Close Encounters 7

Jim Beckett came down the dock to say good-night, Sasha following in his wake like a lovesick puppy, so Castle got to his feet and held out a hand to shake. Instead, her father gathered him into an embrace that gripped tightly before he let go.

"Rick," he nodded, and then he was turning to Kate and hugging her as well. He said something that made her laugh, and she was patting her father's back before she released him.

Castle stood to one side and realized with a strange relief that the people who'd gathered today were more his family than anyone else had ever been. Even the tentative forays with Martha hadn't gotten anywhere close to the level of trust and reliability, of love and ease that came with this group. Forgiveness too. No matter what happened.

Sasha nudged her head into the back of his knee so he bent down and stroked her fur, rubbed between her ears in that way that made her eyes slit.

"I'm taking the dog with me. You guys be good," Jim winked, giving them a wave over his shoulder as he moved back up the dock to the bank. Sasha took a hesitant step after him but whined at Kate until she came over and hugged the wolf good-bye, and then the dog was bounding down the wood after her father. Kate was still laughing a little and Castle reached out and took her hand, fingers lacing as they watched him leave with the overgrown puppy.

They settled back down at the end of the dock, her feet dipping in the water while he crossed his legs, their hands resting on his knee. He could hear her father's truck start up and then the tires crunching on the gravel drive.

"He didn't have to leave," Castle started.

"But it's more fun this way," Kate laughed. "Those were his words actually - what he whispered in my ear."

"It's kinda terrible that your father knows exactly what we plan on doing."

"He doesn't know exactly," she hedged, lifting her eyebrows at him.

He watched as she stood up on the dock, her bares toes and the long line of her legs entrancing. Castle curled his fingers at her ankle and stroked his thumb over the knob of bone.

"Castle, eyes up, sweetheart. Or you'll miss it."

He lifted his gaze and saw she was unzipping her dress at the side like some secret and hidden treasure. She rolled her shoulders and slipped out of one side of the white material and then the other, and then the whole thing pooled at her hips in a cascade of blue and gold embroidery, white lace.

Last time, he'd been recovering from a stab wound and barely able to sit up. This time, he was going to participate.

Castle stood and slipped his hands to her waist, his fingers creating points of electric contact with her skin, the current between them rippling. She watched him, her eyes glowing in the blue twilight, and he slowly eased the dress off her hips.

She stepped out of it in just panties and a bra, delicate white with blue lace, and he framed the portrait she made with his hands at her ribs, and he tried to keep breathing. He really didn't want to miss this.

"Your turn, Castle," she murmured and her fingers were unbuttoning his shirt, loosening his tie.

"My turn?" he gasped out.

"We're going skinny dipping. This time - together."

"Oh yes," he said reverently and moved to help.

Kate pulled her hair up and twisted it, snapped the rubber band around the wet mess of it just to keep it together. Castle skimmed a hot hand at her waist as he moved around her on the dock, gathering their clothes, and she grinned at the sight he made, naked and firm in light of the orange moon, drops of water on his back, darkening his hair.

"Here," he murmured and turned around with his shirt held out. She grinned back and slipped her arms into the worn-soft material, letting it hang open. She saw him swallow back his lust as he stepped into his boxer briefs.

She found his hand with hers, sleeves flopping and in the way, and the damp press of skin made him stumble. Kate laughed softly and leaned her head against his bare shoulder even as he guided her up the dock.

"Don't get my dress wet," she said, wrinkling her nose at him as he held their bundle of clothes and shoes at his chest.

"Too late. You did a lot of splashing."

She laughed and turned her head to watch their wet footprints slowly evaporate and melt into the darkness, and then Castle was guiding her up to the bank and the grass was cool and soft between her toes.

"So we're staying here for the night," he started, talking to her over his shoulder as he led the way to the back porch. "And we leave tomorrow around ten, or so I figured, in order to make check in at noon."

"Good," she said. "My dad has Sasha for the weekend and we'll drive back through here to pick her up."

"And then what happens Monday?"

"And then we go to work, Castle." She reached out a hand and skimmed it at the hard plane of his back. "We go to work and we make the world safer and we. . ."

