Close Encounters 3.5

"I have to go," he said, eyebrows knit as he looked at her.

She smiled though and stood up. Slowly. But she stood. And she wasn't swaying. "I have a session with Fezzik anyway."

He hesitated still, turned back to her in the doorway even as she tried to push past him. He let her go, watched her walk down the hall. She seemed confident, sexy even as she turned to look at him over her shoulder. He smiled and followed.

She glanced to the kitchen which led out to the back porch. "You going?"

He nodded and left her at the door to the physical therapy room, changed his mind to come back for her. He grabbed her wrist to stop her and her eyebrow lifted at him. He let go and reached up for her neck instead, brought her close enough to kiss softly. Softly.

She hummed and her fingers touched the skin at his neck, stroked. "Go to work, Castle."

She pushed him away and went into the room as if confident he was on his way, but he stopped. He stopped and when the door shut, he couldn't help but watch her through the window set into the door.

Beckett was led to the table, but she didn't get up on it. The physical therapist, who he remembered was actually named Robert, had her working immediately. A bright purple exercise ball seemed merely a torture device, and she sat on it and allowed Fesik to manipulate her arm. Castle could see every contorted knot of agony on her face as her shoulder worked.

He didn't know how long he stood there, watching her nostrils flare, the heat of her frustration and anger and pain, but then it went too far, or just far enough, and she cried out.

His heart was pounding; he stumbled closer.

She gasped and dropped her chin, eyes closed; he put his hand to the door knob but she tilted her head back and swallowed hard. He could see it moving through her throat, the shaking in her tense body as Robert pushed her, manipulated her arm.

And then tears. Silent and sleek, tears dripping down her face.

But she didn't stop. She kept working, kept moving, stuck with the program.

Still those tears didn't let up.

He didn't leave. He couldn't. But he also didn't want to hover, to interrupt. The observer altered the results just by observing. So he kept out of her way, didn't let her know he was there.

When the physical therapy was over, he haunted the room across the hall and listened to Beckett make her slow way down to their bedroom. There was a thud, as if a body had fallen against the wall just outside where he was hidden, and he tensed, but she must've gotten her feet under her and moved on.

His heart was pounding and he slowly slipped out of the room. He took a long breath in the hall and imagined he could taste her sweat and work on the very air. When he stepped closer, he heard her grunt and the whimper of pain, the growl afterwards as if she was frustrated with herself.

He couldn't see her, but it was as if he were standing in the room with her.

When he heard the shower come on, he took another few steps down the hallway and waited. He heard her just on the other side, pulling off her clothes, the noises she made as she struggled. And then when enough time had passed, he carefully opened the door.

The room was empty, the shower running, and he moved towards the bathroom to look.

He pulled back into the room with his heart pounding, hands in fists, and he tilted his head back.

The curtain hadn't been pulled all the way, like she hadn't the energy to try, and he'd seen - in that one brief glimpse - Kate Beckett huddled at the bottom of the bath tub, her chin on her knees, her eyes closed, and the water running down over her face like she hadn't the breath or strength to care.

He stayed, ghosting the Farm's halls until she was out of the shower. It took her forty-five minutes, and when she was finally done, when she'd crawled out of the tub and stumbled to her feet, she had only a towel draped over her back.

Castle watched as she collapsed into bed and curled up, the towel over her shoulders, her legs pushed down beneath the sheets, but nothing else. She was asleep before she was even in the bed, her eyes closed and her body slumping into the mattress. She hadn't even noticed him.

He came into the room then. He'd already called Black and told him he wasn't reporting in today; he'd spent the time Beckett was in the shower rearranging his schedule and designating assignments for his team. They didn't need him there; she did.

He slid off his jacket, hung it over the chair, slowly unbuttoned his dress shirt. He toed off his shoes as he pulled his shirt off, folded it. He left his pants and undershirt on - they were comfortable enough - and then he carefully crawled into bed with her.

She didn't wake when he curled his arm under her neck, didn't wake when he arranged her at his side and over his thigh so that she could sleep. Her hair was wet, tangled again though not as badly, and he combed his fingers through it, the damp strands spreading out over her back.

She shivered in her sleep and he drew the covers up tighter, stroked the hair from her face and kissed her forehead. He'd stay just like this until she woke.

And then they were going to talk.

There was a lot to apologize for.

She woke to the steady brush of fingers in her hair and the rhythm of his heart under her ear.

"Castle?" she groaned and curled in, but couldn't lift her head.

