Come Home Again

X

Space.

There is nothing worse for them than space. Space is defined as a vacuum and history has spoken: they do not do well with time apart, adrift in the void.

Castle sighs and opens his eyes, once more presented with the view of the dull and weakly-lit ceiling of his bedroom. His, no longer theirs, but he adamantly refuses to think of it like that. The mattress is too soft; he can't sleep anyway. He sits up, puts his feet on the floor, stares ahead at nothing.

Each morning is the same. A handful of unconscious hours, waking long before his alarm, lying here convincing himself it can be different today. It will be different today. She'll come home again today.

As everyone keeps reminding him, he left her at the altar and for eight weeks went gallivanting off on some spy mission for the sake of national security. He doesn't remember doing it, he still thinks he'd never do something like that, and for the life of him, he can't figure out why.

Why would he ever leave her?

It's a pertinent question, since everyone keeps rubbing his nose in it, Kate included. Dad, if you love her, you have to trust her; let her figure it out on her own, darling. You did it to her so the least you can do is give her space.

Okay. So why did he do it to her? Because it might help him figure out why she's doing it to him.

Why did he do it?

Castle stands and leaves the empty, chilled bedroom, feet bare. Forgot his slippers. Forgot.

He found a way back to her, but it took eight weeks, it took eight weeks and dengue fever and a bullet he doesn't remember trying to dodge. It took eight weeks and some kind of procedure - some kind of last-ditch effort - to make him forget.

Forget what you've seen and heard or you don't go home again.

Kate won't come home either.

Is that it?

He absently fills the coffee maker with water, his mind clicking over, sliding pieces together in the silence of the loft.

Kate doesn't forget. The things she's seen and heard, the injustices, the tragedies, they don't leave her. From the beginning, her passion for people and her deep-seeded sense of right and wrong have inspired him to be a better man. To have a life of purpose. To take the important things seriously, to be part of something greater than just himself.

Kate would never choose to forget, not even to come home.

Not even to come home.

She would choose to fight. And while he's in misery over his own past choices, and the why of leaving, he realizes something he never quite put together before.

He was gone for eight weeks, but that spy mission? It only took two. Two weeks, and what the hell was he doing for the other six? What was he doing but trying every last damn thing he could to get back to her. Six weeks scheming to get back.

The only way he would spend six weeks away from her, blowing up their perfect wedding day, their honeymoon, is if it wasn't safe.

It wasn't safe. He made good-bye videos for his family because it was so dangerous that he didn't know if he'd make it. Whatever it was, it was a risk.

Six weeks. God. He can't drag on for six weeks without her, in the dark, not knowing what she's doing that's so dangerous she'd rather rip out both their hearts.

She asked for space.

But he figures restraining order distance is good enough, right? If he can stay outside a hundred yard radius, but perhaps subtly keep tabs on her, to serve as back-up just in case - that's still space, right?

He won't lock her in a secret underground jail cell again. He'll just do a little investigating of his own.

X

His investigation starts with making a how-to on his phone: Beckett Come Home.

It's not winning her back. It's become quite clear after the last case that there's nothing to win. It's all still there; she looks at his mouth and then drags her focus up to his eyes just as she always did. She shutters her face when she begins a conversation and then she can't anymore by the end of it, everything spilling out for him to see, just as it has been.

The spark, the connection - they've still got it.

Beckett Come Home is more about solving a case than it is about winning, but what case? That's the crux of things. He knows this started right after Allison Hyde shot herself, wrapping up the Bracken thing in a neat little bow, and while that's not really how he wanted to see it end-

What else is there?

After three nights of tracking her phone, he's discovered she's apparently sleeping in her office, because the little green locator dot doesn't move. He calls LT, whose chest is still black and blue from where his vest caught those rounds, and LT sneaks him up to Homicide around one in the morning, just to check on her.

She's not there. Oh, her phone is there, sitting out on her desk, giving off it's happy locator signal for all to see. But Captain Beckett is not at the Twelfth.

Yeah, whatever this is - it's not safe.

He's about one hundred percent certain the way she's going about this isn't safe either. She needs to sleep, but he's not sure when she's actually doing that.

He thanks LT and pretends nothing is wrong, smiling for the guys on Charlie shift who are watching the soap opera of his life play out in these sad, pathetic moments. He goes home and stares at the map where it says his wife should be, only she isn't.

So the next day he begins tailing her.

He has to be careful, because if she's not taking her phone, then she's paying attention. But he wasn't a ride-along in the CIA for nothing, and he's learned some tricks. It comes back to him as he dodges Alexis's well-meaning phone calls and avoids the PI office. He leaves his phone at home, even though he promised them both (his wife and his daughter) that he would never do that.

But Kate's doing it. And Kate's not being safe, is she?, so his conscience troubles him long enough to stop for a prepaid burner, slide that into his pocket, the feel of its unprotected slim shell so unnerving he's hyper-aware.

