A/N: I haven't felt inspired to write lately, at all. I know I have several unfinished works in progress so I don't blame anyone for being mad at me for starting something new. I just needed a blank page to fill with words until enthusiasm for those other stories comes back to me so I can finish them off.
Since I've written this I thought I'd post it, but I understand if no one wants to invest time in reading it. This is going to be my dip in and out project. It's photograph driven. Each instalment will have a new image that inspired it and I will make that image the cover photo for each story, as well as posting the photo on Twitter when I post an update. In a way it'll work like the Color Series - each new piece of the jigsaw will be tagged "Castle Family Album" followed by the name of that individual update. Although this one has more of an on-going nature to it, you should still be able to read each story as a stand alone if you want.
The prompt to kick it all off, such as it is, is at the end. Can you even prompt yourself? I don't know. Anyway...
Castle Family Album
Blurred Lines
She texts him as soon as she leaves the office, wearing boyfriend jeans ripped at knee and thigh, black sneakers and a light grey hoodie that would look out of place in this shiny glass and chrome monolith to big business were this an ordinary workday and the hallways and public spaces filled up with captains of industry going about their fathomless jobs. But it's the weekend, so she's fine, almost alone as she exits onto the street with her cell phone in her hand.
She zips the hoodie a little higher when the wind whips her hair as she waits impatiently for a light on the corner. The air is cool and the breeze tugs at the strands around her face as if to annoy her, then tugging even harder so that she has to reach up and hold stray curls out of her eyes with her fingers spread wide in order even to press "send".
It's Saturday morning, still too early to call in case he's sleeping late. So she fires off the short request and crosses her fingers he'll get her message in good time, that he'll be there to meet her after she's completed the six block walk south that will take her into the periphery of his neighborhood. A skirmish over the border.
She's feeling optimistic this morning, fizzing with it. Full of energy, her heart racing, her metaphorical cup running over with all the things she normally isn't – joyful, positive, confident, excited, only with a massive side order of scared to smother her enthusiasm with a cold dose of reality whenever she dwells on what she's about to do for any length of time or in any actual detail. It feels like she imagines stage fright might feel – that hovering on the precipice of before and after – and it rattles her and yet it makes her sharper all at the same time. And she feels nauseated, but yeah…that's not so new.
So she orders him coffee to back her optimism with something concrete, and then she takes a seat at the bar along the window and she waits. Her eyes are trained on the pillowy soft heart of white foam she asked the barista to create on the surface of his cappuccino when she hears a familiar tap on the glass. She startles straighter, her spine elongating from the bow brought on by her perch on the wobbly wooden stool, by the weight of the week and the creep of her worries when they settle too heavily on her narrow shoulders.
It's been more than three months, you see. Tiptoeing dangerously close to four if you don't scrunch your eyes half-closed when you stare guiltily at the calendar. Over three months since they last spoke, three and a half months since they argued to be exactly accurate, and heading for four months since they…yeah, that too. So that he's shown up at all, as if she'd summoned a genie by rubbing a magic lamp, is something of a miracle all its own. And that there's a certain light in his eyes, a flicker of excitement igniting the blue like a flame that while not exactly a smile says he's not averse to seeing her again…or is she simply squinting through the glass like she did at the calendar as the days ticked by and her guilt mounted up?
She hears herself swallow and it comes off sounding as loud as an explosion inside her own head. Because the cafe door swings open and finally, he's here. He showed up. He's right here. And maybe that's all that counts. To show up. To keep on showing up no matter what. And that's what he does, that's his specialty, or at least it's what he used to do before she stopped him. Before she stopped.
She takes a breath and then silently reminds herself to keep repeating that simple reflexive motion, breathing, as she watches him walk towards her, weaving his way around the tables as if the inside of the café were a maze and he had to fight his way to the center to win his prize. And then all of a sudden he's standing right in front of her looking actually larger than life – he does, he looks big, broad shouldered, strong, tall and the daylight is being absorbed by the very fact of him so that the café is darker, even over here by the window, just because he's here.