Her body was a mess of aches and knots, and a weariness had taken up residence in her bones, but his arms came up around her and cradled her close, his fingers in the hair at her neck and his palm at her scar like a heating pad.

"What day is it?" she muttered. Had she slept straight through? That had happened before. Fuck, not good. Her back ached and if she'd skipped a session it would be that much worse.

"Still today," he laughed softly. "I'm early. Actually. I never left."

"What?" She lifted her head this time and saw the clouded uncertainty in his eyes. She'd never seen him hesitate. Never. "Castle?"

"I couldn't leave, Kate. I just. . .can't keep leaving you."

"You should have," she growled, trying to push off of him. She hated conversations when she felt like this, weak and disadvantaged. He actually let her go, and she sat up in bed, her head swimming, and she realized she wasn't wearing any clothes.

He was grinning at her, the insufferable-

"Want a shirt? bra? something?"

She shoved on his shoulder, winced as she did, but she got out of bed and stumbled for the dresser. She couldn't manage the drawers, shouldn't, but she did anyway. She jerked and felt the burn in her back but she pulled out underwear and a soft flannel shirt of his.

He came up behind her just as she was tugging the shirt on, his fingers at her waist and his chest at her back, so warm that the ache in her spine seemed to unfurl its tendrils and dissolve just at the heat of him.

Castle didn't say anything, but he pushed the buttons into their holes one by one, his mouth hovering somewhere close to her neck like a kiss.

She curled her fingers over his and brought his palm to her mouth, turned slowly in his arms to look at him. His other hand dropped to her waist and then down, skimming her ass and her bare thigh, but it was only to touch, only to draw her that much closer.

She nudged at his nose with her mouth, put his hand at her neck to show him what she wanted. But he only looked at her, studying, and wrapped his arms around her for a hug.

She laughed and lifted her head, but he was cradling her like something precious.

"Castle?"

"I shouldn't have left you," he said gruffly. "It's not right that you do this alone."

She narrowed her eyes and lifted her good arm to flick his ear. He scrunched his face at her like he didn't understand.

"Castle. What are you talking about?"

"It's not right. I should've done this differently so you wouldn't be alone-"

She wriggled and pushed on him. "You're being ridiculous. I have to do this alone. You can't do the program for me, Castle."

He ducked his head and scraped a hand down his jaw. "But the rest of it - showering and cooking lunch-"

"But I told you to go. I was the one who told you to do your job. I need it done."

He was staring at her like he'd only now actually seen her. "I know you do, Kate. But I-"

She waited, but he shook his head, pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. She stood before him and finally hooked her fingers over his and tugged a hand down. He looked brittle and guilty.

"Rick," she said softly, questioning.

He dragged her into his arms.

"I love you, Kate," he murmured, cradling her head to his shoulder. She'd resisted the embrace at first, but her fingers were curled at his waist, her breathing slow. He liked that. "I don't mean to - I just don't know how to do this right. But I love you."

"Neither of us know any better," she laughed softly. "Castle. We're both not any good at giving up control or sitting down and doing nothing. You see me struggling and you want to fix it. I know. But you can't. I am getting better though. I'm almost there."

He sighed deeply and carded his fingers through her hair. She shrugged one shoulder at him and stepped away.

"If you want to help me-?" she asked. "Then pull my hair back. It's dried funny."

He knew it was a gift, so he took it. "Okay. Get a rubber band."

She pushed on him, herded him back into the bathroom. He turned around and glanced at the sink counter. There was a pink rubber band under a wad of ace bandage, and he wondered if she was using that too. What else about her did he just not know?

He snagged the rubber band, surprised by its color. Kate Beckett owned a pink hair band. Who would've thought?

Actually. He didn't even know that. "What's your favorite color?" he asked, began scraping her hair back.

She hummed and laughed a little. "Purple."

"Oh?"

"Yours is what? Black?"

He huffed a laugh and shrugged. "I don't know. Never thought about it."

"You don't have a favorite color? What about when you were a kid?"

"Maybe green. Or orange. I don't know. That kind of thing wasn't important."

She half-turned her head to see him, but he tugged her back around with his grip on her hair, wound the rubber band around it.

"Castle, what about now? What would your favorite color be?"

"I like you in purple. Vibrant."

She was rolling her eyes; he could sense it without even seeing it.

"Or maybe. . ." He paused and snapped the rubber band into place, admiring his own work. "Look at that. Perfect."

She tossed her head a little to test it and then turned slowly to grin at him. Her fingers came to his chest and tapped. "You're getting good at this."