He doesn't follow her on the sidewalks, only on the road, driving rental cars or getting into taxis, depending on what he can manage. He catches her outside her gym most nights, Kate leaving the place with her hair wet and pulled back in a messy knot, and he knows there are no showers at that little boxing club she loves, so it's pure sweat and time. She's working herself to the bone, and he can see her wrists, he can see the protrusion of her clavicles above the collar of her shirt. Her cheekbones under the cave of her eyes.

On a Thursday, when the crisp scent of fall is in the air - dead things and smoke - he manages to follow her all the way to the end, to a storage lot near Battery Park. Metal sheds with corrugated lift doors, and she parks in shadows and slinks inside, her head down. He stays outside the fence and makes a note to come back alone.

She's there all night and comes out an hour before dawn, drives to a coffee place where he sees her with a laptop and free wifi, but her face so pinched and her eyes so hollow that it fists in his guts and makes him turn around, drive home.

He goes to bed and stays there all morning, sapped of strength, afraid for how little she's sleeping, afraid for what she's doing and how not safe it is, how not safe all of it is.

X

Now that he has the location, he waits at the storage shed, taking mass transit so that he's not in an obvious vehicle, getting there ahead of her on foot while he knows she's at the boxing gym beating the shit out of the punching bag.

Sometimes he thinks he sees someone with her, and his heart burns in the cage of his ribs, and he goes home before it can char him, before it makes him hard and brittle, how she's doing this - whatever this is - without him.

Before he starts thinking about how she's doing this with someone else.

When he makes surprise visits to the precinct, he brings muffin baskets and fruit bouquets, trying to entice her. He brings her coffee and leaves it beside her computer and disappears so she can drink it without feeling like she's crossing one of her invisible lines. On Fridays, he leaves a bear claw and then calls Ryan to see if she eats it.

She does.

She's been drinking his coffee too, and that's the good stuff from home, from their home, and she has to know it is. She has to know it's the Kona he bought for her to celebrate passing the captain's exam, no matter the take-away cups he puts it in.

He likes to think she knows he's haunting her, but maybe she's that focused, that dialed in, that she can't see him hovering, can't see him melting into the crowd or hiding in a cafe across the street or lurking in the shadows.

(If she doesn't see him, then who else is she not seeing? It's that thought which propels him out of bed those days he sees her with a shadowed form in the car, a man hidden in a storage shed, because if she doesn't see him, then she's missing pieces, she's not as safe as she thinks, her back is exposed.)

He's working up the courage to approach her, but he wants to have all his facts straight. He wants to have the evidence in perfect order so she can't refute him. She needs him, even on this.

Whatever this is. He still has no idea, but she's spending her nights at a rented storage shed and doing research at the court of records on her lunch break, all the while training her body to the point of exhaustion.

He's paying attention, and he's trying, but she's very good at hiding her tracks. Whatever this is - he's clueless.

And then he sees who it is in her car, sitting in the passenger seat.

Vikram Singh.

Vikram Singh is playing the part of her plucky sidekick?

Then they're right back where they started, with an obsession she can't - or won't - kick.

X

Castle is five minutes too late.

He knows she was leaving the Twelfth and going straight to the boxing gym, so he went into her office with Espo's help and searched through her drawers for anything that might clue him in, and so he is too late when it starts.

He makes the mistake of assuming she went to the storage shed, but she didn't, and he has to go looking for her car, his long stride eating up the distance, his heart buzzing in his ears. As he scans the quiet blocks, he realizes this whole section of town is absolutely, held-breath silent.

It has never been silent.

Five minutes too late.

That's all it takes for not safe to blow up in her face.

When he approaches the FDR and spots the docks and their cramped, hulking equipment, the sound of the river and the barges like groans, it's already going down. It's already going down and he walks into it and can't understand what he hears, what he's seeing.

He doesn't see her at first.

And then he does, and it's already too late.

Gunfire erupts from overhead, sniper shots, and he sees - middle of the street - he sees her go down.

Castle dives, getting low and creeping forward until he's on the opposite sidewalk, not willing to risk sticking his head up. From the minimal cover of a stout blue mailbox, he waits for breath and pause, steeling himself to dash forward.

Another volley of shots and he grunts with the effort of holding back, not being stupid, but Kate is out there defenseless, down, no one to cover her back. A set of footsteps on pavement, but heading the opposite direction, and he hears four more shots aimed after that retreat, as if from the side of the building.

He risks it then, but he can't see her at this angle. He rises to a crouch and runs the length of the sidewalk, heading for the spot where he saw her go down, using that pause between heartbeats or reloading or change in positions to make his way towards her.

Another sniper shot pings the edge of a truck parked in front of him and he dives to the wheel well, hunched over the tire. They've seen him, whoever they are, they know he's here; they're back on this side of the building. He gets a grip on his yammering heart and wipes sweat out of his eye, wishing he'd been in that damn boxing ring with her the last few weeks.

"Kate," he calls softly, rising only a millimeter and sighting the top window. He sees a form, but surely at this distance and darkness he's seeing things, wishes he had a weapon to return fire.

Or that might triangulate his position. Maybe it's better he doesn't, just like he told Alexis.

Movement. A shadow. Is it heading away?

Damn. "Beckett," he rasps, inching forward to the front tire of the truck.

