COME BACK AND HAUNT ME
She shouldn't call him. She should just climb into bed and try to sleep for a few hours. Or, better yet, have another drink.
Well, she probably shouldn't do that either. A couple glasses of scotch, and…three? Four? From the minibar? God, if it weren't for the empty bottles in the trash, she wouldn't have a clue.
She throws back another mini bottle of vodka, wincing as the bur slides down her throat. It settles in her chest and the rest of her body, and she suddenly feels brave, invigorated.
Part of her knows she should stop, should close the minibar, that if she's not careful she might start down the same path as her father. But right now? Right now, she doesn't care. Because she's in Philadelphia, and she's alone, and it's almost their anniversary, but she fucked it all up. And for what?
She blinks back the tears that suddenly blur her eyes, and reaches for the rapidly diminishing line of bottles.
Oh. No more vodka.
She peruses the options: oh, tequila. That'll definitely do.
Two tequilas later – the slightly blurry count of empty bottles tells her that's six since she's come back to her room – and she can't do it anymore. She's done this enough times to know she needs to stop before she does something she'll really regret.
Like…
She spots her phone on the nightstand.
Like call Castle.
She fumbles her way across the bed and manages to bring his contact up. She stares at his picture, a goofy selfie he'd taken and assigned without her knowing, but instead of being annoyed at him for it, it makes her smile.
God, she loves him. She needs to do whatever she can to keep him alive. But she misses him, too. It's been too damn long. Her skin tingles with the desire to touch him, to kiss him, and she isn't sure how much longer she can go without him. Without…something.
Fuck.
He wakes immediately when his phone goes off, reaching for it with a groan. He'd been having a good dream, no, a great dream, that involved Kate with no clothes in his PI office. He woke just when dream-Kate was tugging his pants to his ankles and was about to wrap her mouth around his—
"Castle," he grumbles, swiping to answer without looking at the screen.
"Hey Caaaaassle."
He sits up, glancing at the other side of the bed by reflex. Empty. As usual. "Beckett? Are you drunk?" He hears a giggle.
"Nope, not…I'm not…"
He pinches the bridge of his nose. "You're drunk, Kate. Go to sleep." He's about to end the call when he hears her protest.
"No, don't go! Don't…miss you, Cassle. Talk awhile? Tell me a story bedt…um…a…bedtime story?"
"I don't think that's a good idea."
"Whyyyy?"
"You know why, Kate." He shouldn't do this now, not while she's drunk in another city and, if he's right about how many she's had, will only remember bits and pieces in the morning. But he can't help it. He's angry and he's alone and he's just about had enough. "You walked out on me, remember?"
She sighs. "Tryin' to keep you safe. From me. Them."
His ears perk at that. "Them?"
"Yeah. 'S dangerous to be home."
"Kate…"
"Need to protect you, Rick. From the bad guys."
He closes his eyes, tries to ignore the renewed humming in his veins at the way she emphasizes the "k" in his name. That gets to him, it always has, and she knows it. He doesn't want protection.
He just wants his wife back.
"Come home, Kate. When you're back in the city, come home. We can talk about it."
"No," she protests, almost a whine. "Talk now. Love you, Rick. Always love you. Can't loose…lose you."
"Kate, please…" Please what? He leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees. Please stop talking? Please tell him everything? Please come home?
They're silent for almost a full minute, just breathing, and just when he thinks she may have nodded off she speaks again.
"Miss you, Rick." Her voice drops. "Miss your hands. Your mouth. Your di—"
"Shit, Kate." His voice is laced with warning. He knows this Kate. Usually he loves drunk, horny Kate. Horny, lonely Kate is even better. Usually he's down—technically, up—for phone or FaceTime sex, but not now. Not like this. "Stop. I can't do this, Kate."
He can hear her crying on the other end, her soft sobs at his rejection and their situation ripping through him like claws.
"I love you," she says, a whisper. "And I'm sorry. For everything."
"Goodnight, Kate."
He can't get back to sleep.
It's been an hour since she called, almost 2am now. He's been tossing and turning, hyper-aware of the cold half of the bed, where his wife is supposed to be.
His wife.
Jesus.
He wants her. Badly. But more than just the physical desire, he's worried about her. Sure, they've had many nights spent at The Old Haunt, and this is definitely not the first time one of them has gotten drunk on a minibar while the other remains home.
Usually, though, he's the one at the hotel. And, as far as he knows, she hasn't used alcohol as a coping mechanism for a long time. She'd suffered enough because of her dad, she'd told him once, and she wouldn't let herself do it too.
Tonight is obviously an exception.
Fuck it.
He flings the covers back and climbs out of bed as the clock ticks past 2, throwing on clothes and finding out where she's staying, and he's out of the house in minutes.