She'd forgotten how important he is – to her, to his friends and family, to the world in general. He's important. He takes up space, he absorbs light, he breathes the same air as her and he too can throw a long shadow when he chooses.
"Hey."
She smiles and her stomach flutters with nerves.
"Hey," he replies, the tone deeper, the meaning deeper too.
"I got you coffee," she tells him, letting her gaze slip down to the pale turquoise cup with its darker, teal colored saucer resting atop the scarred wooden bar top like some kind of a religious offering.
A few bubbles burst and a little flattened by time but the heart is still there, adorning the surface of his coffee with the sentiment she'd been too scared, too stubborn and too broken to express before the summer came and went in angry silence.
Castle pauses for a second or two, weighing up his decision to even come here, questioning what wisdom there might be in doing this again with her. He eyeballs the coffee cup, adorned with its well-meaning Rorschach inkblot of a heart, before he finally shrugs off his dark windbreaker and sits down on the stool facing hers.
"You grew your hair," he remarks rather gruffly, letting his eyes caress her now shoulder length bob. "Looks good. You look good," he concedes, watching her card her fingers through the fat ends of her curls with self-conscious regret that she's touching her hair at all. The gesture seems too girlish for her, too calculated almost, as if she's trying to flirt when she really isn't. It's too late for that now.
"You look good too," she manages to reply, reaching for her own coffee cup to un-parch her mouth before her courage dissolves. Her fingers shake and the cup trembles in the saucer before she manages to hoist it aloft without rattling the damn thing like a panhandler's early morning begging bowl.
Castle mirrors her movement, stirring the heart into meaningless oblivion before he too sips at the cooling liquid, the act leaving his top lip outlined with milky foam.
"You have…uh…" Kate gestures to her own mouth and then vaguely towards her partner's. But he doesn't seem to have heard her, so she lifts the thin, beige, recycled paper napkin to his mouth to wipe the foam away.
But Castle flinches and pulls back from her before she connects, surprising them both.
"I—" Kate stammers, immediately holding out the napkin towards him so that he can perform the remedial task for himself.
His top lip looks like a beach on a stormy day after the tide has gone out: the thin line of foam picking out his cupid's bow, clinging onto the darker scruff that borders his lips with a texture not unlike volcanic sand. His eyes only add to the picture of tumult: irises a mixture of ultramarine and lunar black, a granulating color stirred up by the swirl of a sable hair paintbrush deployed by a delicate hand. He looks troubled but beautiful, at war yet somehow still seeking peace.
"Why did you text me, Beckett? Why am I here?" he asks, while folding the paper napkin with care after he's finished dabbing his mouth clean.
"I have something I need to show you…tell you."
She feels stiff and stilted, her confidence draining away now she's faced with the reality of seeing her partner again, at his angry self-assurance, his air of impatient disappointment with her.
"Why didn't you return any of my calls?" Castle asks, as if she hadn't even spoken.
Beckett stills her hand on the envelope flattened inside the kangaroo pouch of her hoodie. The paper feels warm under her fingertips, and she strums the sharpest corner with her thumb while she wracks her brain for an answer.
Eventually she lets out a long, extended breath, blowing out the frustration and anger that bubbles up and threatens to derail her from her purpose. "You touched my mom's case, Castle. I told you what would happen if you did that…I warned you."
"Then I'll repeat my earlier question. Why did you text me, Kate? Why am I here?"
"This! You're here because of this, okay?" she snaps, her cheeks pink as she plucks the envelope out of her pocket and slaps it down on the wooden counter between them.
Castle eyes the white envelope with suspicion, and then he raises his gaze to look at her without even reaching for the item she's placed down for his inspection.
"What is that?" he asks, a flicker of curiosity and puzzlement disrupting his icy-calm demeanor when he risks another fleeting glance in the envelope's direction.
"Open it."
"No," he refuses, pushing it back along the bar towards her as if it might be toxic. "Just tell me. Did you look into it? After everything you told me? You looked into it by yourself, didn't you?"
