A/N-I was positive I wouldn't do anything that begins prior to the show...but here we are. Hopefully I don't screw it up.
This is pre-series, so I did a little poking around for timeline events, some modest shifts have been made, but I tried to stay true to the background up until the point where the story starts. This is my own take on how they would be before we met them on the show. I tried to build on things heard about them in canon, but a bit of imagination is employed.
This Prologue begins shortly before Johanna Beckett was murdered (when Kate would have barely turned 19) and just after Castle's first divorce. It will then jump ahead a year (in the next chapter). This will look at how they meet, the changes and problems she faces, and the challenges Castle faces as a single dad (especially because his mother didn't live with him at that time). Strong H/C and friendship overtones as both deal with their lives while neither want to even admit they're struggling. Also smutty/lovey stuff.
PROLOGUE—November 25, 1998
Kate Beckett has been waiting nearly an hour to get to the front of this line. She's home visiting family and friends during the short Thanksgiving break, and has a lot to do on these few days before returning to school. Glancing at her watch, she wonders how much longer it's going to take because some friends she knew back in high school are throwing a party (that she's already dressed and ready to attend). She hasn't seen some of them since graduation, and it's going to be so great, a chance to let loose and forget studies and preparation for the future and just have fun like she used to.
Even though she has a million things to do, this book signing seemed like a bit of kismet when she passed the ad in the bookstore window earlier that day.
Her mother is notoriously difficult to buy gifts for (she's not really the type for collectibles and trinkets). But the woman does love to read. Especially crime novels, particularly the ones written by the man at the table at the front of the line.
Her Mom talked her into reading a few of these books (when she has time to read for pleasure). Since the signing is so conveniently located, an autographed book is the perfect accompaniment to the adorable necklace she already purchased as a gift. She bought her Dad baseball season tickets, so her holiday shopping is nearly done.
But this line is long. So long. She's lost count of the number of women he's signed…not their books, the actual women. Regardless of where he places his autograph, he flirts like a champ with Every. Last. One of them. No wonder it's taking forever.
The demographics of this fan group are pretty varied, from giggling grandmothers, to sorority girls, to moms, and a couple of guys. (She secretly wishes one or two of the guys would ask him to sign their chests…just to see what he'd do. Sadly she doesn't have the opportunity to witness that scenario). In the time she's been there, he's probably collected enough phone numbers to start a fresh 'little black book.'
If she's going to be stuck here, she will make the best use of her time. She gets out the text for her Constitutional Law class (the class designed for second and third year students that she was able to earn and finagle her way in to). When she goes back to school in a few days, it will be time for finals, and she is going to slay them.
A woman (middle aged and soft-spoken) behind her taps her shoulder when the line moves, so Kate doesn't even really need to pay attention, and gets lost in her studies.
Uncertain how much additional time has passed, Kate's concentration is broken when that same sweet woman behind her warns, "Get out your book for him to sign, hon. Almost there."
It takes Kate a minute to look up from her reading. Why stop mid-paragraph for anyone? The woman whispers in a gossipy way, "He keeps looking at you," with the excitement someone would employ when announcing the winner of a contest.
She judges Kate's outfit, the silky sleeveless top with a plunging neckline only partially covered by her jacket (which isn't nearly warm enough for this time of year but looks really good on her).
Kate feels compelled to explain her clothing in response. "I'm going to a party. I'm not dressed like this for him."
"Right," the woman replies with disbelief, sounding a bit patronizing.
Annoyed and preparing to argue with the woman, Kate glances at the writer at his table and finds he is watching her, peering around the fans whose books he's currently scrawling on. Her eyes meet his and hold, and she feels so intense a zing that she stops breathing for a second. As soon as he notices her noticing him, he looks away and turns his attention to those directly in front of him.
Argument forgotten, Kate's head flusters for a moment before she opens her backpack and stows her study book, taking out Richard Castle's latest offering, still folded up in the bag from when it was purchased right before she entered the queue.
