Somewhere a Clock is Ticking (Ch. 1 Pt. 1)
Characters: Kate Beckett, Richard Castle & Ensemble; Jordan Shaw, Scott Dunn (Tick, Tick, Tick...Boom), sundry of ghosts
Pairings: Beckett/Castle, Ryan/Jenny
Rating: R (language, gore, intense violence)
Genre: case; angst; light romance; general (and soul-crushing) misery
Setting: mid-January 2013 (s5)
Summary: (TTT...B sequel) By the time Sing Sing notices the glitch, serial killer Scott Dunn has long since fled the prison and the county, prompting a call to his arresting officer and the former object of his psychosis, Kate Beckett - who soon finds that the trail he's left her is one that is not only littered with corpses, but is going almost entirely downhill. Set earlyish s5. B/C.
- Somewhere a Clock is Ticking -
A/N: Dark, angsty; set winter, earlyish s5 (preceding significant episodes such as “Recoil” and “Hunt”). Deals heavily with Beckett's shooting, and with a lot of the less pleasant aspects of Beckett and Castle's relationship (the idealization, the guilt, the anger, the not-talking-about-any-of-the-problems-ever, the worries, the fears). It's not a 100% angst-fest (more like...93%), and it is ultimately Caskett, but there are some arguments I want them to have, and there are some things with Beckett I wanted to explore. Scott Dunn was a nice a catalyst, with the history and the intense violence he brings to the table. Bottom line: angst, fluff stripped bare.
In the interest of continuity, my final note is that I'm making one small tweak to canon: that Beckett bears not only the scar from the bullet, but from the sternum spreader the surgeons used to crack open her chest (and the tube they shoved through her ribs). Both should've been there anyway, and visually it's a lot more horrific and a lot more obvious.
Chapter One: Sunrise
He walked down the hallway. The doors were lined with lights, but it was still dark. It was dim in the daytime, but at night it was dark, like the lights only barely existed. He knew that because he'd been here before. Yesterday. And now he was here again.
He walked down the hallway. He saw the door in his head. Saw the numbers on the door, though he couldn't remember what they read. He noticed his hands were sweating as he reached in his pocket for the address he'd scribbled on the back of a cab receipt. 20. It was 20. He remembered just as he removed the paper. He put it back in his pocket.
He walked down the hallway. Stopped at the door. At 20. Tonight was the night. He could see it all playing out in his head. Two years of planning. Three of thinking about it. Tonight he was going to do it. Tonight.
He cocked the gun in his hand. He hadn't bothered to hide it. It was so dark in the hallway, no one would see it, even if they looked, and no one had. He hadn't seen anybody. The place seemed deserted.
He knocked. His hands were stiff, quivering with excitement. He steadied them.
The door took forever to open. He knew he was home. He knew because he'd watched, and waited.
The door opened. “Hello?” Gold light streamed into the hallway, and he saw just one of his target's eyes. The door had opened only slightly. A chain stopped it. Typical distrustful New Yorkers. Though in this case, it was justified.
He helped the door the rest of the way open with his shoulder. It held up better than expected, and he heard the man shout something, suddenly panicked. Also justified. He gave it another ram, and the door popped open. It split like plywood.
And then he was inside, and for a moment they both just stood there, staring stupidly at each other. He thought of one of those little hot dog dogs coming face-to-face with a Doberman, too terrified to make eye contact. And then he smiled. And then he raised the gun. It was silenced.
“Please, what do you want?”
He didn't reply. He could just make out his eyes between the little white dots on the sights, on the kill end of the barrel.
He pulled the trigger before he could could get another word out, and then he just dropped like a sack of flour. It was surreal. Just a bang, a little kick, and there he was, on the floor.
Everything just went still.
“Please...”
He blinked, walked forward. The guy was still alive. For the next ten seconds, anyway.
“Oh, god...”
He stood right over him, looking down at his face. There was blood in his mouth. He was coughing on it, staring up at him. And at that moment, he was surprised to find how unmoved he was. He thought he might feel something. Just...something, anything. But he didn't.