"Have a family?" he said.

She heard the catch in his voice and felt the clutch of muscle under her fingers.

"Soon," she promised. "Let's this settle first. Give us time to get the hang of - everything. Therapy, work, us - you know?"

He nodded and reached back for her, took her hand from his waist and pulled her along, side by side now as they climbed the porch steps. He pushed open the door to the cabin and the smell of dish washing soap and laundry detergent was rich in the air.

She led him past the kitchen to the hallway and down to the guest bedroom, all in one fluid movement without stopping. No more thinking tonight. No more guesses about the future or worries about the CIA or who might come to ruin everything they'd so carefully built.

No more.

"Is this chocolate syrup night?" he asked.

She laughed and turned her wide smile back to him. "Not in my dad's sheets."

"Ew."

"Exactly. Doesn't mean we can't have some other fun."

"Hell, yeah."

They were ready to leave the cabin by nine that next morning, Kate with her bare feet propped on the dashboard of his Range Rover. He watched her paint her toenails, slowly and methodically, her hair pulled back to keep it from falling in her face, and then he went back to packing.

He loaded the last of their bags; the gifts were in the very back, along with that espresso machine, which he couldn't wait to try. He flipped an old blanket down over everything and shut the back of the Rover with a thump.

He missed the dog, true enough. Stupid, but there it was. The smell of fingernail polish was heavy in the car, but she'd rolled down the windows and when they got going, he knew it would dissipate.

"Nice color," he said, watching her for a moment.

She lifted her head and grinned. "My favorite."

Oh, right. Right. Of course. Her favorite color. He grinned back, sure of himself. "Mine's blue."

"Blue," she echoed. "I like blue. Especially on you. Those beautiful eyes."

He grunted but she'd gone back to work on her toes, a pretty lilac. He'd have guessed her favorite was deeper-

"Actually, I don't love pale purple, but more that deep royal. More color than this."

"That's what I thought," he said with relish and started the car even as he still watched her. Fascinated. "Like that bra."

She laughed and lifted her eyebrows, her movement arrested as he turned the car sharply around. "And the underwear to match."

"Oh yes, can't forget that."

"But yes. That's more like it."

He chuckled and caught her eye. "That's exactly what I was thinking."

"Goof," she muttered, shaking her head at him. But he could see that pleased smile and the steady way her hand painted polish over her toes. "You know, you've gotten a lot more silly over the past year."

"Silly?" he gasped.

She slanted a look at him and he smiled to let her know he was - well, being silly. She sighed and shook her head.

"Where did my badass, silent, and deadly super spy go?"

"Yeah, he wasn't any fun."

She laughed again and twisted the cap back on her polish, wriggled her toes on the dashboard as he pulled out of her father's driveway. She adjusted the seat belt so it wasn't at her neck and he told himself to pay attention to the road.

"He was fun. He is fun," she answered. "A different kind of fun. Handcuffs kind of fun."

The rough burr of her voice tightened arousal around his spine, hooked his guts like a fish. He glanced at her, the sharp and angular line of her cheekbone and the jut of her jaw. She was putting the nail polish back into a bag and zipping it.

"When did you turn into such a gorgeous thing?" he muttered, shaking his head.

She burst out with a laugh, loosened her seat belt to prop herself closer to him on the center console, her fingers trailing along his forearm as he drove. "Was that a compliment, sweetheart?"

"I - I don't know what that was. I just - you act like my uptight spy self is a good thing, and jeez, you look like a model. I don't know how you do that."

"I haven't even taken a shower," she scoffed. Her fingers were distracting but at the same time, so comforting. The touch of her against him, constant and warm, affectionate. This wasn't the same Beckett he'd spied on for four days during that Chinese affair.

"You're different too," he said simply. "You're not as dark-"

"Or desperate," she said then, interrupting him to squeeze her fingers at his elbow tightly. "Or drowning. I'm not drowning anymore, Rick, and that's you."

"It's a mutual thing," he murmured, turning to meet her eyes for a moment. The traffic was light; he wanted to watch her as she looked at him. "I was a machine - like you said, drawn in black with no relief and no thought for myself. I'd just started to feel. . .restless with it. It wasn't enough for me anymore but I didn't know how to change things. And then I met you."