There are only two girls (the ones Kate has decided are wannabe sorority sisters) standing in line between her and the writer. Each of them bare the upper parts of their chests so he can sign them, giggling so coquettishly it should be embarrassing. Kate doesn't fault them for flirting (or whatever this is) but there's no need to be pathetic about it, and these two are just so…fake. And he eats it up. Nauseating.
When they step aside, it takes a moment for his eyes to lift to Kate's face, and she's a bit confused when he doesn't immediately engage with her. He's fawned, literally, over everything with a pulse, and we've been playing eye tag, so why the sudden calm composure?
He studies her face for a moment, then says, "Hi," as he reaches out to shake her hand. "Richard Castle."
"Hope so," she answers wryly, accepting the handshake without introducing herself.
There are only a few people behind her, and when he looks to see how many, she assumes he's tired of this whole charade and just wants to go home. He observes a moment longer rather than talking so naturally like he did with those before her in line, and it flusters her a bit more that he's waiting there.
"Right," she says, very officially, realizing she's the one holding up the line. Unfolding the bag and removing the book, she notices the encasing plastic is made out of what is apparently an ultra-loud, extra-crinkly material designed to draw the most possible attention.
He examines the book when she gives it to him, handing her the receipt that is stuck to the back. She waits expectantly for him to hurry up and sign. Observantly, he notes, "So you come here to meet me, buy a copy of the book but haven't even opened it...spend your time in line reading something written by someone else?" His voice is amused and intrigued, and she wonders if maybe he's also feeling a little insecure.
He continues, "So either you're not a fan and you're getting a signature for some other reason, or you're trying to play it cool and act like you're not interested as a way to get my attention."
She's not going to play along, will not fawn over him (even though he is ridiculously cute up close, staring at her with those playful blue eyes and a smile that strums some interesting chords within her).
"Sign it to 'Johanna,'" she requests, spelling the name and slinging her backpack over her shoulder before folding her arms loosely in front of her.
His broad smile is replaced by a more subtle one, and she finds it even cuter on him. But then he seems to remember who he is, calling upon his vast supply of overconfidence, and he says, "You really just want me to sign the book?"
She nods. "Yea. I want you to sign the book. This is a 'book signing,' isn't it?"
"That's more of a loose guideline than a rule. And even if it is a rule, I'm very fond of rule bending." He wields his marker and waits.
"That's great. But unlike the rest of your 'fans' I wash my tits every day. That would mean I waited forever for a signature that will be gone tomorrow."
He breathes his laugh. "Give me your number. You go ahead and shower as per usual, and I'll pop over and sign again tomorrow," he replies, clearly tickled by her attitude. "I'm very devoted to my fans."
"How kind," she snarks. Then she says, "But this is a gift."
His eyes follow her shirt's dip at her cleavage. "No argument here."
"The book is a gift," she swiftly counters, a near-smirk betraying her.
His expression tightens for a minute, and he opens the book, making a show of it since the binding is tight because it has yet to be opened. Bringing his marker to the right spot, he asks, "Who's Johanna?" just before he's about to sign. But he pauses, taking his time as he allows his eyes to wander over her, and adds, "And is she even half as hot as you? Because if she is—"
"Ugh," Kate grumbles loudly to silence any thought that would follow that phrase.
"So she's not hot?"
"She's my Mom. It's a Christmas present."
"Ah. So your mom is the fan," he says as he scrawls a message that seems to take longer than it should.
"Yea."
He closes the book and asks, "And you? Not a fan or simply haven't had the pleasure of reading yet?"
"Not really a fan, exactly. Although, In a Hail of Bullets was so good I read it all in one day," she confesses, and he soaks in the compliment.
"Sure I can't sign something for you?" he says, ego bursting again. He picks a fresh book from his stack and says, "It's on me," and signs something he keeps hidden from Kate's view. "Read it later," he adds, closing it and sliding the novel across the table.
