Close Encounters 3

"Kind of a switch," Beckett rasped, trying to take shallow breaths as the gurney she was on was loaded into the ambulance.

"A switch," Castle said flatly, turning his eyes once to hers and then away.

"Me the one back here, riding in a convoy to a safe place to recover." She knew that he'd figured out what had happened already, that his father had approached her with this plan, that stepping away from her mother's case now was the last thing she wanted to do.

But Castle couldn't die for this, not this, not - not when she-

Loved him. She loved him, and it burned, and it made her life so damn complicated and difficult, but there it was. She was in love with a CIA spy.

And he had enemies out there, more than just some damn mystery man, as his father had stated it so baldly. Enemies who would like nothing more than the opportunity to eliminate a troublesome foreign spy. And Kate knew that all Bracken had to do was reach out to just one of them. . .

"Kate, it's not too late to stop this."

She ignored him again and winced as the paramedic jostled the gurney. He apologized and got her settled, then hopped out of the back and closed the doors. They weren't riding with any medical personnel for the first few hours, so Kate couldn't be doped for the journey. Castle had hotly argued with his father over the precaution of having no one else, tried to bully Black into providing someone from the office. But in the end, the only way to keep the Farm's location secure was to have a clean getaway.

Which meant that they'd meet up with a nurse from the Farm at another location, and until then, it was just the two of them in the ambulance, and she'd have to be awake for the drive.

Awake for every miserable mile.

Maybe she'd pass out.

Castle shrugged on the paramedic jacket and checked that the gurney was secured. "You sure?"

She nodded, closed her eyes. "I'll just. . .be here. Resting."

"Right," he said, his voice a sigh.

"Faster you get going, faster we get there."

"Kate," he murmured and the anger in his voice made her open her eyes. His jaw was so sharp, his hands in fists at her hip and shoulder, and the broad sweep of his shoulders made him look like he was cut from stone.

She lifted her fingers from the gurney and hooked them around his wrist, stroked up the inside of his arm and felt his skin ripple at her touch. Before she could make another move, he was leaning over her and taking a brutal kiss from her mouth.

And then he was gone, climbing between the bucket seats and behind the wheel, leaving her breathless and shaky and wishing she had the strength to move up front with him.

Just for a while.

Castle clutched the wheel tighter and tried to ignore the involuntary noises the rough ride was dragging out of her. She was trying to smother them; he could tell by the catch in her breath and the tortured sound of it, but she couldn't trap them all.

He had to keep up with the flow of traffic so he wouldn't attract attention, but he also tried to avoid harsh stops or potholes. Still-

"Castle," she called out.

"Beckett. You okay?"

"I need a distraction."

"I don't have a radio, but-"

"Tell me a story," she said quickly. "A story. Anything. That - the scar down your chin."

For one terrible moment, he blanked out completely. It seemed as if the desperation in her voice and the massive rumble of the ambulance's engine conspired against him and all he could see was that scene in the cemetery - her fingers clutching his biceps, her face surprised and terrible, the blood blooming over her dress uniform.

"Castle," she groaned.

"Of course. Yes. Anything. The scar. I-" He tried to place himself, his history, his life before her, and everything seemed faded and distant, no longer accessible. What had-

"Scimitar?" she said from the back, her voice still shaky but not weak, never weak.

"No. No," he said, a relieved breath when the events came back to him. "Let me think. You said I was a terrible storyteller, Beckett, so I've got some pressure here to do better."

"You jump right into the middle," she said back, sounding a little breathless, her voice hitching at the end before she continued. "You gotta build up slowly."

"Right. Build up slowly," he said back, his voice pitched over the engine and road noise, trying to keep her entertained. "So to start at the beginning, I don't know if I've told you this, Beckett, but my job is sometimes dangerous."

He thought he heard something like a snort out of her, a little more breathless than he'd like, but still better than the near-whimpering he'd been listening to for the last thirty minutes.

"You know when we were at the hotel?"

"Yeah."

"I got called out to chase down a gun smuggler who'd come over to the States-"

"Foley, you said."

"That's him. I told you his name?" He frowned at the road, but ignored that and moved on. "Foley and I go way back. He started out gun dealing in Northern Ireland and progressed up the ranks to an international dealer fairly quickly. Oh, the story about the bomb on the plane-"

"The moonless night over the Channel," she supplied, her voice little more than a mutter.

"Yes. That was his group. And that was why he came to the States six months ago - he was looking for payback. I cost him a lot of money, but more than that - he looked bad to his buyers. Heard they took it out on him."

"Foley. Mm-okay. Number one bad guy. Your nemesis."

"You could say that. I got the scar down my chin from my first run-in with his group. Wasn't even him - in fact, until six months ago, I hadn't seen him face to face. Only a few grainy photos."

She hummed from the back. At least he thought it was her, thought she was still with him.