He centered the muzzle over his forehead. Pulled the trigger again.
Watched his eyes glaze over.
And that was that.
***
She hit the alarm when she woke up. It hadn't gone off yet. She had another half an hour of sleep available to her, but she sat up instead, rubbing her eyes to clear the muzziness from her head. It was still dark outside, charcoal clouds having smothered the sun and dulled the edges of neighboring buildings to a blur. Just below, cars stopped and started, honked at each other. Someone was running their bass, and it tapped distantly against the window.
Thump-thump-thump-thump-thump-thump
And then it stopped, a second after she noticed it.
Blinking heavily, she looked left. Castle was still asleep. He looked so peaceful there, sleeping, it was almost disgusting. For one fleeting moment, she considered throwing a pillow in his face, but then the moment passed, and Kate Beckett rolled from her bed. She found her old NYU shirt hanging over a chair, slipped it on, then left the bedroom, leaving Castle to his sleep. The wood floor was cold on her feet as she padded to the kitchen, intent on the coffee machine. She stopped there after she turned it on, staring out the frosted window at the grey, smudgy, formless blob that was her world. Maybe it was because she'd woken up before the alarm, maybe it was the writer asleep in the other room, hell, maybe it was last night, but this morning had an odd sort of peace to it, and she felt...good. Content.
Smiling a small, private smile, she went to the bathroom to start her morning routine. She'd been feeling that a lot lately. Content. It wasn't exactly a foreign feeling, but it felt uncomplicated, and it felt nice. No case hanging overhead, no 3 AM call about some guy dead in his apartment. Just a good night and a quiet morning.
If she didn't know herself better, she'd say she could almost get used to it.
She spat her toothpaste, rinsed her mouth, then returned to the kitchen. The coffee was gargling and filling the kettle, so she reached for a couple mugs and set them on the counter. Then her eyes wandered until she found Castle's laptop on the table. It was open, asleep but still running. He'd insisted she finish her paperwork at home rather than the precinct, said he'd write while she was writing or something like that; writing about her writing to make it seem more exciting - to him, at any rate.
Glancing into the bedroom to check for his shadow, she walked over to the laptop, then sat on the couch and pulled it to her. The thing wasn't password protected, and when she turned it on it was still on the document, still hovering mid-word where she'd pulled him away.
She scrolled up. Picked a random paragraph to start from. Felt her brow lift an inch.
God and the angels were crying that night. Either that, or they had had way, way too much beer and were pissing it down. Heat shielded her eyes as she stared up at the storm. Sandy may have passed, but tonight that didn't really matter. She was soaked to the bone. Her clothes clung to her like she'd just stepped out of a pool. She stood there, soaking up the angels' tears like a shower, laughing to herself. It sounded victorious, and maybe just a little psychotic. As if she'd made them cry. For her.
Blood ran off the steps beside her. She could smell the shot in the rain. The rain had washed away the blood, washed away the rose, but not the smell, and when she looked over the guy's warm, dead body, she met Rook's eyes. The buds of romance had long since blossomed into bloom, and the petals were starting to fall, but at that moment it was as if they were staring at each other with new eyes. And at that moment, she kne
“If you're coasting for porn, I keep that on my other computer. The password's 'kinky.' ”
She looked up. Castle was leaning against the bedroom doorway, hair disheveled, a blanket wrapped around him like a toga. He was staring at her with a crooked brow. She wondered how long he'd been standing there.
“ 'The buds of romance had blossomed into bloom' ?” she repeated, eyebrow still hiked.
He crossed his arms, “What, you don't like it?”
“Blossomed,” she repeated again, smiling despite herself. Shook her head.
He walked forward, “How long have you been up?”
“Uh,” she glanced down at the laptop. “Fifteen minutes? There's coffee.” She spoke it as she remembered it, and she stood to make her way to the machine.
He caught her hand, held it lightly. “Why don't we leave it?” He was grinning at her, brow still crooked. “It's not too late to go back to bed.”