"I feel like that could be the starting sentence for every story I tell," she said, laughing a little and her fingers lightening over his arm again. Back to the dizzying, electrifying touches that made his body ignite.

"What sentence?"

"And then I met you," she echoed, a smile gracing her lips. A tease, a flirt. Happiness instead of all the rest of it - which he knew he'd brought with him too. Anguish and horror and dark nights of the soul. He'd brought her both sides.

"All right then," he answered. "Every story starts the same for us. It's a good story."

"You should write it," she hummed, amusement sprinkling the edges of her words. She was stroking the crook of his elbow and brushing her thumb just under his shirt sleeve. They were both in summer clothes this morning, headed towards the bed and breakfast where they'd spend a weekend before plunging back into their lives. It was good.

"I'll do that," he said finally. "I'll write it. I actually - yeah. I really want to. You inspire me."

She slid her hand up his arm to his shoulder, kept going until her fingers curled at the nape of his neck and stroked at the hair there, a little too long, curling up; he needed to cut it.

"I'll be your muse, Castle."

He stopped the car and she roused. "Was I asleep?"

"A little. I might talk in my sleep, but Kate, you drool."

"Shut up," she muttered, struggling with the seatbelt.

"I thought I'd have to mop up after-"

"I hate you," she grumbled, pushing open the door to the Range Rover. She stumbled when her feet hit the dirt, a little woozy, one leg still asleep and the sensation coming back in tingling waves. "Why'd we stop? Need me to drive?"

"No, I got hungry."

"So you stopped at a gas station?" she complained. He'd come around the car now and nudged her hip as he passed. "You can't possibly want to eat anything in there, Mr HardBody."

"You've ruined me. I eat all kinds of crap these days."

"Mm," she hummed, a vision unfurling in her mind as she walked behind him. "Like chocolate syrup."

From ahead, he laughed at her but didn't turn around. The sidewalk was grease-stained and the pumps were too close to the store for her liking; it made the place stink. He held open the door for her and she passed inside, noting her height on the ruler that was stickered at the glass. And Castle, coming in behind her, even taller, his shoulders broad and filling the space.

She closed her eyes a moment to regain some kind of control - she was still awash with warm sleep, and it left her a little physical, a little unbalanced - and then she opened her eyes and scouted the store for something she could snack on as well. The guy behind the counter had a dull sheen to his eyes that spoke of infinite boredom; he was rearranging the cartons of cigarettes behind him and not giving them much notice.

Castle hooked a finger at her hip. "Ooh, look, Beck. They have sushi."

"Rick," she warned, lifting her eyebrows. "Gas station sushi."

"I bet it's secretly amazing. Let me see." He pushed past her and headed for the refrigerated case; she moved instead for the back of the place, looking for water or something fruity.

"I'm over here," she muttered to him. If he bought that sushi, she was making him eat it here. No way did she want rank, raw fish stinking up the car for the rest of their drive. Even if it was only an hour.

She'd just stopped in front of the glass of the cooler, her eyes scanning the selections, when she heard the door up at the front slam open with a rattling shake of bells and the crack of metal into glass.

Beckett - whether instinctively or just because of course it had to happen like this, now, to them - turned and crouched in the aisle even as she got a good look at who had come through.

Two guys, one in a leather jacket, the other a Yankees hoody and hat, had stormed through the doors. Both anxious, sweat slicking the neck of the tattooed baseball fan, pulling weapons from their jeans as they took up defensive positions at the counter.

Castle already had two cautious hands up, a tightly controlled fury on his face, as the guy in the leather jacket pushed forward and shoved a gun to the clerk's temple.

"Everything, all of it. Dump it on the counter."

Fuck.

Of course.

Castle had to stop for snacks at the one place that was getting robbed today.

The overhead Muzak was giving a staticky rendition of Leonard Cohen's 'Hallelujah', broken up by the half-sobs of the jittery clerk behind the counter, still fumbling to get the cash register open.