His hands are slick with sweat, he can't hear anything at all but the echoes of gunshots.

"Kate."

And then he does hear something. Something. The sniper shots have stopped, but he can't be sure they're not just waiting for him.

He has to. He won't leave her dying in the damn street. But running out there would only get them both in trouble. He needs to see, needs eyes on the street, he has to-

The truck.

Castle drops to the scant space between the curb and the truck, lowers his head to the ground until he has a clear view in the darkness. For a moment, all he sees is pavement and broken glass, but after a heart-thudding confusion, he realizes.

"Kate," he breathes.

She's lying on her back, just on the other side of the truck. Her head is turned his way, but her eyes are closed. Blood, lots of blood. Dark stain at her thigh.

"Beckett," he calls out, dropping lower and squirming under the truck. "Kate."

It's a tight fit, even with the truck's relative height off the street, but he squirms towards her, scraping his face against the edges of a pothole, loose gravel abrading his skin. A sharper pain somewhere in his shoulder that he ignores. Blood circling her eye socket, matting her hair, soaking her ear.

"Kate, I'm coming. Just hang on, hang on, honey."

He reaches the other side of the truck, checks his first instinct to grab her. He can't let them know he's here, can't draw attention, afraid they'll shoot at Kate from their elevated position, shoot at any movement. With her head - wound - they might think they've already got her.

"Beckett," he hisses. It's dark on the street, the lights have been shot out. If they have night vision, this is all over.

If they had night vision, she'd be dead.

She might be dead already.

No. No, she's not dead.

"Kate," he calls softly, easing his arm out, fingers reaching for her. His heart is beating in his throat, but he keeps his arm steady, no sudden movement, and he touches the sleeve of her coat. He takes a grateful breath, gets a fistful of the wool, and begins to pull.

Kate groans and her eyes flicker open. Staring at him. Blood rimming her eye.

"Kate."

"No," she groans.

"Kate, honey, get under the truck. Come on. Help me, you gotta help me. Roll under the truck."

He's still pulling at her coat, trying the best he can to forcibly drag her under what protection the truck affords. She's not moving. He can't turn on his side to get his other arm around; there's no room.

"Kate, they're shooting at us. Get under the damn truck."

Her eyes flutter, her hand comes up-

A shot pings the metal and he ducks, instinctively, but adrenaline has him jerking harder on her coat and dragging her partway. The shot seems to have woken her instincts for self-preservation, because Kate starts trying, her hand fumbling at his arm, her injured leg limp as she shifts with the other.

Even though he has absolutely no leverage lying on his stomach, he gets her close enough to reach out with both hands and pulls with all his might, dragging her into him under the truck.

She cries out, arching, but he runs a hand down her side, feels the blood at her thigh, cups behind her knee to drag her legs under the truck with him. He's breathing fast in her face, his body half over hers, and her eyes flare open.

And then slam shut.

Blood runs down her face. His elbow grinds into the pavement as he touches her forehead, blood and grit and - and bone. Kate gasps, eyes startling open again.

"Castle," she moans. Tears in her eyes.

"It's okay, it's okay," he promises. It's not okay. It's very not okay. He digs into his back pocket and rips out the new phone, thumb smearing blood across the face. Clumsy, but he calls Esposito. "It's gonna be fine, just hang on, Kate. Just-"

"How'd you get this num-"

"Espo, it's me. Kate's been shot. I think Vikram was here too, but I can't find him. Kate's been shot - tw-twice. We need a bus, Espo-"

"Wait, wait, Castle? Where are you?"

"FDR Drive and Fletcher, east of Battery Park. Just before the docks-" Already he can hear Esposito yelling to someone, he must be in the precinct, rounding up the cavalry. "We need back-up, Espo; there's a sniper, building facing the water. It was a sniper; they were waiting for her. I don't know how many shooters."

"No," Kate groans, and her fingers fumble at his face, a slick of blood on his bottom lip. "Not you."

"Hush, Kate," he murmurs, touching her temple and trying not to lose it. His voice cracks. "It's okay. Help's on the way. Just stay with me."

"Castle? Castle, are you there-"

"I'm here. We're both here. Someone shot at Kate; we need an ambulance."

"Castle, we have cars on the way. Where are you, tell me where you are-"

"Under a truck, black truck parked on the street. I don't know if they're gone. They shot at Kate-"

"Castle, have you been shot?"

Has he what?

"Castle, you hear me, man? Don't hang up. You do not need to go into shock."

Shock. He stares down at Kate, watching her eyes roll back, her lids closing.

"Kate," he calls. "Kate, stay with me."

Esposito is yelling at him on the phone.

Her eyes startle, her lips parting. He presses his free hand to her thigh and she moans; he can feel the give of ragged flesh, the blood soaking her pants. She lets out a long breath that sounds like settling, like giving up, and he presses his palm a little harder into the wound.

Kate gasps, throat working, and her eyes catch his. "Lo-love you."

"Don't do that," he growls. He feels light-headed. "Don't say good-bye."

"Al-ways, always love you."

"Don't you dare."

Her eyes sink close and no matter how tightly he staunches her wound, he can't get her to wake up.

X