A/N: Okay, so I know the proper phrase is "no rest for the wicked" (stop looking at me like I'm culturally illiterate), but in this instance, weary fits better, so I went with the bastardized version of the idiom. Of course, "no rest for the wicked" itself is a modified version of the Biblical verse from whence it comes, so why don't we all just say that nothing is original and call it pat? Mmkay?
Anyhow, I'm joining the fun with this post-"Always"/Season 5 speculation. I don't think I've seen this angle tackled yet, so I figured I might as well get it out there before someone else writes it first. :D This should be a fairly short multi-parter, but to be honest, I haven't written much beyond this first chapter, so we'll see where the muse takes me.
Please let me know what you think! Thanks!
EDIT 6.14.12: Larger version of the cover art can be found on my Tumblr account, scripting-life.
Spoilers: Basically everything is game.
Disclaimer: ABC Studios likes to torture us with long hiatuses. Andrew Marlowe and his team like to torture us with amazing writing. Together, they've provided us with the epitome of an awesome show. Strangely enough, I'm content to let them hold the reins (and the rights) to Castle. All this to say, I write solely for recreational purposes and make no profit off of the brilliance of the above-mentioned.
No Rest for the Weary
Blood. It's everywhere.
Its acrid scent is in her nose, its slickness on her hands, and its caustic iron bite in her mouth. It pumps sluggishly through her veins, fueling the throbbing welts and bruises that ornament her body like a morbid painting.
It's all around her, the blood.
Some of it is hers, but most of it isn't, and that's what drives her to the edge.
Most of the blood is his.
The first thing Kate notices when she returns to the land of the living is that her neck tickles. Not bothering to open her eyes, she lifts a lazy hand to swat at the irritant. She misses, and she hears—feels—the shaking rumble of a deep chuckle next to her.
She expects a moment of disorientation, a moment she would need to remember where she is and what she has done, but instead there is just this overwhelming sense of finally being where she's always needed to be. Home.
An irrepressible smile spreads across her lips, and she turns her face further into the pillow to hide it.
"Shut up, Castle."
She feels his mouth at the nape of her neck again, and this time there's a grin pressed against her skin.
"Are you always this grumpy in the mornings?" he murmurs, his lips tickling the soft tufts of baby hair at the base of her head, the tip of his tongue teasing the sensitive skin of her neck and flooding her with delicious warmth.
"I don't know. You gonna try and find out?" she drawls, impressed with how steady her voice comes out even though he's doing things to her that make her restless with want.
"Hell yes," he growls close to her ear, the searing heat of his breath sending shivers down her spine and setting afire the nerves fluttering in her belly.
It doesn't matter that they'd stayed up most of the night exploring each other's bodies and losing themselves in the passion that has always blazed viciously between them. The need flares up between them all over again, and neither of them bothers denying it. They've spent four years denying it, after all.
Last night had been about desperation and forgiveness and pure heat. This morning, the blaze of need is tempered by the certainty of always having, made more intense by the assurance of finally knowing. Knowing that the love between them is real and enduring and beautiful in its emergence.
She stirs again an hour later, and her whole body aches. Not all of it is the good kind—her sore muscles remember the futile battle against Cole Maddox and the terrifying minutes she spent suspended by her fingertips—but she knows that she's never had a better morning because today, she'd woken up next to him.
Her heart swells almost to the point of bursting when she thinks about the fact that she has a whole lifetime of mornings to wake up to him next to her, just like this.
One of her eyes is swollen shut, and the unforgivingly sharp edges of the nylon zip-ties dig into the flesh around her wrists. A wash of nausea wells up in her throat, and it's all she can do to suppress the vomit from dragging up her stomach. She's probably concussed, and she feels like a giant, walking contusion.
She's had barely a day to recover from her fight with the sniper, and the extra beating she received from her current captors probably hasn't helped, to say the least.
She leans her head back against the metal pipe they've secured her to. Her feet have been left free and unfettered, not that it does her much good, but at least she can move them every now and then to restore circulation.
Silver linings, she reminds herself, even as she remembers that one time Castle had teased her about how she was "all about the clouds." She'd proceeded to take his fortune in gummy bears during their ensuing poker game.
A harsh sob catches in her throat.
She can't think about him right now. She can't think about the fact that it's his blood coating her hands and crusting in the crevices of her palms. She can't think about the possibility that he might be—
No, she cuts herself off harshly.
She has to stop thinking about that. She needs to focus on getting out of this instead.
She jerks her bound wrists against the pipe, wincing when the extra pressure further cuts off the circulation to her hands. Though the pipe rattles in response, the rusted metal won't likely break from its fastening anytime soon.
Glancing around the dim room, her one good eye takes stock of the wooden crates stacked along one of the walls. The room is small, maybe ten by ten feet, and not one of the bare, cement walls boast a window. Opposite of where she's facing is a metal door and a single incandescent bulb hangs from the ceiling.
Her best guess is that they had stowed her away in some kind of storage room.
With a little maneuvering, she manages to get her feet under her. She pushes herself to a stand, grimacing when every muscle in her body protests. Her shoulders are especially vocal in their discontent, the combined ache of hanging from a roof and being stuck in an unnatural position with her arms twisted behind her eliciting sharp pangs that resonate to her very bones.
Standing doesn't really make a difference, but she feels less vulnerable, and right now, every mental advantage is a victory.
She doesn't get any further in her examination of her prison when the rasp of metal against metal resounds from the other side of the door before it opens with an ominous creak.
She braces herself, but the sight of her captor shocks and chills her all at once.
"Ah, Detective Beckett. You're awake. So good of you to rejoin us."
The voice is all smooth velvet wrapped around cold malice.
She knows this voice.
The first time she heard it, she'd been struck with reluctant respect for its elegant lilts and sophisticated tones. It was the voice of one accustomed to being in the position of authority, the voice of a master strategist. She'd quickly learned to resent that voice, just a little at first and perhaps even a bit unfairly, but unsuppressed jealousy had reared its head before she could even register the ugly emotion.
Then she'd learned to hate it because that voice belonged to a traitor. A traitor to the nation, a traitor to all sense of decency, a traitor to him. And for her, more than anything, that last part is unforgivable.
Her eyes harden. She's never wanted to physically punish someone as badly as she does now, but she takes a deep breath to control her anger. She won't let this traitor have power over her emotions.
"Sophia Turner. You're alive."
The former CIA agent smirks, those beautiful lips curving into something so sinister, Beckett doesn't know how she ever missed it.
"So I am."
"How?" Beckett grinds out, her hands in fists behind her back.
Sophia doesn't answer her immediately, opting instead to take a casual stroll around the room. She examines the crates with false interest, taking her time before stopping a couple of feet away from Beckett.
"You have better things to be concerned about, I should think, than how I survived a bullet to the chest. But then…I'm not the only one who has survived one of those. Am I, Detective?"
Beckett clenches her jaw tight as the cold wash of realization floods her.
"It seems that my new…acquaintance and I have a common enemy." Sophia tilts her head to the side in cool amusement while she studies the imprisoned detective. Then the corners of her lips flip up in a cruel sneer as she draws a gun from the holster at her side and points it at Beckett's head. "You."
A/N: I just have to say this. Are the writers awesome at picking names or what? I mean, really, Sophia Turner? Turner, as in "turncoat"? Yeah, I see what you did, AWM.