His tone is accusatory, wounded and annoyed all at once. His scowl is petulant. It's the scowl of a child who came up with the greatest idea for a summer adventure only to find himself left behind when his friends went on that adventure without him and then came back with extravagant tales to tell.
But Kate shakes her head. "No. It's…it's not about that."
"Then what? Because you made it pretty clear when I told you I'd looked into your mom's case that we were done. What else can you possibly have to show me, Beckett?"
Kate bites her lip as she stares at his wounded, uncharacteristically angry face, realizing full-force and for the first time exactly what she did to him when she got up out of his bed all those months ago, dressed in the dark at 2am and closed the door behind her without so much as a whispered goodbye.
"I came to give you this," she says softly, swallowing to lubricate her nerves.
She reaches for the envelope, struggling to release the flap with fingers that shake even worse than they did when she sipped her coffee. Finally it yields to her and she can slide the contents free. She places the Polaroid-size image on the counter in front of him and waits for comprehension to settle, for his brain to understand why she's here, why he's here, what they've done, and then to begin to ask the questions that will flow from all of that - like how long have you known, how do you feel, what happens now, and where do I fit in to any of this?
"Is this—" Castle swallows violently, his Adam's apple riding up and down like a cork tossed by the waves, and his eyes widen even as his brow knits into a fierce kind of frown, his features pulled in all directions at once, just as Kate's mind has been for the last few weeks.
He jerks his head upright to stare at her, the small printed image held delicately between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand.
"Did you…I mean, are we…is this—"
Kate finds a grin trying to force itself up from somewhere deep. Her partner's reaction is so ridiculously stilted, so stop-start that it's comical to watch; it's the stutter of a cell phone call dropping out at all the wrong moments.
"Are you…are you laughing?" Castle demands, his tone and facial expression both as scandalized as each other.
Kate purses her lips immediately and shakes her head. The gesture is meant to signal contrition and that she is indeed taking this seriously. Because she really is. This fit of nervous laughter she's battling is simply the response to several weeks of dealing with this knowledge alone, trying to imagine what he'd do when she told him, trying to figure out how she feels about all of this and what it means for both of them…all of them going forward.
"I'm…no. I'm sorry. I'm not laughing. I'm not. I'm just…I'm nervous. I'm…"
Her words peter out the longer she looks at his face, the face of a man she knows to be kind, a good father, a caring son, a concerned citizen, a livewire, a chatter box, a funny, sweet, inquisitive, gentle, tender, genuinely good man.
"I'm sorry I left the way I did. I'm sorry I ignored your calls. I—"
Castle holds up the ultrasound image. "Because of this or…?"
"Because you don't deserve to be treated the way I treated you. Baby or no baby."
And there, she's said it. There is a baby. There is their baby, and the proof is right there on the image he holds in his hand.
"Look…I just thought you should know. I don't expect anything from you. I've decided to keep her…obviously," says Kate, letting her hand fall to the small mound of solidity she can already detect beneath the hem of her hoodie.
She stands up at this point, readying herself to leave, hoping to give him time to think, to absorb the shrapnel from the bomb she's just detonated in front of him, to take time alone to heal, share with his family, and then maybe – if she's lucky – come back to her to discuss some kind of a plan that will give this child both a mom and a dad who can at least be civil to one another, if nothing else.
"Wait…she?" Castle gasps, staring down at the scan once more as if the blurry black and white image will look any sharper on second viewing. "Did you just say she?" he asks again, when the scan offers up no more clues and he resorts to staring at her stomach.
"I actually said "her" but the end result is the same. I'm…we're having a baby girl," she corrects, feeling a sudden rush of giddiness that makes her lightheaded at finally saying these words out loud.
This time she does smile, in fact she all out grins for a couple of seconds until she spots the tears welling in Castle's eyes, and then her smile recedes like the tide.
"I'm so sorry. This is such a mess. I just…I know I should have called you sooner. I was trying to get my head around everything and…and then…"
"We only slept together once. Are you sure…I mean, is it—"
"What? Definitely yours?" snaps Kate, her tone the only answer Castle needs.