"Eastman and I worked this one together, and we had traced a New York shipping company back to Foley's group in Northern Ireland. When we touched down in Belfast, Foley had guys waiting for us. We hadn't been quiet about our investigation, and he was quick."

He didn't hear anything from her, but he kept going, knowing she needed something to concentrate on other than every harsh jerk of the vehicle.

"They wanted to send a message, loud and clear, so they made us kneel and then they tried to scare us with whips. You know the-"

"Whips?" she croaked. "Castle. Shit."

"Yeah. One of the strands got too close to my neck and licked my chin."

"Licked."

"Not as nice as when you do it."

"Shit. You got away?"

"Yeah. I reached back and grabbed the cord and yanked the guy down, punched him in the face. Felt good. Eastman had already gotten up, and we had the element of surprise then. So. Yeah."

"So. Yeah?" she huffed. "Terrible ending, Castle."

"Hey, actually, we're coming up on the exit, Beckett, and I have to pay attention to the directions. I'll save the ending for later."

She didn't say anything to that, and he risked a quick glance back to see her eyes closed, her fists clenched, her body rigid in the bed.

He went a little faster down the exit ramp.

Finally.

She could cry.

Castle was the first in the back of the ambulance and right behind him was a male nurse from the New York CIA office. Castle scooted up on the bench seat at the head of the gurney and immediately he was touching her, fingers across her forehead, down the side of her face, his other hand around hers.

She could cry but she wouldn't. Wouldn't. Not the time or place, and not a good enough reason.

Relief. Shit, she had to get control of herself.

"All right, Beckett. He's gonna give you the good stuff," Castle said, giving her a twisted smile.

"Afraid I need it," she said back, turning her head into the heat of his palm, trying to breathe again.

"You got it. Anything." His thumb traced her eyebrow and around her cheekbone to her nose, a wide circle that made her heart slowly cease its thrashing.

"It's in," the nurse called out and she immediately felt the ambulance kicking forward. She lifted startled eyes to Castle and he smiled down at her.

"Driver. Ed Caldwell. Good guy. We're fine."

She blinked and nodded and suddenly it hit her, a wash of dizzying heaviness that pressed her down into the gurney. "Castle. . ."

"Sleep, Kate. I'll tell you the end of that story."

"Yeah," she murmured and her eyelids wouldn't lift, her body numb and silvery with darkness, the stars wheeling through an endless and eternal night.

Castle stroked the smooth angle of her inside arm, rubbed his fingers at that soft skin at the crook of her elbow. The nurse was a guy named Logan - good guy, kept his eyes on Beckett's vitals and nowhere else - and Castle was trying to tone down his near-crippling need to hover, but it was difficult.

He wasn't sure the last time he'd ever been so damn scared. They weren't in immediate physical danger, but the idea of a helpless, out of it Beckett had him shredded. Her admittance to needing the pain meds, the white cast to her face, the half-moon nail marks in her palms set up an echoing hollowness in his chest that he didn't know how to fill.

Except with her. Soaking her in, touching her, crowding close. With her unconscious, at least he wasn't annoying. Only pathetic.

He gave in and curled his fingers around her palm, lifted his other hand to rest at the top of her head so he could pet the hair back from her face. Her skin felt so thin, so insubstantial, a weak defense against all kinds of terror.

He wanted to hide her away from the world, and at the same time, he wanted to show her off to millions. He wanted to lace his fingers with hers and feel that jolt of awareness and pride as she stood beside him, so strong, so tall. He wanted to come up behind her and slide his knee between hers and have her rest against him, find refuge.

He'd never known a woman like her.

He didn't know how long he sat there, hunched over the gurney with his hand making constant motions over her forehead, her wrist, two points of contact that seemed to keep him running. But when he looked down at his watch, three hours had passed and she was beginning to stir.

Her lashes fluttered, a dreamy and content smile slipped on her lips before her eyes opened.

"Hey, baby," she murmured.

He huffed and Logan snorted beside him, a press of his lips to quell it. Castle glared at him and then looked back at Kate, but she'd already fallen asleep again.

"Baby, huh?"

"Shut up, Logan."

"My wife calls me baby."

He narrowed his eyes and refused to comment.

"It's cute. Never took you for the baby type, Agent Castle."

"Never took you for the type to run your mouth."

"Aw, then you haven't been around me long enough."

Castle sighed.

Baby. Really? They were gonna have to talk about that.

"I did not," she rasped, clearing her throat when the words got stuck. Her eyelids were so heavy. It was so loud in here. So. . .so tired.

"You did," the nurse added. "I heard it too."

"Fuck you say," she mumbled and shifted to turn over.

Castle's hands were suddenly at her shoulder, gripping hard. "Whoa, whoa, Beckett. Not like that. Can't lie down on your back."