"But A Skull at Springtime…" she continues while she takes the newly signed book.
He braces himself for what he obviously expects is another glowing compliment.
Instead she continues, "Good, but not as good. My expectations were so high after reading the first one." Over the next few minutes, she starts to ask questions. Some practical, some about motivations, one or two about an antagonist's background (just as a matter of curiosity).
Her questions and comments are insightful, showing careful reading and thought. It is certainly not the fawning but superficial flattery he's probably accustomed to receiving at events like this. She's not sure if he notices, but she catches her own body language a few times, and she knows she's attracted to him. If he's at all observant, he probably knows, too. Sure, she isn't unbuttoning her shirt and shoving her breasts in his face, but she feels it.
When she sees he's staring at her, carefully listening to every question or theory she mentions, she says, "Forget it. I'm sure that's not what you want to hear, so—"
"Wanna get a drink?" he asks boldly.
"A drink?"
"When people purchase and consume beverages, talk, and try to figure each other out. You don't get out much?" She shoots a scowl, so he continues, "Meet me when I'm done here?"
"Are you serious?"
"You have…absolutely stunning eyes," he says, which she responds to with a deeply exaggerated roll of them. She doubts it's her eyes that interest him.
"You took a few dozen numbers tonight from women who practically worship you. You sure you don't want to ask one of your many 'number one fans'?"
"I'd rather feel intrigued than worshipped, if I have to choose. In a perfect world, both, obviously, but—"
"I'll go if she won't," the woman behind her says.
He smiles at the woman who's next, then leans closer to Kate and says, "Best questions I've ever been asked. For someone who's not much of a fan, you really know my books. Plus, I like watching to you talk."
"I have a date," she returns, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear as she tries not to allow his proximity to impact her.
"Fuck him."
"I might... if he's lucky," she quips.
He grins again, enjoying her wit. "I meant forget him. Cancel. I'm way more fun. Promise."
"Aren't you married?"
"So you're one of those non-fans who reads my bio?"
She sneers. His confidence should be so annoying, but for some unknown reason, she's entertaining his offer. He is really handsome, with a charisma that doesn't translate to the photos she's seen. It's astounding how strong the pull between them is. "I'll take your not-so-clever evasion of my question to mean you are married then?" she manages.
"Divorced," he replies, making a popping sound with his lips like he's had the final word.
"Umm," Kate stalls, looking on the inside pocket of her backpack to make sure she has her fake ID just in case he wants to go to a bar (on the off chance that she decides to accept the offer). She only just celebrated her 19th birthday, but isn't willing to share that tidbit of information with him yet.
She doesn't really have a specific date in mind tonight, just a party with potential dates, and friends, and no rules. Does she want to miss that opportunity to see what might happen here?
He takes her hand before she can retreat and pushes up her jacket sleeve, electing to write on the underside of her forearm. His palm is so soft, fingers careful and gentle but surprisingly strong. His thumb runs over the tender place beneath her wrist before he writes on her with permanent marker. She resists the temptation to move closer.
He jots a location. "I'll be at that address in an hour. You should come," he explains. Before she replies, he continues, "Drinks are on me, and I'll be happy to answer all of your many questions."
She said she liked In a Hail of Bullets, so where better to meet her than the Old Haunt where much of it was written? Rick Castle hasn't been there in too long, and this seems like the perfect opportunity to return. He has good memories of this place.
His consolation since he and Meredith decided to divorce is that he can do this again, meet women at book signings, get back out and jump in the dating pool. The thing is, this is the first time he's actually taken advantage of it.
Meredith has been staying with him for the last few weeks since the divorce was finalized, supposedly visiting Alexis between gigs. He's still sleeping with his ex-wife, which probably hasn't helped him to move on, but it is convenient. He also rarely tells her no. Now it's time to see what else is out there in a post-Meredith world.
And this woman, Johanna's daughter, has been the first to really give him that excited jolt, more than basic attraction; it's fascination. He still doesn't even know her name. For now, he just hopes she shows up, although he isn't really sure she will.
