Kate Beckett (
fanofthegenre) wrote2010-01-29 11:59 pm
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[ a missing scene ]
Coonan dies on the floor of the precinct, his blood pooling out around him.
Beckett doesn't stay long after the body's taken away - just long enough to answer the necessary questions, fill in the details for the official report herself, give the information that proves a discharging of her weapon was necessary. She doesn't look at Castle for the rest of the night, and somewhere in the cluster of policemen and EMTs, he disappears, leaving the chaos behind him.
She heads back to her apartment - late, much later than she'd even anticipated, but she's far from tired and her hands are still stinging from the amount of time she'd spent rinsing them in the women's restroom hours before. She pours herself a drink and starts running the water in the bathtub, ready to soak and hopefully drink enough to pass out eventually.
Because otherwise, she's going to have an impossible time sleeping tonight.
Beckett doesn't stay long after the body's taken away - just long enough to answer the necessary questions, fill in the details for the official report herself, give the information that proves a discharging of her weapon was necessary. She doesn't look at Castle for the rest of the night, and somewhere in the cluster of policemen and EMTs, he disappears, leaving the chaos behind him.
She heads back to her apartment - late, much later than she'd even anticipated, but she's far from tired and her hands are still stinging from the amount of time she'd spent rinsing them in the women's restroom hours before. She pours herself a drink and starts running the water in the bathtub, ready to soak and hopefully drink enough to pass out eventually.
Because otherwise, she's going to have an impossible time sleeping tonight.
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"Castle," she finally acknowledges, and turns on her heel in his direction. His scarf is twisted on one side; she reaches up and wills her hands to steady themselves to fix it, her knuckles grazing the line of his jaw.
"S'cold out there," she explains, concentrating her energy on the task in front of her. "Getting colder all the time."
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"This is New York," he replies. "You want heat, you go to Arizona. Of course, if you want scorpions hiding in your shoes, you also go to Arizona."
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"Castle, I - "
She stops, tries to start over, clears her throat and shifts her weight from one foot to the other, as if going over all possible outcomes in her head. When she speaks again, it comes out in barely a whisper.
"Thank you," she warmly manages, her hand clasping around the crook of his elbow, using that hold as a place from which to move forward and press her lips against his cheek. She lingers there, breathing him in, and squeezes her eyes shut before a tear can fall.
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He slides his elbow from her grip and wraps both arms around her, pulling her in for a tight hug. "I'm so sorry," he says.
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"I don't know what to think anymore," she confesses there, so quietly it's almost like she hasn't uttered the words at all. "It's like a nightmare I can't wake up from."
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"You showed more courage today than anybody I've ever seen," he tells her, passing his hand over her back. "I can't say that the nightmares will ever stop. Can't say anything, really. But I'm going to be there for you whenever you need me. I promise."
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"You're a better man than I gave you credit for at first," she admits, honesty spilling out like a bubbling fountain. "I never thought that you - "
She lifts her head from his shoulder to look up at him, the liner wetly smudged around her eyes and giving her a vaguely raccoonish appearance. She's absolutely positive he can feel the tremor course through her frame while she struggles to keep it out of her voice.
"I don't know how to thank you enough."
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The layers of the onion are going back up, one by one.
"I'm glad you came," she says, firm and confident.
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"I know you'd hate it if you thought I was checking up on you," he says. "Figured I'd have more luck if I brought some incentive along." He means the bottle of whiskey, of course, but somehow thinking that he could ply her with alcohol to get her to open up about what happened seems...what, manipulative? Dishonest? He hadn't meant to be. Hell, he likes to think that she knows him well enough by now to trust him not to play the authorial angle.
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She drops her hand once she realizes what she's doing, but the healthy flush in her cheeks remains. The buzz still hasn't worn off yet, and she clears her throat, fully prepared to redirect the conversation elsewhere when the next sentence just happens.
"I mean, it's not tequila, but then again, this isn't page 105, is it?"
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He manages a grin, quick and tight, his eyebrows rucking toward his hairline. "In the business, we call that 'poetic license'," he says, unable to resist the temptation to goad her on a little bit. "You did a lot of cool cop stuff in the book, too."
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"What, like fighting off the Russian in my apartment without a single stitch of clothing on? There's cool cop stuff, Castle, and then there's unnecessary gratuity." Her tongue feels thick in her mouth, weighted down by the whiskey, and she tries not to stumble on her words too noticeably.
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"Besides, I can't help it if you're..." he jumps his eyebrows toward his hairline "...sensational."
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"You talk that way to all your muses?"
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Wait -- is that what he's doing?
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It's sparring, the way they always do. The problem here and now is that her vision is reacting like one of those rearview mirrors: Castle is really a lot closer than he appears.
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"Am I really all that intimidating now?"
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"Off the record?" he asks, consulting the ceiling. "Not at all." A beat. "A little."
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"Off the record, of course," she adds, attempting to maintain a faux-seriousness that quickly dissolves into another laugh.
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"We both know you're not going to stay in the squad car pretty much ever."
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"You're still not thinking about leaving, are ya?" she murmurs, pursing her lips.
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