She almost hated herself for smiling back. “Come on, Castle. I still have to shower.”
“We can do both.” He was rubbing little circles into her palm. His hands were warm.
“I do have a job to get to.”
“A very important one,” he agreed. He was pulling her toward him, and she found herself letting him.
“Unlike some of us...” She whispered that.
Somehow, they were only an inch apart now.
He leaned in to kiss her.
“Castle,” she breathed.
He stopped, hovering a micrometer from her lips. “Hm?” He smelled like mint, and she thought of toothpaste and Tic Tacs and Altoids and bright, blue mouthwash, and she thought of tasting it.
“Is this how the petals fa-”
He swallowed the rest of her sentence.
***
By 8:36, Richard Castle was stepping out of the elevator to his loft. For once, he hadn't had to endure coitus interruptus in the form of a phone call from the scene of some dead guy on the side of some street (which, yeah, that did happen, and the guy was spread over two blocks; take away: if you're going to dart across a four-lane street, make sure to bring some other pedestrians as a buffer), and Beckett had sent him home after they'd finally gotten around to their coffee. Not that he hadn't brought a change of clothes - they were beyond the walk-of-shame portion of their relationship, thank you - but as long as he had the morning, he had a laundry Situation to take care of. (Seriously, it was dire. He was down to his last pair of jock shorts, and he may have left that one under Beckett's bed.) So they split at her apartment's lobby. She went down the street to the parking garage; he crossed it to head for the subway. While he considered himself a man of great daring and courage and adventure, he had yet to be convinced to get on the back of her bike. He saw how she drove cars (as if she took personal offense to the road and everyone on it), and those things had four wheels.
So they split with a kiss and a wave. It was nice, and it wasn't like he wouldn't be seeing her again by lunch. Or possibly for lunch. At that little bistro by the park.
You know, at this point, he could so pass the Police Academy. He practically lived at the station as it was.
He slipped his key into the lock, opened the door, typed in the security code.
I mean, okay, maybe not the physical so much, but everything else...He'd pass, and sometimes (but only sometimes) he imagined the look on Beckett's face when he would walk in with his very own, shiny, new Desert Eagle (once he got the carry permit Situation taken care of). No Glocks or Sigs for this writer, oh no. Although that gun Dirty Harry had was pretty cool...
Maybe he could just have both. It wasn't as if Beckett didn't o...
“Dad?”
He jumped out of the way of her voice (panther reflexes). “Hey, my daughter mine,” he said cheerfully, noting that he hadn't, in fact, been in any danger of actually running into her. She was standing in the kitchen. “How's it hanging?”
“Good,” her eyes flicked all over him as she walked over, searching for evidence of...what? He suddenly felt like he had something on his face. “How's Beckett?” she asked.
“She's good,” he said, rubbing his cheek self-consciously. “We had a nice time last night.”
She held up a hand, “I'm glad we have such an open, honest relationship, but there are things we don't need to share.”
He nodded solemnly, “I respect your wishes. So,” he walked over to the nearest chair and plopped into it, dropping his bag beside it. “We gonna do movie night tonight?”
When she looked away, he knew instantly that they wouldn't be. He tried his best to keep the disappointment off his face as she spoke, “I'm sorry, I, uh...my friends just sent me a text a few minutes ago asking if I wanted to go out with them tonight, and I already said yes...” her voice trailed off. She stood there awkwardly for a moment, then walked over and gave him a hug. “I'm really sorry,” she said.
“It's okay,” he said as she pulled away.
“I mean, if it's really important to you, I can cancel.”
“No, no,” he held both her hands. “No, you go out and have a good time.” He squeezed them, then released her and got to his feet. “In the meantime, you want to have breakfast? I'm starved.” There was no way she wasn't accepting. She was still in her p-jays. No phone in hand. He'd found her in the kitchen. This was a slam-dunk.
“Yeah, sure,” she said and smiled.