Rick waits on the sidewalk in front of the bar for a bit, hoping she'll come, searching up and down the street with his eyes like a cat watching a tennis match. One woman seems to walk right up to him, and he thinks it's her. When she gets close enough, he realizes it's someone else, and hope falls. Nearly ten minutes have passed, so he goes inside for a drink, wondering if she still might come.
His stare goes directly to her like magnets to nickel. If she is already inside, it means she must have arrived early, before him, and that can't be a bad sign.
She's leaning her forearms against the bar, talking to a bartender (nearly every guy in the joint is raking over her with his eyes). He observes the way her fingers casually slide into her back jeans pocket and pull out identification. The plastic card pinched between two extended fingers, she presents it to the man behind the bar. He looks over it, glance moving between the photo and the person a few times before he hands it back.
Before she can put it away, Rick hurries over to the spot next to her and takes the license to inspect.
The bartender slides her rocks glass to her, and says, "Bourbon, as ordered." Then he places a few frilly drinks up on the bar and tells her which men bought her each additional one.
"Wanna grab a table, Nadia?" he asks, using the name he reads on the ID before he gives it back to her.
Although she declines the drinks purchased for her by men she doesn't know, Rick accepts them, nodding his gratitude at the purchasers as he walks through the bar carrying two of the embellished glasses. His masculinity is not at all threatened by cotton candy colored drinks or fruit skewer decorations.
Once they pick a table near the back, a little more private than the bustling front side near the bar but not so secluded she'll think he's taking trying to make a move, he asks, "So what's your story?"
"What story? There's no story."
"There has to be. Tell me everything. I'm all ears. Well...not all ears," he says with a flashing brow.
She shakes her head, he still thinks she's trying to act less interested than she is (after all, she did show up here...early).
"I'm a college student."
"You first opened your eyes in this world and found yourself in a lecture hall?"
"No."
Is it possible he's found the only person in New York who doesn't want to talk about herself?
"Where are you from? Where do you go to school? What do you study? What could you possibly have been reading in my line that's better than my book? Do you dress like this every time you go to a bookstore or just when you're meeting incredibly talented and handsome writers such as myself?"
"I thought you were going to answer all my questions?" she counters stubbornly.
"I will," he replies, and he waits. And he wouldn't mind waiting right here all damn night, because staring at her isn't a bad way to spend a few hours.
Answering in the order the questions were asked, she says with little elaboration, "Here. Stanford. Pre-Law. My Constitutional Law textbook. And no. I dressed for a par—a date."
"What's a par-a-date?" he accuses, noting that perhaps she didn't have a date planned this evening as she suggested.
"A party," she confesses, "where I may or may not meet a date."
"Boyfriend?"
"No. I'm concentrating on school."
"Concentrating on school? You have a fake ID so good it probably cost more than my first car," he notes.
"Shh," she snaps back.
"Someone with an ID that good, well used from the looks of it, is not busy concentrating on school."
"Look...I've had fun. A lot of it. I mean...I still have fun...but I have goals. Aspirations. Plus I'll have to be vetted one day, so I want to make sure my record can survive scrutiny."
"Vetted? For what? CIA? FBI? NSA? MIB?" he asks excitedly.
"Forget it."
"I have to know."
"You'll laugh. And I'll have to wait 25 to 30 years to come back and tell you I told you so."
"I won't laugh," he interrupts, making a quick gesture to show he's crossing his heart in promise.
She tilts her head, folding her hands on the table, and says with the utmost seriousness, "I'm going to be on the Supreme Court."
He nods, not laughing, but taking in the newly acquired information.
When he doesn't mock her, she adds, "Chief Justice, to be exact. The first female Chief Justice."
Rick is not joking when he says, "You know I think I believe you."
"Are you patronizing me?"