He holds up his hands immediately, placating. "Of course it is. I'm sorry. That was rude. This is just a…"
"A shock. I know. Tell me about it," she admits, sinking back down onto her stool to quell her dizziness.
"How are you? I mean…how have you been? Have you been sick much? Are you eating well? Taking vitamins? You know folic acid is vital for—"
"I've got that covered. Don't worry," Kate intercedes, keen to dispense with a discussion that seems too personal for whatever they are.
Castle nods, letting his head fall forward so he can study his hands. "Yeah, of course you have," he sighs, and it's the sigh of a man who already knows he's been relegated to the sidelines for whatever comes next on this journey of human endeavor. This is Kate Beckett after all - superhero extraordinaire, lone wolf, control freak.
"How are the guys? Montgomery? Have you told everyone yet?"
The look Kate gives him is similar to the look Perseus must have given Medusa right before he chopped off her head – it's one of outright horror.
"You are kidding, right?"
Castle is surprised. "They don't know?"
"No! No one knows. Not outside of my doctor's office, anyway."
"Not your dad or…or Lanie?"
"Castle, have you had a knock to the head recently? No one means no one," she stresses. "I know we haven't exactly been on good terms lately, but I would never do that to you."
Her explanation helps calm everything. He's in no way over his hurt but for the first time in weeks he feels more in control of his life, buoyed up, which is odd given the curve ball she just launched at him.
"Thank you."
"You're welcome."
"So…what do we do now?"
"Honestly? I have no idea." She waits for him to fill the silence.
"How far along does—"
"You mean you haven't been sitting there doing the math while we've been talking?" she goads, knowing him all too well.
He grins, yet sticks with his previous pretense of ignorance or male denseness when confronted with all things menstrual. "Well, I know we…" He breaks off to cough awkwardly and then lowers his voice, though in truth there's no one near enough to hear them. "I know we—"
"Had sex," Kate supplies bluntly, with a roll of her eyes and a smirk.
"Yeah, that, like—"
"Oh, come on. Don't act like you don't have that memorized to the exact hour, Castle. We slept together three and a half months ago. That makes me fourteen weeks pregnant."
"Wow!" he nods, impressed, punch drunk and maybe even a little proud. "Are you showing yet? I mean…is that what the…androgynous look is all about?" he asks, gesturing towards her loosely cut boyfriend jeans and generously sized hoodie.
If he'd told her he'd had a vasectomy after Alexis was born and therefore couldn't be the father of her child, she wouldn't have been any more shocked than she is at this last remark.
"It's…it's Saturday," she splutters indignantly, "and I had a doctor appointment. This is just…comfortable," she insists, plucking at the front of her hoodie.
"And about two sizes too big," scoffs Castle, somehow misreading the road signs right in front of him flashing: Danger! Sensitive pregnant lady alert.
"Okay, I think I've done all I came here to do," says Kate through gritted teeth, before hopping down off her stool and adjusting the ass of her (slightly) baggy jeans. And maybe she has let her sartorial style slip lately but she doesn't need that pointed out by him of all people.
Castle actually laughs at this point and she wonders if she can get away with punching him in public without being charged. "Oh, come on. You still look great. You've got that glow thing going on…for sure."
"You know what? I'd quit while you're ahead. I told you my news, we've been civil about things. I'll see you around," she says, bravely sticking out her hand for him to shake.
The formality behind this gesture is stark, they're having a baby together after all, and Castle looks down at her hand as if she's holding out a stack of DD5's she expects him to complete in the next half hour…blindfolded. "What, that's it? That's all you have to say to me?"
"Well…yes. I'm sure we can talk about names when the time comes."
She's digging her nails into her palms inside the pouch of her hoodie, the flat row of eight curled fingers nestled against the warmth of the hardening dome of her lower abdomen. She bites her lip, fighting tears as she stares at the scan picture he's still holding in his hand. "You…you can keep that. I had them make a second copy."
Castle finally gives in, sorrow and reluctance etched in every line of his face at the wrongness of this parting when he takes the hand she re-offers him and shakes it. Kate allows herself to linger within the warmth and safety of their gestural embrace for a second or two longer than normal, and then she nods once, signaling that their meeting is over, before she turns and walks away.