The fear that she was leaving melted from his heart. “Awesome!” he said, walking into the kitchen. “So what do we want?”
She followed him. “Waffles?”
“Waffles it is!” he could practically hear the exclamation point in his voice. His daughter was home over winter interim (on his insistence), and although they'd spent a good portion of that time together, they'd spent a better portion of it apart. As far as he was concerned, her classes would be starting up again all too soon, and he wasn't looking forward to the empty house. Some guys liked the bachelor life. Hell, some guys needed it. But he had a housekeeper and had lived with women most of his life. The whole stag thing wasn't really his scene.
Alexis pulled out the waffle press and greased it while Castle located and beat together the ingredients. When her scant duties were complete, Alexis took a seat on the stool to watch him mix away. She smiled, “I'm glad we still do this.”
“Please, it's family tradition,” he said. “You watching while I do all the work.”
She scoffed, but didn't take the bait or the hint. “So are you home for the day?”
It was his turn to look away, “No, I'm going to meet up with Beckett in a few hours.”
“Big case?” her face was neutral. Lately, he just never knew what she wanted to hear. Though, he supposed if he was honest with himself, this had been going on longer than just lately...
“No,” he shook his head. “No case. But, you know, this is New York. Sure she's five minutes away from catching another fresh one.” He paused. “Hopefully not literally.”
She glanced down at her hands. Looked back up, “Not sure whether we should be hoping for that or not.”
“Well, then Beckett would be out of a job, and I'd have to split the proceeds from my books with her, so...”
“Then I guess we'll hope for a nice double homicide,” she stood. “Or a serial killing.”
“Sounds good,” he dumped in the chocolate chips.
“Mm,” she came around to his side. “Need any help with that?”
He nodded. “Scoop the bowl?” he asked, holding it up.
“Consider it done.” She reached for the rubber scrapey thing.
They stopped talking about cops and dead people after that.
***
The elevator doors of the 12th Precinct opened just a few minutes shy of shift start, and Beckett walked out, coat and bag slung over her arm, still enjoying the heat as it worked to burn the last of the ice from her face and fingertips. She knew that her enjoyment of the pizza oven temp could only last as long as it took for her mouth to dry and her skin to start itching, but for the moment she loved the warmth as it settled under her turtleneck and around her freezing toes, because even though she'd hardly missed a winter in the city since her birth-excepting those blissful semesters in California-she still hated the cold.
Especially since the incident a couple years back...
“Yo, Beckett,” Javier Esposito hailed her from the break room. “Starting off the morning a little late?”
She arched a brow at him as she approached, shucking off her gloves. “Oh, please.”
Kevin Ryan smiled at her from his perch on one of the counter tops. “Yeah, you're almost keeping human time now.”
“Shut up,” she looked at Esposito as he snorted, then shoved the rest of a doughnut in his mouth. “Anymore of those left?”
He winced, very fakely. There was powder dusting his nose and chin. “Jeez, you know, if you'd only come sooner...”
“Stop screwing with me, Espo, and just give me my doughnut.”
He smirked at her as he held out a folded napkin. She was itching to wipe it off his face, but she accepted his offering without violence.
Instead, she switched topics. “Night shift pull anything in?” she asked, leaning against the counter opposite Frick and Frack.
Ryan shook his head, “Nothing exciting.”
“Heard Lanie had an interesting night,” Esposito said.
“Oh?” she looked at him.
“Yeah. Got called out on a report of a baby in a dumpster. Turns out...” he let that hang for a moment as he ate another doughnut. “Turns out, it was just a duck.”
“Like, a duck, quack, quack?” Ryan asked.
“Like Donald Friggin' Duck.” He pointed at him with sugar-coated fingers, then looked down, as if only just noticing they were attached to his hand. “Can you hand me a napkin, bro?” he said.
“Yeah, sure.”
Beckett watched their exchange, shaking her head. “Sure Lanie was pleased.”
“Yeah,” Esposito said, wiping off his fingers. “Cop called at her home. Was absolutely convinced he had a dead kid. Didn't even believe her when she came down and told him what it was at first.”