"No," he shakes his head. And he isn't. She seems sort of unstoppable. He muffles the desire to tell her that he hopes his daughter knows more women like her, that Alexis will be surrounded by women with such confidence, poise, and power. Women who aren't afraid to be 'firsts.'
Instead of making such a potentially loaded comment, he returns to safer banter, "Rest assured, when that day comes, when I turn on my TV and see the confirmation hearings and you sitting in the hot seat wearing some power suit that has no right to look sexy but does because you're the one wearing it...I won't come out of the woodwork to complain about how you harassed me."
She chuckles at his audacity, and asks, "How, exactly, have I harassed you, Mr. Castle?"
"Rick," he corrects, "and you haven't. Yet." With a knowing look he thinks might send her a nice little twinge of excitement, he adds, "But the night is young, and I'm hopeful."
The way she tugs at her lip with her teeth makes him think his comment did cause the silent spark he was trying to evoke. She shakes it off, flicking her hair back before she says, "So that's why I've been going out less than I used to. Focusing on my future."
"Pfft," he counters. "Life is far too fleeting to shelve fun in favor of goals and aspirations. No matter how impressive."
She braces her elbow on the table, leans forward, and says in a way that sounds like sex itself is speaking, "Come on. Why play games when we could get down to what I really want to talk about?"
He has to clear his throat a bit just to speak. "Anything," he says and then swallows.
"Why did Crandle give Angela the transcripts when he knew exactly what would happen?" she asks, referring directly to one of the questions she had from his books.
Shaking his head, trying to accept the U-turn from sex to storytelling, he answers, "Umm...Love makes people do things...crazy things. Stupid things. Hopeful things. Things that aren't in their best interest. Things that end up hurting them."
"Love? Seemed more like lust to me," she scoffs.
"In my experience...the two aren't mutually exclusive."
She guffaws overtly.
"So jaded!" he accuses, fascination bubbling.
"I'm not jaded. Just realistic."
"You really think love and lust can't coexist?"
"So intensely on both counts? No. I don't."
"You're too young to be so cynical. How old did you say are you?" he asks.
"People use age to disregard a person's experiences and write them off as naïve—"
"Don't make me guess."
Looking around to make sure no one is close enough to hear, she whispers, "Nineteen."
"You are absolutely sure you're nineteen, right?" he asks, momentarily panicked. "I just want to be completely clear, because underage is definitely where I draw the line."
"I'm nineteen. I swear," she replies. Her eyes dropping to her glass, she asks, "And you?"
"I'm definitely over nineteen," he chuckles.
"I meant...the divorce. I don't hang out in bars with married guys. You draw your lines and I draw mine."
"Promise," he replies. "I'm divorced. Totally, one-hundred-percent-single."
"Okay," she replies, apparently trusting his word as he's trusting hers.
Her lips parting to speak again, he already imagines her suggesting, Wanna get out of here?
Normally he'd be thrilled to have someone asking such thought provoking questions about his work, things no reporter or other fan ever seem to ask. But he's a little frustrated when she continues on this topic, and it seems his writing really is what she wanted to talk about. He wants the conversation to venture into nonfiction.
He answers her, though, drawn in by her intellect and way of speaking as much as her hotness. He wonders if anyone has ever listened to him like this. Sure, he's talking about his writing more than himself personally, but he thinks she manages to find out things about him through his answers. And she isn't only listening, she looks like she's recording it all with some sort of neuro-stenography. (Great idea for a book.)
He doesn't want this discussion to end. (It would definitely be fine to take pauses, though, since he really wants to know what her lips feel like and taste like, and how her eyes look when they open again after a seething kiss.)
Those hours (literally hours) pass as the crowd changes, the later time bringing extremes, people's inhibitions lowered from inebriation and darkness. She's finished three drinks, he thinks, now on her fourth, pacing herself in a careful way that makes it clear she has faced the ramifications of excessive alcohol consumption before. She's a little tipsy, but definitely has her wits about her.