Castle positioned his body so that he had a clearer line of sight to Kate, but he kept his hands up and let himself shift, looking restless and jerky and nervous. A guy who might not be able to handle it. And it drew the leader's attention.

Leather Jacket flicked the gun away from the clerk for a second, his eyes on Castle, but he moved it back again and the moment was gone.

Not the moment Castle wanted anyway. Where was Kate?

"Hey, check the rest of the store," Jacket ordered over his shoulder. His fierce gaze was on the clerk, sliding a staying look to Castle.

"On it," the one in the hoody said back, and he immediately started down the nearest aisle - automotive, it looked - heading for the coolers of beer and water and soda.

Where Kate would be, should be.

Castle shifted on his feet and Leather Jacket jerked his gun arm back to him, a snarled command to stay still, but it wasn't enough to give Castle the advantage.

He realized, vaguely, that if Beckett were up here, she'd be trying to talk the guy down, defuse the situation, draw the perp's attention towards herself in an effort to minimize civilian casualities should her hostage negotiation training not work.

As a field agent, as a special ops assassin, Castle didn't care about that; he kept his mouth shut and his awareness high. He was looking exclusively to take the two out. Whatever means necessary.

He was counting on Kate to see that, to understand what opportunity he was waiting for and follow him. Just as she'd been trained as well.

He took the chance to slide his eyes towards where he'd last seen her and he realized the second thug had started beating the bushes up the next aisle - medicine - and would round the corner into the candy next. He knew Kate was somewhere near there, at the back, and Yankees fan would come across her sooner rather than later.

They'd have to do it at the same time.

He cleared his throat to gain more than just the gunman's attention. "Not looking for trouble, man."

The man's eyes darted to him and the gun didn't waver, merely slid straight toward Castle's heart. Jacket didn't speak at first, but a dizzying condescension, a rage filled up his whole face and twisted his lips so that he stepped closer and spit in Castle's face as he finally answered.

"Shut the fuck up."

Castle didn't move but he slid his eyes towards where she should-

There. Kate had moved to make eye contact with him at the sound of his voice, looking to see what he wanted. He put everything in his eyes and she nodded once from her crouched position at the end of the aisle. And then she scuttled back behind cover. The Yankees fan was rounding the cough drops and coming down past the candy bars, waving his gun like a stick, the idiot.

Beckett could take him.

Castle narrowed his gaze and turned it back to the man in the leather jacket. On one side, the clerk was fumbling with the safe and dumping money on top of the counter, plus lottery tickets and cigarettes, adding shit as he stammered and his hands shook. On the other side, Castle could just make out the Yankees punk drawing closer to Kate's hiding place.

As one, he mentally sent to her.

They had to to do this as one.

Beckett took in a deep breath and poised on the balls of her feet. She heard the Yankees fan making his way down the aisle, tapping the barrel of his weapon against every single package and candy bar as he moved.

Castle would strike when she did; she knew that much.

She mentally reviewed her options - limited as they were - and the body planning she was mapping out in advance. Heel of her hand to his chin. Grip the wrist and push his gun arm up even as she stepped in close, intimate, smell his breath and see his panicked surprise.

She had a moment of wild and sharp fear - what if Bracken had sent these two guys, what if they were horribly underestimating their opponent, what if his father was looking for payback right here and now in Kate's father's own backyard - but it receded as it came, drowned in the tide of her training and certainty.

Castle had her back; she had his.

Yankees fan tapped a big bag of M&Ms and chuckled as he glanced over his shoulder to his partner. "For later, man. We gotta-"

Beckett took him down.

Castle saw the instant she uncoiled, and he went for his man in a flash of speed and lethal accuracy, timed perfectly to Beckett.

A blow to Jacket's neck that crippled, the wrench of his arm upwards, and the gun went off. Castle slammed the weapon-hand into a rack of condoms near the register and broke the wrist with a flip, gave a sharp jab with his elbow into the man's nose. Blood gushed. Jacket screamed as Castle pushed on the snapped wrist, spun the man around and had him against the counter.

He grabbed a fistful of the man's hair and smashed his face against the counter, smearing blood as Jacket blacked out and fell to the floor.