She ripped off a piece of doughnut and ate it. “Well, that's an interesting story, Espo, but how did you manage to hear it?” She was smirking now.
He colored. “She told me this morning.”
Ryan snorted. “Of course she did.”
“At the morgue.” He looked at his partner. “Went down there to get the lab report on the Kissinger case.”
“And you mock me,” Beckett ate the rest of the doughnut.
“We are not back together.”
“Uh huh,” she pushed off the counter.
They followed her out of the break room and into the bull pen, still going back and forth on the Lanie issue. Beckett decided to leave them to it, draping her coat around her chair, then dropping into it. She pulled her paperwork from her bag and started leafing through it. She hadn't managed to finish it, an outcome she had never quite deluded herself into believing had been avoidable last night, but due date was looming and choices were dwindling. With a sigh, she pulled her pen from the little chalk-line body post-it/pencil holder thing Castle had given her awhile ago and set to work finalizing the incident reports.
Her phone rang as she was literally dotting an 'i'. “Beckett,” she said, picking it up .
“Is this Detective Kate Beckett, 12th Precinct?” was the response. Male. Middle-aged. Bronx accent.
“Yes,” she said, crossing a 't.'
“This is Brian Dobbs. I'm the director of operations at Sing Sing.”
She paused her scribbling, interest snagged. Sing Sing was way outside her turf.
“I just got off the phone with the FBI,” Dobbs continued. “They told me to call you. Got your contact info from the file.”
“The FBI?” she repeated, now definitely interested. She put down her pen. “What file?”
“I'm sorry to have to tell you this,” Dobbs said, “But earlier this morning Scott Dunn escaped.”
Her breath caught in her throat. “What?” she asked, swallowing the lump, sure she'd heard it wrong. “There has to be some sort of mistake.”
“Well, there was,” he said. “That's how he escaped.”
“Are you seriously making jokes with me?” she stood suddenly. Her chair slid away, hit another desk. She barely heard it. Ryan and Esposito looked at her, snapped out of conversation.
“No. I'm sorry, Detective.”
She pressed three fingers against her temple, focusing her gaze on a chip in the wood grain of her desk. “How did this happen?”
“We're still sorting that out ourselves. I don't have any details for you, beyond the fact that he wasn't at roll call and no one's seen him since the morning.”
Scott Dunn escaped.
Ryan and Esposito were on their feet now, heading toward her, and they stopped just beside her desk, waiting for her to share what was going on. She found herself wondering vaguely why they didn't just pick up the other phone.
“So, what, he just...disappeared?” she said. “Sing Sing is max security. How the hell could something like this happen?”
“Hey, Detective, don't shoot the messenger. We only just found out.”
“I'm coming up there,” she said, the decision made as she spoke it. “Tell the guards to expect us.”
“Us?” he said.
“We'll call you back.” She dropped the phone into its cradle, then ran her fingers through her hair, exhaling a long breath. She suddenly became conscious of her heart banging against her ribs. The ache was dull. She'd almost gone the morning without feeling it.
“What was that about?” Esposito said.
She dropped her hands. Opened her mouth. Inhaled.
The phone rang again.
Blowing out the breath, she held up a finger, then grabbed the phone. “Beckett,” she said.
“You heard?”
It'd been three years, but she knew Special Agent Jordan Shaw's voice when she heard it. “I heard,” she replied.
“I assume you're already en route to Sing Sing?”
“Yes.”
“I've got a few cases to wrap up here, but I'm taking the first flight down to the city tomorrow.”
Under any other circumstance, she might have argued against it. But this was almost as personal to Shaw as it was to her. “I'll see you then,” she said.
“Yep.” And then she hung up. Beckett liked that about her. Short, to the point, all-business.
She put the phone down again.
“Okay, seriously,” Esposito said. “What the hell is going on?”
She looked at him. “Scott Dunn escaped from prison this morning.”
Part 2 >>>