They sit oddly like an island, surrounded by those who are laughing and talking too loudly, or making out against the walls, or sitting with sullenly angry glares focused on the glasses in front of them. He thinks: Here I am, lost in a conversation I don't want to end with...with...with...
"What's your name? Your real name," he insists as he leans in.
"Na—"
He interrupts, "Don't say Nadia. There is no way that's your name."
"Why?"
"Because the Johanna who raised you did not name her daughter that."
Kate finishes her drink, crunching on a piece of ice as she leans back in her chair. "Okay, smart guy. What's my name then?"
"Hmm," he hums, looking her over as he ponders (more as an excuse to stare at her than to really learn any useful information). "Well, you're smart, well-spoken both in regard to grammar and vocabulary, poised in social situations. You grew up well, upper-middle class, I'm guessing. Parents are professionals. Sophisticated without being snobby, probably feminists. Your last name is likely hyphenated, or your mother's maiden name is your middle name. There's some nod to her name before marriage on your birth certificate."
"You're digging for information, and I'm not giving any clues."
"Rumpelstiltskin."
"Yea, that's it," she snarfs, but he sees the twitching at the edges of her lips as she tries to hide the smile.
"I'm thinking, along the lines of sophisticated, something classically beautiful. Maybe Biblical. Rachel, Rebecca, Sarah. No…more like royal, strong." He taps the table as his mind sorts through ideas. "Hatshepsut!" he shouts like he's got it.
"Call me Hattie," she answers sarcastically.
"Mary? Too bloody. Elizabeth? Victoria? Too proper. More along the lines of powerful...wise...great...Catherine the Great." He isn't even half way through the word 'Catherine' when her face confesses the truth. "That's it. Catherine. Isn't it?"
She takes a drink, but finds the liquid gone, having another piece of ice instead. "Not bad," she shrugs before she takes both of their empty glasses up to the bar and purchases refills. She's bought every other round rather than allowing him to buy them all.
When she returns, she gives his glass to him instead of sliding it on the table, an opportunity for touch that he appreciates. "So...Catherine…" he begins as she takes her seat.
"Right monarch, wrong spelling. And it's Kate," she corrects. "That was pretty impressive, Mr. Castle. Maybe a little unsettling."
"Rick," he insists for what feels like the tenth time. "And exactly how impressed are you?" he asks, leaning on the table even closer, trying to make the conversation a little flirtier.
"It's getting late," she notes without directly verifying the time.
"It's been late," he retorts.
They're approaching a crossroads, and he wonders what he should do. It feels like a century since he's been single. He knows he would love to peel her out of those skin tight jeans, make her call him 'Rick' in some oh-so-sultry voice. But he's also not ready to end the verbal part of this exchange. Can you really learn everything there is to know about her in one night?
He tells himself that 'more' is not what he should want. He should be the epitome of a newly single man, enjoying a series of random, hot, meaningless encounters so he can rebound a little from everything that's happened, avoiding anything even remotely meaningful for quite a long time. Not that this is meaningful, but it also doesn't seem meaningless.
"Listen…" she says, and the look in her eyes tells him she's about to make an offer. He's certain of it, positive, can decipher that truth the same way he figured out her name.
And then he remembers his current home situation, and the complications there. They certainly can't go back to his place.
"I was thinking," she continues.
"Rick! Rick! Richard," he hears another voice call out for him loudly across the bar, assuming the speaker is waving wildly. He doesn't want to turn, because he already knows who it is.
Kate says, "I think one of your fans—"
But she halts as the woman, a bubbly ginger he knows all too well, flings her arms around his neck and kisses him.
Evaluating the scene, Kate sits back. He pulls the arms down from his neck so he's no longer in an embrace, and leans back as far as he can without falling out of the chair. Right now, he wishes this interloper was light years away.
"Aren't you cute," Meredith says as she looks at Kate across the table.
Kate glances at Rick, expression brimming with questions. She looks stunned. Maybe hurt. And he wants to tell her he'd much rather hear her offer than anything his ex-wife has to say. He doesn't want this interruption, desperately wishing he could rewrite the current situation.