Castle turned and saw Kate, standing like a warrior at the far end of the aisle, breathing hard and her cheeks flushed.

Her man was down. Unconscious.

It was over.

Beckett took over with the police, handling them to avoid the questions that would inevitably arise if and when Castle opened his mouth and reported the facts like a soldier rather than a civilian.

She used her badge, which was still hers for now. When Monday rolled around and she went to the CIA instead, she wasn't sure how long her detective status would last. It might work out well for the NYPD to have a liaison within the CIA, but why Gates would want to make the effort. . .

Still, Castle was going to insist, she knew that. It was an ideal cover, since it was and had been true. And questions like these were easier to answer from behind the badge.

Beckett stopped letting it fray at her and instead focused on walking the local officers through the scene, giving them the details they needed while Castle received 'medical attention' from the ambulance's EMTs. They were using his Richard Rodgers name for the official report - a guy who worked for the UN as a translator and had just gotten married didn't need to be up front and center with his detective wife.

The cops seemed to get it too; they extended her every professional courtesy and made noises about thanking her husband and taking care of things.

"And you both. . .took them out?" the lead officer asked. "Just like that."

She nodded swiftly. "He trains with me. Mixed martial arts."

"Oh?"

She made her eyes meet his, smiled gently. "He likes to know," she shrugged, lying and not lying at the same time. "He needs to know what I can do, what I'm capable of. Puts his mind at ease."

The officer gave her a raised eyebrow of a look but it seemed he was more impressed than curious.

Because Rick Rodgers had never been in the military, had never been purposefully captured in Afghanistan and held for six months before leading a rebellion and escaping with only a spoon as a weapon. Rick Rodgers hadn't been trained by the CIA as a lethal machine.

He was just the husband of an NYPD officer.

She hid a smile into her shoulder and saw him at the ambulance, talking good-naturedly with the paramedic.

"You guys mind?" she asked, gesturing towards her husband. He was her husband - that much was true - and he definitely did like to know.

"Go ahead," the officer nodded.

So she did, heading for him slowly, letting him see her smile.

They had secrets, the two of them, shared secrets, a world that no one else was allowed in on. They worked in sync, they were together.

And she liked it. It worked. It more than worked - it sang.

Her whole life, right there in front of her, in him.

"Paramedic says not even a scratch," she said as she came to him.

Castle grinned a little and then suppressed it. "Oh yeah?"

"Officer Bryant is pretty impressed with you, too," she muttered then, but she had a look on her face like she was proud.

Of him.

Castle ruthlessly cut off the urge to grin like an idiot and instead took her by the hand. "You did some impressive work in there too."

She tilted her head, smirked a little as the sun blinded him. She was crowned in a nimbus of light, her body a faint bruise of color against the white of the summer day.

"We should get lunch somewhere close by," he said nonchalantly. "Since it's nearly one o'clock now."

"They said we can go, but I've left our contact info. So lunch would be good."

He nodded and stood up from where he was resting on the bumper of the ambulance; she tugged him to their car and took the keys out of his back pocket with a sideways reach of her hand. She was playing around.

She only chuckled when he lifted his eyebrows.

"You ever doubt me in there?" she asked suddenly.

"Nope." He paused with her at the back of the Range Rover, unwillng to let go of her hand just yet. "You doubt me?"

"Nope." She swung his hand a little and shrugged. "Had a moment where I wondered if Bracken or Black had sent them after us to ruin our day. But-"

He sighed at that but she was still smiling at him, shaking her head softly. "Kate-"

"No, just told you in the interest of being honest, Castle. Nothing we can do about it."

She looked okay; she looked like she had when they'd been sitting on the dock together last night, like she had when she'd woken up with him this morning. He hadn't yet figured out what it was, that look, but she softened it with a tenderness as she regarded him.

"I'll drive," she said, nudging him with the backs of her fingers. Het let her go and moved around the car to get in at the passenger's side.

When she put the key in the ignition and reached out to turn down the radio, he saw that little contented smile of pleasure on her face. She gave a little shiver and hummed, and he knew that sound - knew it from last night and from their bed, knew it from when he kissed her and she leaned into him, knew it from when they named the dog and bought that house and a hundred other moments.