"I like brown," he murmured, studying her beautiful face as she smiled at him. "The brown of your eyes. Almost gold sometimes. So green others. A chameleon brown."

She blinked, but her mouth dipped into a shy smile. "Sometimes, Rick, you have beautiful words."

He had. . .what?

"I read what you wrote," she went on, lifting those eyes to his now in a swirl of color. "In my notebook. I read that letter. Part of it."

She read. . .shit. The notebook. He'd written in it again this morning, hadn't he? "It wasn't - I never meant for you to see it."

"In my own notebook?"

"I was going to tear it out. I didn't have any paper." His fingers were tingling; his hands felt too thick, awkward. He took a step back and scratched at the back of his neck.

"It was beautiful," she whispered. "Will you write me more?"

His heart was pounding out of his chest. "I'm not - I don't write."

"You wrote that."

"It was - I couldn't help - Eastman. It's his damn fault. He wrote Carrie these letters and I couldn't get it out of my head. I didn't mean to."

She kept coming for him, dressed only in a flannel shirt with her hair curling in her pony tail and wisps of it touching her cheek. Her eyes were glittering sparks in the shadow of her face.

"I want you to write me letters, Rick." She slid her left hand to his chest and up to his neck, curling her arm around him to bring him in close. He couldn't resist, especially since he knew she was using her injured side to reel him in. She was smiling at him. "Write me letters."

"Kate," he sighed.

"Please." She breathed against his mouth and touched her tongue to the seam of his lips, withdrew. "I don't want you to carry me to PT. I don't want you to supervise my wardrobe. I don't want you to hover or feel guilty about leaving me alone. I want you to write me letters - about you, about what you do, about your bruised ribs, about anything at all. Give me that."

Fuck. "That's like the scariest thing on that list, Beckett."

"But you'd do it for me?" She smiled her question against his skin and then she kissed him, devastating and slow and thorough, until he couldn't help but murmur his agreement into the heated cavern of her mouth.

Always, always, always.

She had a note on her bedside table when she woke.

The paper had been torn from her notebook and propped up like a placecard, her name written in rounded block letters, almost tentative, too small for the page. She smiled and snaked her hand out from under the covers, snagged it.

The bed was empty and cool, and she dragged the note back to her.

She flipped it open and bit her bottom lip, rolled slowly onto her back to read it, let the morning light illuminate his small print.

Dear Kate,

I don't want to leave you. I want to slip my fingers through your hair and kiss your neck, watch you smile when I touch your skin with my lips.

But.

I don't know how to be better than this. I don't know how to be anything other than a spy, even if it means that I keep hurting you. But I want to try. I want to be more for you. Just as you've been more for me.

I have to be part of a takedown today. I have a team. When it's over, and the clean-up is through, I'll be back. I don't know when. I wish I could say. I wish I could give you more that just. . .this.

Rick

She pressed the letter closed and curled in around it, buried her face in a pillow that still faintly smelled like him. She didn't have that much time before physical therapy, she had to get dressed and get moving so that Fezzik wouldn't be working with stiff muscles, but she wanted a moment to hear the echo of his words in her head. Her heart.

He'd be back. Today or tomorrow or later. But he'd be back.

And she could do this alone until he came.

Friday, when he'd been gone for four days and she was beginning to be afraid it'd been a lot more than just a takedown, she found this on the windowsill, waiting for her like a bird with outstretched wings:

Beckett, I'm the only one who could possibly survive being in love with a woman as cripplingly gorgeous as you.

She turned and he was there in the doorway, his hand and wrist in a brace, two fingers plastered, but a smile on his face that made her go to him.

He wrapped one arm around her tightly and pressed his mouth to her neck, a greedy line of kisses to her mouth, and then his tongue pushed inside and claimed her. She drove him back against the door frame, felt him gasp with the hit, but she snagged her fingers at the hem of his black shirt and drew it up his ribs.

He grunted in pain and she pulled back; his mouth chased, but she stopped him with her hand. He bit at the heel of her palm and suckled, and his eyes were dilated, but she brushed the back of her hand over his abs and he winced, muscles fluttering.

"What happened?"

"I made it back," he warned. "Just know first that I made it back."

"Back. Where were you? Where'd you go?"

"Bracken's getting aggressive."

"With you. Your team."

He nodded shortly.

"Oh no." She shoved up his shirt and saw the criss-crossing bruises, some old and some new, the rainbow of pain painted up his torso. She breathed out another curse and touched her cold fingers to his ribs. "Castle."