"Fuck," she groaned, felt him pushing her to her stomach. Her back felt heavy, a strange weight across her shoulders.

"You have such a dirty mouth when you're tired." His voice was amused in her ear, low and delicious. "Calling me baby. That's just wrong."

"Never," she said, tried to be insistent about it, but she was afraid it came out breathy and listless. "Kill me first."

"Too late, Beckett. You're too pitiful to kill."

"Shit. What am I gonna do?" What were words, these words kept coming out of her mouth. "What the fuck did you give me?"

"Just a little cocktail. You'll be painless for hours," the nurse replied. When she opened her eyes to see him, he was grinning like a maniac.

"We usually put your type in prison. Sadistic son of a-"

"Enough, Beckett. Go back to sleep."

"Can't," she muttered, shifting her head and feeling her cheek scrape against the sheets. "Can't - I feel weird. I feel so weird. I'm gonna slip off."

"You're fine. You're okay. Here, feel my hand?"

The bright pressure of his fingers around her arm made her sigh, blink fast to keep from falling. She was going to slide right off-

"Feel my hand, Beckett?"

"I'm gonna fall."

"You're not falling."

"Don't let me fall," she groaned.

"Here, here," he said quickly, and then his palm was cupping her ear, his hand so heavy on her head and neck, pinned. She was caught. "How's this? You okay?"

"Yeahhh. . ."

"Yeah? Good. I'll stay right here so you won't fall, Kate."

She whined and tried to open her eyes, felt the whirl of her body out from where his arm and hand held her down. She reached up to clench his forearm, keep him there, hang on.

"I got you, Kate. I got you. You're okay. You're fine."

Her lids bounced up and open, her eyes tracked to his face. His beautiful, heartbreaking face. How hard. He could cut her with it. But instead, oh look. Instead of all those angles and planes, there was just so much soft skin and light and those so blue eyes, and so - she was just so-

"Hey," he murmured and leaned into kiss her nose, his lashes brushing against her.

She hummed and her eyes slipped shut, down, out.

And then open.

He was watching her, he was holding her together.

"Love you," she sighed and let herself go.

Castle's eyes met Logan's and he was hiding a smile.

"Well, she is certainly. . ."

"If you say fiesty, I will cut off your balls," Castle growled.

Logan grunted, but he was laughing. "Can I think it?"

"Not if it leads you to think about Beckett."

"Not thinking it then. Got it."

He narrowed his eyes at the man but Logan was already turned back to checking Kate's vitals, doing his job once more.

Castle stayed crouched over Beckett's gurney, his upper body practically draped over hers, as if he needed to defend her while she slept. She was coming out of it more and more, each moment of lucidity getting that much longer, but the in between times were still heavy with sleep.

Her fingers twitched around his forearm, her eyelids fluttered. After a moment more, her mouth opened, pink tongue touching her teeth, and he couldn't help leaning in to kiss her, so very very softly.

He'd shoot Logan if any of this ever got back to the office.

She woke when the doors opened, heart pounding, arms flailing out, but he caught her, he'd caught her, he had her.

"Castle," she gasped, felt the night air around her face, the faint shimmer of moonlight.

"You're okay. We're here. Just moving you out, Beckett."

She blinked and slowly peeled her fingers off his arms, released him. The gurney was already being pulled out of the back of the bus, a smooth and continuous motion that made her feel strangely weightless.

A stranger's face hovered over her, but she thought maybe - maybe she should know him. He was grinning down at her as he lowered the gurney's wheels to the pavement.

"Hey, baby's awake."

"Baby?" she grunted.

"Shut the hell up, Logan." Castle was shoving him in the shoulder and taking over wheeling her out. His hands came down near her head and she tried to move her limbs, see if maybe she could just walk. This was humiliating.

Already she was being pushed towards a monstrous stone farmhouse, lit with moonbeams and flanked by weeping willows, the ground beneath the gurney jolting her ever closer.

"Where are we?" she muttered, tried to lift a hand but found herself restrained. She'd been belted into the gurney, the strap across her upper shoulders, her lower waist, her legs. She tried to turn and felt Castle's stilling hand at her cheek.

"We're at the farm," he murmured. "It's about one in the morning, Beckett. We'll get you settled in a room-"

"What about you?" she said sharply, fear making her strong, flashing through her like icy water.

"What?"

"You're staying. Right. Castle-"

"I'm staying, Beckett. I'm staying."

She closed her eyes and swallowed hard, breathing out. She couldn't remember - the whole day was a jumbled mess of images and she couldn't figure out which ones were real, what order they went in.

She opened her eyes again and saw the broad flex of his forearm against the gurney, the grip of his hand. It was soothing and she didn't even know why. She focused on the shift of moonlight across his skin and the strength in his arm and how he was carrying her away.

"You're staying," she said, making sure she'd actually heard it right. "You're with me, Castle."