"I'm Meredith," she says, reaching out with a delicate and overly feminine handshake.
"Nice to meet you," Kate replies, offering the learned response.
"Always nice to see one of Rick's groupies."
"Groupies?" Kate responds with unhindered disapproval.
Turning to him, Meredith says, "I thought you might come back here, trying to relive the glory days? So I called and they said you were here! How exciting!"
"Who is with Alexis?" he asks sharply, so filled with displeasure over this nightmare scenario that he really can't believe it is happening.
"Kitty stopped over," Meredith answers.
"I thought we agreed not to let her babysit," he argues.
"Alexis is our daughter," Meredith tells Kate.
Rick explains, "Meredith is just staying with us a few days while—"
Kate stands, pushes in her chair, and says with reined irritation, "I have a party to get to."
"Don't let me ruin the fun," Meredith laughs. "Ask her over to our place, Rick. We can...see where the night takes us."
"This is my ex-wife," Rick clarifies as quickly and decisively as he can.
"Richard! Hurtful!" Meredith says like she's scolding him for the use of the word that accurately describes the relationship. "It's the last night before I leave, and I figured we could spend some time together. You and me..." she walks her fingers up the buttons on his shirt.
He's kept so much inside in recent years, stuffed down the hurt, the sense of betrayal, the sadness, the frustration. This marriage and divorce have left him wounded, hiding his pain behind flippant answers and humor. When Meredith asked for a divorce, she said he never really 'opened up' and that she 'barely knows anything' about him, like the whole thing was his fault, his fault that she traveled often, and even strayed.
Maybe it is.
He can almost hear his mother telling him that he has an Alexis-sized blind spot when it comes to 'that woman.'
Perhaps he does.
He thinks this display is fueled by Meredith's own sadness and disappointment over the fact that their marriage has come to an end. And jealousy. Deep down, he thinks she believed he'd never really let the divorce happen without a fight. None of this knowledge eases his exasperation.
But he's not going to let any of this ruin a good night. He's going to take Kate aside, explain the situation, ask for her number so they can reschedule and try this again in the very near future (without Meredith). It's pretty clear she's crazy, surely Kate must realize that.
"Could you give us a minute?" he asks Meredith.
"Us?" she questions.
He turns to point at Kate, thinking Meredith may have really lost it, but Kate is no longer standing behind the chair. All that's left is a nearly empty glass of bourbon with partially melted ice cubes.
It's time to go home. Rick would feel safer leaving Alexis in the care of an actual cat than with Meredith's friend Kitty.
Meredith honestly seems surprised when he turns down her offer for 'goodbye sex' when they get home. It is probably shocking, he almost never turns her down for anything she wants.
He sleeps on the floor of Alexis's room. It's hard to feel angry or sad when he watches his little girl sleep. Of course tomorrow morning he'll get up and make her turkey-shaped pancakes for breakfast so she has something fun to eat while he cooks dinner for the sizable number of guests who are coming for Thanksgiving. Meredith will act like everything is normal during the gathering, and people will comment about how lovely or wonderful or progressive it is for them to be able to share holidays even though their marriage didn't work out. For the good of your daughter, they'll say.
At the end of the day, Meredith will fly back to the West Coast and little Alexis will be sad. She'll spend the next few weeks missing her mother before things seem normal again with just the two of them. That is always the hardest part, seeing how his daughter is hurt when Meredith disappears. So he'll stash his own sadness to try to fill his daughter's life with joy and excitement, playing mother and father to her as best as he can.
In the lull between prep work and the meal that Thanksgiving Day, he thinks of the witty, engaging, beautiful woman he sat across from the night before, and decides he wants another chance. He may not know much about her, but he knows she's Kate, a pre-law student at Stanford, probably a freshman or sophomore at most given her age. That should be plenty to go on for a man as resourceful as he is.