"Black's pulled me off it for a few days."

"Bracken's going after you. He - he had you somewhere? How did you escape?"

"Team came to liberate me. Black had me tracked; it was only a matter of a few hours."

She pressed her forehead to his sternum and gulped past the sudden, cloying panic. "No more. You can't-"

"I'll have to kill him if it comes to it."

She lifted her head, stared at the deadly, cold certainty in his eyes. "No more, Castle. Not without me. They're set to discharge me in a week. Black said you're off it for a few days? Perfect timing. You stay with me this week and then we do this together."

"I don't want you anywhere near-"

She gripped his shirt, tried not to hurt him more. "We do this together. You said it yourself - if you're a target, I'm a target. I took a bullet for you, Castle. Don't make that be for nothing."

He growled and she felt his hand at her hip, digging hard, but she wouldn't back down on this.

"I get cleared for active duty as soon as I pass my firearms test," she said quietly. "Then I go out on the streets of New York. What then, Castle? I won't hide away. And I know you won't either."

"I'll fucking kill him."

"That's not how it's done," she said. "Not with a senator. Not with the man who ordered my mother's death. And damn it, yours as well. No. We do this together."

He shook his head like a dog, but she pushed him back against the wall, leaning into him, pressing her body flush to his and skimming her fingers at his abs. He was hurt and it made him weak, made him easy to maneuver. She was stronger now, and she could slide her stiff arm around his neck, prove to him she could do this. Her mouth was at his jaw, along his cheek, scraping against his scruff. She rolled her hips into his slowly, then again.

He groaned. "Beckett-"

"We do this together. You promised me."

"I don't want-"

"You said you'd be better. You'd be more." She hated herself for doing it, but to keep him from going out there alone again, to keep him from killing the senator and committing an act of treason, she'd say anything. "You promised to be more for me. But you've left me here for months. Alone. You left me. Don't do it again."

"Kate," he moaned, his arms clutching around her, his forehead pressed into her neck. She held him loosely to keep from bruising him, curled her fingers at his nape. "Kate, please."

"I love you," she whispered. "You won't do this alone. Not anymore. I'm back. Just give me a week."

He shivered hard and she felt his jaw work as he ground his teeth. Too much of their relationship was about pain and anguish and suffering. She wanted to bring him light and joy; she wanted to be able to joke with him again, to tease, to feel that flush of warmth in her chest when he wrote her those letters.

"You are a beautiful man," she whispered. "And you won't do this alone. We do it together because we are stronger together. Haven't we learned that, Castle? Haven't we had that lesson beat into us? Don't let it be for nothing."

Still he seemed to resist.

She pressed her lips together and squeezed her fingers at his neck. "Rick. You said once that I don't keep you. And you don't keep me. But you're wrong. We keep each other. That's how we're strongest. Together."

His arms tightened around her and he took in a shaky breath, then he lifted his head and stared at her.

"You don't go back to the NYPD."

She opened her mouth to protest, but he shook his head and kept on.

"I can't protect you there. You can't be my partner if you're a cop. You come to work with me, Beckett. A consultant, an agent, I don't care what we call it. But you come to work with me. We keep each other."

Her chest constricted, her ribs crushing her organs until it ached to breathe.

"Work for. . .the CIA. Your father."

"For me. Not him - he won't touch us. Me."

Castle.

"Okay," she said quietly, then cleared her throat to lend some strength to her voice. "Yes. I'll go to work with you."

He didn't smile, but his face eased, his body slackened as if given a reprieve.

"Until we get Bracken," she said. "And then I go home."

His mouth hardened, his eyebrows furrowed, but he nodded. "And then you go home."

A painful fist clenched her heart at the look on his face, and she snagged his uninjured hand. "But not alone," she said in a rush. Her words tripped over her tongue. "Not alone. I won't go home alone. You come with me."

"I'm a spy-" he started to say, shaking his head.

"Yes, but - but you're mine," she interrupted, squeezing harder. "And you said you'd marry me. Remember? You're my plan, Rick Castle."

His eyes lifted to hers and she saw the darkness clear for a moment, that brilliant and beautiful blue sparkling like the sea after a storm. She smiled hopefully at him and he gave her a flickering grin, little boy found.

"I am going to marry you," he said, and the grin grew wider. "I think I'm the only one who could, Kate Beckett."

End.

preview of coming attractions

Close Encounters 4: Diamonds Are Forever

Oh, wow. This woman was good.

Very good.

She was a natural at the spy game.