"I'm with you, Kate."

The Farm was a stone farmhouse the CIA had obtained twenty years ago and modeled after Camp Peary. Most former residents called it Stone Farm to distinguish it from that CIA training facility, and also because the director was a formidable brute of a man who towered like a stone statue over every proceeding.

Castle had never met Ragle, and he wasn't sure he liked him. But it was possible that was the frustration with his father talking and not really the director's fault.

The cramped room he assigned to them held a queen-sized four poster bed, but since the only other furnishing was a rickety dresser, Castle estimated it would seem bigger once everyone cleared out. Logan and two techs got Beckett settled while the trauma specialist took a look at her chart. The IV was hung, the pulse oximeter attached to her finger.

And then Dr West kicked Castle out to do an intake exam, unlooping his stethoscope from around his neck. West was a grizzled man in his sixties, and even with his taciturn manner, he seemed more reliable and confidence-inspiring that her too-suave surgeon back at the hospital.

Castle shut the door to the room and took measured steps down the hall until it opened up into a sitting area. The director of Stone Farm came forward with a hand outstretched and they shook briefly, assessing each other once more in the lamp-lit room.

"We've never had a civilian here before," Ragle said.

"She's not a civilian," Castle said. He clasped his hands behind his back and waited.

"All right, an NYPD detective, so I hear."

He nodded once. Technically, Ragle outranked him, but Castle wasn't going to give out more information than necessary.

"Fine, keep it close," Ragle said, hands on hips. "Let me give you a rundown on our procedure, and tomorrow morning I'll walk you through Stone Farm, introduce you to the rehab staff, and get a schedule set up for our patient."

"Thank you, sir."

Ragle still didn't look convinced, but he shook his head and gestured to an easy chair pulled up to a low table. Coffee was waiting in two navy mugs, and Castle took a seat and a cup and settled in for the lecture.

Lying on her stomach, Beckett opened her eyes to a moon-shimmering darkness and the shadowed outline of a man sitting beside her bed. Castle had pulled the wooden chair so close that it touched the mattress, but he was hunched forward with his elbows on his knees, head bowed, fingers steepled.

She smoothed her fist and pushed her hand to his thigh, scratched at his jeans.

His head lifted.

Why was he all alone, sitting by himself?

He must have seen something in her face or her eyes, because he uncurled his body towards her and crawled in, his fists in the mattress, the bed sinking, his mouth hovering over her cheek until his nose nuzzled her neck and he breathed her in.

She managed to lift her hand just enough to curl at his ear, scrape along his scalp until he settled down beside her, a leg over her thighs, his body pressed along her good side.

She kept her fingertips sliding through his hair, felt his mouth at her bicep, his cheek on her arm in a strange contortion she'd never be able to keep up all night, but wished, so desperately, that she could.

But it was okay. She'd have time enough now for that. He wasn't going anywhere.

His eyes were open and watching her, unblinking in the darkness.

She shifted in closer and managed to press her lips to his forehead, hummed at his skin. "Sleep, Rick. You need to sleep now."

And when she pulled back to check, his eyes were already closed.

end

stay tuned for Close Encounters 3.5: The Spy Who Loved Me

He should shower; she saw it now, tasted it, felt it all over herself as well. They both needed to shower, strip the bedsheets off, be clean.

She drew her leg slowly off of him, felt that instinctive and clutching grip of his hand and kissed his jaw where she could reach. It tasted - wrong. She didn't want to know what it was she tasted. Guilt.

"We should get cleaned up," she murmured. And because he was still not letting her go- "Castle, only if you can. I think I could - maybe in the sink-"

"No," he shuddered, as if coming awake after a long, cold sleep. His voice was raw. "No, I'll bathe you."

Her skin rippled at the words, but they weren't sexual, they didn't mean he wanted her. Still, there was intimacy in them now where there wasn't before. He wasn't just performing a necessary function; he wanted to be the one.

"Okay," she whispered at his jaw, giving in to it. Because she had no other choice.

He roused, his head lifting as if he was looking at her for the first time, and she eased off of his chest to lie on her side, watching him study her. He must sense it too, the shift between them. She curled her fingers at his chest and brushed her thumb over his stiff shirt.

Blood. Stiffened with blood.

She closed her eyes. This was her fault, her mother's case she'd dragged him down into, and now look. His father-

"Kate," he murmured. She felt him capture her hand and draw it to his lips. "I should probably - I need a shower first."

She nodded and opened her eyes to look at him. "You do."

"And then I'll clean out the tub and run water for you. Help you wash off all. . .this."

But would she ever be clean?

She swallowed and stared at him, the blue of his eyes like shale. A rock that couldn't hold together, fissile and weak, chipped away, dissolved by wind and water.

Eroded into nothing.

Close Encounters 3.5: The Spy Who Loved Me