She was happy. She was at peace with them - life - the world.

Castle clicked his seatbelt and snagged her hand before she could put the car in reverse. She lifted her eyes to him and smiled, a lock of hair falling from behind her ear and brushing her cheek.

"Hey. What's with the look?"

Her lips pulled up, a deeper grin. "I don't know, just saying. . .we took out a couple of idiots and no one got seriously hurt. A bruised larynx, broken wrist is nothing compared to what could've happened in there. I might be looking forward to Monday."

He let the grin flourish over his face too. "Well, it needs to be said."

She raised an eyebrow.

"Best partner ever," he grinned, and then he leaned in and kissed her like there would be no Monday.

End of Close Encounters 7: Live and Let Die

Stay Tuned for Close Encounters 8: From Russia With Love

A/N: Before I start, I want to warn you all that CE8 contains - in the beginning chapters - scenes of extreme violence and sexual degradation. The two spies have a handle on it, but it's still some grey area events that might be triggers. The following scene is *not* one of those, but it might possibly give you an indication of how bad it will have gotten.

She woke in the car to his fingers stroking her hair from her face, the warm weight of his hand and his thumb just under her eye. He smiled at her, and that he could - that the smile was there at all - pulled an answering one from her that stretched her whole face.

"Hey," she rasped, voice dark with sleep.

"Hey, beautiful," he murmured. Patently untrue, with her face swollen and her eye nearly shut with it and the prostitute's outfit. Jeez, it was terrible. But he looked like he was in love with her, adored her, and she smiled wider even though it hurt.

"You get us a room?" she asked, casting her eyes over the dark parking lot. A standard motel, Soviet-era, doors leading to the crumbling stairs and the hulking shape of an ice machine in the breezeway. She could see the outdoor pool from here, lit up so that the blue bobbed on the water, mesmerizing.

"I got us a room. Ground floor. You good?" He took the ice pack from her cheek and inspected it.

"I'm good," she affirmed and shifted in the seat to click open her seat belt. He got out of the car and they closed their doors at the same time, the slam reverberating in the empty parking lot. She came to his side and took his hand, cradling his swollen knuckles. He had the ice pack in his other hand, the room key, and she let him lead the way across the cracked pavement.

He opened the room, 109, and the closed-up smell hit them like a wave. "Sorry," he muttered.

She laughed and shook her head - carefully, slowly - and pushed past him to go inside. Flipping the comforter back, feeling through the sheets, she turned to him.

"It's fine," she said. "Little musty, but clean."

He nodded and shut the door after them, locked it, dropped keys and a gun to the formica top of the dresser. His back was to her and she saw the lines of tension begin to drain, wondered just how worked up he'd gotten himself while she'd slept during the car ride here.

Here. The middle of Russia, on a mission that had gone - not exactly wrong, but not right either.

She wanted to do something about it, for both of them, but she needed a shower first. A long, hot shower.

With him, preferrably. If he could even look at her like that - maybe she should wait, get clean, and then-?

She glanced over at him and he was standing motionless in the middle of the room, inert, blank. She suddenly had a powerful sense that this was what it had always been like for him, the letdown after a mission that had gone like theirs just had, the nothing that was creeping into his eyes and pushing out his soul.

"Castle," she murmured, reaching for him. He swayed at her touch but it took his eyes a long time to come back to her. She put her hands carefully at his waist, waited to see what his reaction would be before slowly inching his shirt out of his pants.

He stared down at her for half a beat more and then he seemed to come back to himself and his eyes shifted to silver in the darkness, that mercurial blue that spilled heat down her spine and curled her hips towards his.

He skimmed his hands at her back and came in to brush his mouth across her cheek, slowly, softly, barely there.

"I need a shower," she breathed at his ear. "And you do too."

His laughter was strained but it came, a rush of air across her temple. "Is that an invitation?"

"No. It's a demand." She pushed her fingers up under his shirt and splayed them over his abs, his ribs, felt the hitch of his breath as she touched him. "Got a problem with that?"

"No, ma'am. Lead the way."

Stay tuned for Close Encounters 8: From Russia With Love