It's anything but just another hazy New York night.
Beckett tries to focus her eyes, but the edges of buildings seem to blur. The streetlights glow. The heat from the streets and the recent rainstorm create a fog that makes her think of strolling through an impressionist painting.
"Have you ever been in love?" she asks, blinking up at him through thick lashes, as though she was trying to clear something away.
He glances down, at her arm threaded through his as they walk through the humid streets. It's late. Probably too late, but talking her into an after work drink is a rare occasion and he wasn't about to pass up the opportunity.
"What would make you ask that?"
"I dunno, Castle," she replies, looking up with big blue eyes. She realizes she's slurring, just a little, and tries not to care. "Just curious, I suppose."
"I've been married twice. What would make you suppose I haven't been in love?"
Beckett sighs. That isn't what she'd meant, but tonight's bourbon is keeping the words just out of her grasp. Looks down and watches her boots tapping out a rhythm on the pavement. One-two. One-two. She's always been able to maintain her even, purposeful strides, even as her mind spins with a million unasked questions. She's thankful for that.
He waits her out, as always.
"I know there's a lot I don't know," she starts.
He inhales sharply, breaking their gaze. "You're right."
She sighs again. This is all wrong. The bourbon is making her fuzzy – making her say things she wouldn't otherwise say and doesn't want to get into. She hugs his arm slightly to her chest, blaming the alcohol, and says, "Thank you for walking me home," because it is all she can think of.
As always, at least when it comes to personal matters, they seem to be on different pages. But for the first time, she has no desire to argue with him tonight.
She took a breath, looked at him. Standing behind a wedding cake with his once-love. It felt like she was walking into a scene he would have written. Lovers reunited in a dance. A love resurrected.
"I'm sorry – I didn't mean to –" she stammered.
"It's fine," the woman answered, smiling in her white gown meant for a wedding to a man who wasn't him. Kyra brushed past her in a flurry of beading and white satin and memories, and Kate wonders why she hasn't changed into different clothes yet.
Later, in the elevator, she realizes that he wasn't always like this. She suddenly sees the man before the novels and the fame. Before the deep fried twinkies and the oh-so-marketable playboy image. She sees him 18 and hopeful and hurt and so in love. She sees him sitting in a dorm room late at night, draped over a notebook with ink smudged up to his elbows. Learning to trust his own voice and give voice to his imagination for the first time. Inventing the worlds that had enchanted her for years.
She glances over, looks at the man now standing next to her. He looks… tired. Defeated. He looks like he might remember that young man - like maybe he wished he'd been that man all along. Like maybe he could have been, but was cast in a different role he'd allowed himself to play for far too long and now couldn't find his way back.
For the first time, allows her mind to think of what might be.
She'd never thought of him as a young man before.
He watched across the room as she talked with Sorenson. He found that he was always watching, whether he intended to or not. He hoped it wasn't always in a creepy way.
It had taken some time for him to see it, but she wasn't always like this. This surprised him. And so few things about her surprised him. He was good at this – knowing people. Seeing beyond the surface into the truth of another person. In another life – a life where he enjoyed a desk job – he probably would have made an excellent profiler or psychologist. But his imagination had turned him into a writer, and so it was.
Yet, because he was, he could see that she had once believed. Maybe not for very long, but she had seen that there might be something more out there for herself. Once upon a time, she had introduced boyfriends to her father, sure that they might be the one. She'd talked with these men over wine and appetizers, discussing what "they" would do in the fall, trips they'd take, plays and museums they were going to see. Dreamed of herself in a white dress, of living in the suburbs and raising children and maybe fighting crime too – she always had been the type to want it all. He could see her husband - telling her children that mommy was off slaying dragons and that they should sleep tight because she would be home soon.
She had hoped. She had loved and dreamed and, most importantly, allowed herself to be loved.
It was more than he'd dared to believe about her. Sure, he thought she was more than her often-hostile exterior – he had seen that immediately. Had seen that she'd been hurt, beyond the devastating loss of her mother.
But to think that she was once dreamy and open and willing – believing in love enough to cast all else aside – that was more. More than he'd expected, and maybe even more than he'd hoped for.
He sometimes forgets that she was once innocent.
The night is dark. Crisp. Fall is in the air; leaves crunching underfoot. Their breath creates lazy clouds that mark their path down the deserted street.
Her arm loops through his, clutched to her chest through the thick wool of her coat. They walk purposefully down the street, her heels beating out a steady rhythm. He is just along for the ride, as usual, but he's found that Beckett can't walk any other way. He imagines that one day, on her wedding day, she'll walk purposefully towards her groom. Faster than traditional, and maybe even a little unromantic, but perfectly Beckett.
He looks down at her, her hair bouncing off her shoulders, highlights catching in the streetlights. He finds himself remembering her as they first met, all jagged red hair and bristly exterior, imagines her as the girl she once was with braided pigtails and bright, open eyes. He finds himself overwhelmingly thankful for the woman that she now is.
"Have you ever been in love?" he asks.
She stops abruptly and looks up, her blue eyes startled. Blinks.
"I'm with Josh," she says.
He closes his eyes. Shakes his head. This is all wrong. He doesn't want to fight with her tonight, and he surely hadn't wanted to hear Josh's name. "That isn't what I asked. That isn't even close."
She looks down at her feet. Realizes she is facing him, that her hands are pressed to his chest, and drops them quickly to her sides.
Beckett shakes her head slowly, curls swinging back and forth. He can see her gathering herself for a fight, her body and her voice tightening, hands flexing. "Of course, Castle. Of course I've been in love." She steps away from him, pacing on the sidewalk. "What I don't see, however, is how this is any of your business."
Despite his earlier promise, he feels his blood rising as it always does around her. Rakes his hands through his hair. "Then what in the hell were you doing asking me that very question two months ago?"
"I was drunk!"
He steps closer to her, closing the space between them, his voice lowering. "Kate, that excuse stopped working years ago."
She sucks in a breath, looking at him, wild-eyed. Steps closer still, until she is nearly pressed against him. Her eyes narrow. "You know what, I'm done."
She turns on her heel, walking away, heels smacking angrily against the pavement. "Kate!" He runs to catch up with her, trotting next to her side. "Kate, I'm sorry."
"Go home, Castle."
"I shouldn't have pushed. I'm sorry. It was inappropriate."
"Damn straight it was."
"I'm sorry," he gasps, still keeping pace with her furious steps. "Kate, will you just stop and talk to me?"
She keeps walking. He doesn't.
He watches as she hails a cab two blocks up, steps in, and disappears into the night.
Two hours later, he awakes to knocking on the front door. Given the night's events, he has some idea who he might find on the other side, though he hadn't dared to hope that she might come to him. He had expected to spend the next week begging for her forgiveness, one cup of coffee at a time.
Yet, amazingly, there was Beckett. She was looking up at him from the other side, wearing sweat pants, red eyes, and a ponytail.
"You," she says, her voice catching slightly. "Royce, Sorenson, and you. And you all left."
He reaches for her. She steps away. Their dance continues.
"I'm sorry," he whispers.
She reaches out. Runs her fingers over his hair in a caress. He leans into it slightly, hating himself for doing this to them. "Me too."