Castle left her to her little act - the flighty and giggling enchantment of a woman that could not possibly be Detective Kate Beckett - and he slipped towards the park bench at the Palace of Versailles, aiming for that briefcase. Their likely suspects were all back by the reflecting pool, in various stages of amusement and interest as Beckett made something of a fool of herself for an artist sketching her.

Castle would have to find a way to get that sketch when they were through.

Of course, the Orangerie was filled with tourists and visitors, and he quickly took the stairs down. He could feel the cold in his lungs, and he jogged as fast as he dared towards the orange garden, needing to be casual but also pressed for time. When he got to the lower level, the park bench wasn't quite deserted, but Castle sat at the far edge with his coat loose around him, hunched his shoulders as he leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. The briefcase was right there and he took one last look around before snagging it.

It was locked, but he worked the thin blade of his knife into the leather behind the mechanism, as quickly as he dared, until the clasp popped free. Castle did the other side and then opened the briefcase, still at his feet, with a swift hand.

Shit.

File folders.

Surely not. The informant couldn't really have brought him file folders to a meeting like this. Beyond stupid to take actual information out of the consulate. Damn stupid-

Ah, yes. Much better.

Castle's fingers had been testing the briefcase's pockets, looking for a hiding place, and then he'd found it. A flash drive in a hidden compartment near the pen holder. Perfect. He palmed the drive, closed the briefcase, shoved it back towards the hedge, and swiftly left the area.

When he made it back to the commotion surrounding Beckett, he made sure to tuck the flash drive into the hidden pocket of his belt - not fancy, not James Bond-worthy, but it would do for now. He stayed at the edges of the crowd, began to slowly, easily work his way up again.

He let the drama go on, Kate goofing off for the sketch artist who was laughing and flirting with her, and he watched as she stood on her tiptoes at the lip of the relfecting pool, her coat open to reveal the deep emerald of her sweater, the narrow hug of her waist. A photographer was calling out to her - tourist or professional, Castle had no idea - and she received instructions in French, clearly understanding only a handful of words.

He waited until she spotted him, impressed by her flawless performance even when she knew the act was no longer necessary, and he stepped up next to the sketch artist as the man finished with a flourish.

"Combien?" he asked, gesturing towards the sketch and then to glancing up to Kate with a smile. She was giving him an elaborate and wide smile, tossing her hair with a hand as she stepped back down to the ground.

"Pour elle, c'est gratuit." The sketch artist bowed and handed him the drawing with a performance of his own, and the little crowd that had gathered to watch were applauding. Castle bowed back and saw the couple they'd been keeping their eyes on had drifted away, either satisfied with the performance or not spies at all.

Hard to say.

Kate joined him before the artist; Castle could see her flushing pink and pretty in the late afternoon light.

"Merci, merci," she was murmuring, allowing the kisses to her cheeks, clasping arms with the artist like they were old friends.

The photographer worried him, but the man had wormed his way into their circle with his camera, showing Kate the images he'd taken. Most were close-ups not of Kate's face, but of the smooth line of her arm blurred by the man's focus on the Palace in the background or the fall of her hair over the reflecting pool.

In fact, as Kate politely admired the man's work, Castle realized not a single photo was of her face. Which was a crime, really, since she was so very gorgeous, but the photographer was an artiste, he was into the postmoderne movement, he said.

Magnifique.

Kate turned back for her bag and slung it over her shoulder, laughing with the artist and the photographer as they all tried to find some common words. Castle kept the sketch in his fingers and Kate lifted the flap of her messenger bag, carefully helped him guide it inside to keep it from getting bent. Her fingers were chilled, her nose and cheeks were red, but she was grinning.

He felt her grip on his elbow in subtle get me out of here, and he gently eased them both away from the crowd, calling back merci and hoping to find their path back to the bus.

When they'd managed to put some distance between themselves and the little show still going on back there - the sketch artist was calling for a new model, teasing a blonde woman in crowd of onlookers - Kate leaned her head against his shoulder and gave a long breath of laughter.

"Wow."

He grinned and kissed her temple. "You most definitely are."

"Did you-?"

"Something. Not sure what it is yet. But thank you. You were perfect."

She lifted her chin and met his eyes as if expecting him to be joking, but he wasn't. At all. She was perfect.

Kate pushed up on her toes and kissed him quickly, reached up to rub chapstick from his lips.

"That was exhilarating."

"You're quite good at it. I've never seen you so. . ."

"Stupid?"

"Free," he said, shrugging his shoulders.

So beautifully uninhibited.

Stay Tuned