He won't stay there or drag her home. But he needs to see her. He needs to see her tonight.
Traffic is almost nonexistent, and he makes the normally 2-hour drive in just over an hour and a half, pulling into the hotel parking lot by 4. He sweet-talks a room key out of the front desk clerk, claiming he wanted to surprise his wife for their impending anniversary. It's not technically a lie.
She is, after all, going to be very surprised.
He shuts her door quietly, resting his forehead against it for a moment before turning to the bed. He can see the bump under the sheets, can tell that her back is to the door, and for that he's grateful. Judging by the steady rise and fall of the comforter, she seems to be fast asleep.
He takes a few steps closer, careful not to make any noise, until he's on her side of the bed, his knees against the mattress.
Her eyebrows are furrowed, even in sleep, and after every few breaths she gasps, as if she's dreaming. The strands of her hair that have fallen over her face beckon; against his better judgment, he gently tucks them behind her ear before brushing a soft kiss against her forehead.
She looks tired, even in sleep; obviously their situation is affecting her more than she lets on. It makes him wonder where she's been staying, too. Is she bouncing between hotel rooms? Taking naps in her office? Maybe she's even subletting an apartment that she probably spends very little time in.
The thought breaks his heart.
He watches for a few more minutes, at war with himself, debating between climbing in next to her or leaving and pretending he was never here. Finally, the latter wins. She'd probably kill him if she knew that he'd essentially broken into her hotel room and watched her sleep.
He's almost to the door when he hears her.
"Castle."
Shit.
He bows his head for a moment, composing his thoughts before turning to face her inevitable wrath. "Kate, I—"
"Castle, please."
She's still under the covers; as he approaches her again, he can see that she's still asleep, her eyebrows furrowed even more.
"No, Rick. No. Please, no."
It's almost a whimper, her head tossing on the pillow, a single tear sliding down each temple to pool in her hair."
"I'm so sorry, Rick. I was trying to keep you safe."
Sorry for what? Safe from what?
He watches for a few more moments, wanting to do something but feeling completely helpless. It isn't until she turns over and reaches for his side of the bed that he makes up his mind.
She's dreaming about him. Reaching for him.
She needs him.
He quickly slips off his shoes and jeans, leaving him in his shirt and boxers, and he crawls into the other side of the bed.
His side.
She doesn't wake, but burrows deeper into the mattress, still whimpering, tears soaking the pillow. He reaches out a tentative hand and brushes her cheek with his thumb, wiping away the wetness there.
She still doesn't wake.
So he takes a bigger risk: he scoots closer so inches separate them, and he wraps his arm around her, pulls her into his chest. Her sobs stop almost immediately, and she shifts even closer, her hands clasped together between them. He'll just stay here for a little while, until he hears her breathing even out and he knows her dreams have stopped. It should be a few minutes, a half-hour at the most.
The next thing he knows, he's waking with the sun in his eyes, and he groans, turning his face away until he can open his eyes completely.
She's staring at him, propped up on an elbow, a look on her face that he can't quite decipher.
"Hey," he says quietly, his voice raspy with sleep.
She shifts so she's sitting cross-legged, and crosses her arms over her chest. "What are you doing here?"
He winces. Okay, she's pissed. He's not surprised. "I just thought—"
"That what?" she snaps. "Thought you'd just show up and climb into bed? I almost shot you when I woke up, Castle!"
He sits up across from her. "I was worried about you. When you called me—"
"I called you?" She looks confused for a moment, then groans and rubs her temples. "Right. I called you. Shit, I knew the tequila was a bad idea."
"Kate, what's going on? You started to say something about 'them,' about keeping me safe, but what are you talking about? Safe from what? From who?"
"I can't—"
"Tell me anything, I know." He scrapes a rough hand down his face with a sigh. "I've been patient, Kate. I haven't questioned you or pushed you, I've given you space." He ignores her scoff. "You say we're still married. But Kate, we're not living like it. I want this. I want you. I want us to be a couple again."
She stares at her hands, her fingers playing with her ring. "Me too," she says quietly, almost a whisper. Finally she sighs and squares her shoulders, lifting her head to look him in the eyes. "You're sure you want to know? Because what I'm doing…Castle, it's big. And dangerous."
He nods. "I'm sure. We can do anything if we work together." He holds his hands out, waits until she takes them, so he can pull her closer to him. "Tell me everything. And then we're going to breakfast, and I'm taking you home."
Title a line from "The Scientist" by Coldplay.
Prompt from Lou (inkycoffee aka The Prompt Overlord): Beckett-out-of-town, drunk-on-the-minibar, calling Castle for honest conversation/phone sex.