visiting hours and part of her, a huge part of her, wants to make him leave and never come back. But her head sinks into the pillows instead, her eyes falling closed in defeat as his IV rattles over the cracks between the tiles.

And she wants to tell the nurse to wait, that they won't be long, but those words stay dead in her throat.

The door closes behind him, and her eyes crack open to see him staring at her. The same apology that's lingered in his eyes since she first saw him today is still shining bright in the blue of his irises.

It's a different blue from Lockwood's. It's almost warm, comforting. But Castle never needs to know that.

"I'm sorry," he breathes.

"You should be," she fires back, and his eyes go wide. "I told you not to look into it. I told you to leave it alone. And not only did you look into it, but you kept looking into it even after I kicked you out of my precinct, out of my life."

His brows furrow, his gaze flaring with anger. "I was trying to find an answer, for you," he tells her. "I know you're torn apart by the fact that her killer was never caught. Today probably only made it worse. I thought that with my connections from past research, and my money, maybe I could find out who did it and get justice for her, for you, and maybe then you would forgive me."

"Forgive you?" she hisses. "You thought I would forgive you if you came back with the name of my mom's killer, just forget that anything happened? That you completely disregarded my wishes? That you kept disregarding my wishes even after we stopped speaking?"

He shrugs. "I thought–"

"You thought wrong," she interrupts.

He swallows, and nods, and exhaustion seeps into her bones as her head hits the pillow again, as her eyes fall shut against the bright light of her hospital room.

"So, what did you find?" she asks, still not looking at him, but curiosity filling her chest, replacing the cold that lingers from the water, replacing the heat of anger that still courses through her veins.

"Huh?" he breathes.

Her eyes slit open, just enough to see his blurry image. "What did you find, in the case, that made whoever's responsible send a hitman after us?" she explains.

His eyes go wide, his throat bobbing as he swallows the last thing she sees before her eyes fall closed again.

"So, it was a hitman?" he asks.

She hums. "The boys identified him as Hal Lockwood. He's a professional. A dead end," she whispers. "So, what did you do to get whoever's behind all this to send his hitman after us?"

"How do you know it's something I found out?" he counters. "You were investigating, too."

"Because I never found anything," she answers, her head lifting from the pillow to shoot him a glare. "I told you, I'm like an addict with this case. I told you that if it came back into my life, I would fall back down the rabbithole. And I did. I ran the same dead end leads that never go anywhere, and found nothing, and then almost died for it."

He stares back at her, his eyes wide. "Oh," he breathes.

She nods, and sinks back once again. "So, what did you find?"

"I don't know," he answers, and she would roll her eyes and accuse him of lying if not for the sincere hurt in his tone, like he wishes he had an answer, but doesn't. "I could go through what I have when I get home, though, try and figure it out."

She snaps to a seated position, and her head spins, her hands curling tight around the blankets draped over her thighs.

"You won't," she hisses. "You will not look back into anything you found, Castle. You are going to go home and throw it all away and forget any of this ever happened."

"Like you will?"

Her shoulders sag, her breath escaping her on a sigh that must tell him everything he needs to know, because he sighs, too. Disappointed, in her. Just like she is in herself.

"What I do isn't important," she whispers.

"So you're not going to stop," he states.

Her gaze falls from his. "She was my mother, and no matter what triggered this, I just found out that whatever is going on is way bigger than even I thought," she whispers. "I can't just stop now."

He wheels himself closer to her, struggling as he does, and she frowns.

"I just want to help you, Beck– Kate," he whispers. "I have connections that you don't have. I have enough money to hire whoever you need to help you solve this."

She glares, again. "I'm not going to be your charity case," she says. "I'm not going to– You don't get to help me with this. You've done enough."

He sighs. "Just say you'll consider it," he asks, almost begging her. "I almost got you killed today. I'm not going to sit around and pretend I don't know you're going to get yourself killed any day because of this case."

She sinks back into her pillow once again. "I'll consider it."

"And you're not just saying that to humor me?"

She sucks in a breath, lets it out slowly. "I'm really tired right now, Castle," she whispers. "But I'll consider it. And I'll…I'll call you if I decide to accept your help, okay?"

He stares at her like he doesn't believe her. She doesn't even believe herself.

But then he nods. He doesn't believe her, but he nods. "Okay," he breathes. And he hits the button by her head to call for the nurse. "I'll talk to you soon, I hope."

Her mouth is dry, her lips chapped, her eyes wide despite the exhaustion still heavy in her chest, in every one of her limbs, a bitter reminder of the day that's just coming to an end. She can't bring herself to speak, can't manage a response, so she nods her head, and watches as the nurse closes the door behind them both, leaving her alone again.

And her head sinks against the pillow, her eyes falling closed, and before she can think about anything, she's asleep.

She does call him.

She never planned to, woke up that day knowing he would never get her call, that she would never accept his help when he has a daughter and a mother who would miss him. When her heart still hurts from the damage he caused, from the memory of the day—the days—she found out he broke her trust.

But she does call.

She calls on the day she sits in the precinct conference room, staring at pictures of stab wounds that perfectly mirror the ones that left her mother dead in that alley. On the day when she finds out Dick Coonan, yet another hitman that did the dirty work for someone he won't give up.

She calls him that day.

And he's kneeling by her side, his hand on her shoulder, his gaze apologetic and locked on the side of her face as her sobs echo through the bullpen, and her only lead dies on the precinct floor.

This is my contribution to Castle Fanfic Monday. It's also a fill for the lovely Alex's Castlefanfics Prompt Challenge (prompt: season 2 - the water is cold). I hope you all enjoyed. And, as always, a huge thank you goes out to Lindsey for being fabulous beta'ing this for me and convincing me it is not absolutely terrible.