She's covered half a block, tears streaming down her face, when she hears the rhythmic pound of feet running to catch up with her.
"Kate!"
She swipes at her damp cheeks with the cuffs of her outsize hoodie even as she turns, already knowing who she's going to find puffing up to meet her.
"Can I…can I call you?" he gasps, pressing his hand flat to his sternum, the blurry outline of their baby girl peeking out at her from beneath his splayed fingers as if she's playing hide-and-seek.
Kate nods vigorously, biting her cheek, untrusting of her voice for several long moments. "I'd like that. But look…I'll call you," she whispers, never so grateful that Castle doesn't point out the obvious – that her nose is running and there are fat tears rolling down her face.
"Great. Yeah, that'll work too," he says, feeling awkward enough that he grins to himself as he looks down at the toes of his shoes.
"Here…you're…" He pulls a clean, folded, cotton handkerchief out of his pocket and hands it to her.
"Thanks." Her response is hoarse but grateful since they seem to be doing some tit-for-tat facial hygiene exchange this morning, and she makes quick work of drying her cheeks and then blowing her nose. "Gross," she mutters, blushing at the uncharacteristically loud, wet noise she makes.
"You think that's gross. Just wait 'til the baby comes. Those first diapers. Poooo! Actually, pregnancy itself can have some pretty—"
"Castle!" Her exclamation mercifully halts the flow of his stream of consciousness before he can get any more graphic. "Not helping."
"Sorry. I'll…I'll get better at this. I promise," he tells her, looking genuinely apologetic for making her blush in furious horror.
"Don't worry. I'm still…this is all so new. I'm still kind of in denial about a lot of it. I have a book but I'm too scared to open it," she admits, looking adorably sheepish when she peers up at him from between her dark lashes.
"Well…if you have any questions…"
"I'll ask Lanie," Kate answers cutely.
"Right," he chuckles, scuffing the ground. "Right."
"And if you need money or anything," he adds, because that's just how he thinks and who he is.
"Castle, no!" she exclaims, horrified and uncomfortable all over again.
"Fine, but I want to help, Kate. This is my kid too."
"Right. Sure. We can figure something out. Just not now, okay?"
"Let me know…anything…anything at all."
Kate looks down at his soggy, balled up handkerchief, now in no fit state to go back to its owner. "I'll launder this. Get it back to you," she offers, stuffing it into her kangaroo pouch.
And Castle realizes with a heavy sadness that his chances of hearing from her again are probably greater now that she has this simple piece of cloth to return to him than it was when she was simply carrying his child, such is the working of Kate Beckett's brain.
"I'll call. I promise," she says, as if reading his thoughts or the sorrow written on his face.
And then she turns and walks away, the warm ball of scrunched up cotton that smells like him held safe within the tight embrace of her hand.
Later that evening, though it's still early for her, she lies on her side curled up in bed. She lifts the handkerchief to her nose to absorb the lingering scent of him, and then she brushes the soft cotton over her cheek a few times while she whispers nonsense stories to their tiny, lemon-sized baby in the dark.
"Daddy's kind of a lunatic at times. But you'll love him and I know he'll love you," she mutters, tugged down by the undertow of sleep, the heavy, dream-filled sleep she's been enjoying for the last few months.
"Night, button," she mumbles, finally succumbing to oblivion, unaware of her cell phone screen lighting up on the nightstand beside her, of the message she won't see until morning.
His text reads: "We need to talk. Call me, Kate? Please."
Prompt: Set between 1x10 and 2x01 in a re-imagined Castle where there was no Sorenson. Kate and Castle slept together once and then he confessed, during post-coital pillow talk, that he'd looked into her mother's case after she expressly told him not to. The summer has passed without any contact between them and Kate is now 14 weeks pregnant.
More chronological stories to follow, each one based on a new image. For the picture to accompany this one, visit me on Twitter at livwilder2 or see the image on the top left of the screen.