Title: I'll Be Ready
Summary: Post-Recoil. If I were to be able to extend the episode by five minutes, this is how I would end it.
Disclaimer: Andrew Marlowe already did this whole 'school' thing whereas I'm stuck in a dorm room and contemplating how exactly I can squeeze in a run outside now than Blizzard Nemo has attacked my homeland.
A/N: Did you guys adore this episode as much as I did? The storyline was fantastic. Although I enjoyed the episode, I truly wish that more Castle-Beckett moments had been put in, especially because of how raw the emotion Stana conveyed was. However, this season has been great thus far; I'm not complaining in the least. If I were to extend the episode by ten minutes, then this is how I would continue it.
In case anyone is interested, I wrote most of this to "Putting the Dog to Sleep" by The Antlers and "Opus 26" by Dustin O'Halloran. - Samy
"He'll slip up eventually, and when he does, I'll be ready."
She stated those words with such a casual tone that he wondered just how many times she'd said them to herself already; with the vacant but determined way she spoke, he almost imagined her standing in front of a mirror and chanting that phrase over and over again until the sentence was so common, so household, that she couldn't remember a time in which she hadn't believed the words. However, Castle was forced to simply stare at the paused television in her apartment and hope to God that she was correct with what she was saying. Though he could see how glazed her eyes were, could tell that she wasn't holding on nearly as well as she conveyed, he couldn't do much about the predicament; oh, how he craved to just take this all away from her so that she could exhale, relax, and smile again! Those were the strange things in life, the things one knows he can't give someone he loves but needs to give to that same person. Usually, he was one for the bittersweet romanticism in the situation due to his author's mind, but regarding Kate Beckett, he couldn't bear to watch as ghosts from her past refused to leave whatever Limbo they'd been stored in.
"I hope he does," was all that Rick could offer as she played the newscast again; the next part went simply to a report about some form of flu outbreak in New York, and neither of them spoke as they stewed in everything that the week had brought.
"He has to," she finally added with a shrug as though the thought were so commonplace that only the greatest of the oblivious could ignore it.
And Kate somehow didn't look nearly as strong as her words; with eyes still glazed and a soft, green shirt accenting her irises, she looked softer, more vulnerable than she had at the precinct for most of the week. He'd admired how Beckett had looked in that dark blazer and when she'd had her hair in a bun, but this Kate in front of him, this being who had tears in her eyes but dared not shed them for some form of pride, was someone he'd seen few times in his life. The first time he'd seen her like this, he'd been bittersweetly throwing away her mother's case file before she'd shown up at his doorstep and said words to him that he'd only ever dreamt of hearing; the second time had been the next morning, when she'd come in with coffee for them both. Though he knew he should've, he hadn't counted the number of times in which he'd seen this soft side of Kate Beckett, but mostly, he'd seen her in this way while they lounged in bed together, spoke about pointless topics that made her laugh infectiously, watched movies while on the couch and while drinking expensive wine. But a remorseful and frightened Kate Beckett? The last time he'd seen that part of her had been after she'd shot Dick Coonan and as she'd brushed her bangs back and cried while blood stained her hands red.
He was glad that he couldn't recall if that day with Coonan had been the first time he'd seen her cry; part of him didn't want to remember the 'first time' for things that regarded seeing Kate unhappy. However, he knew that the last time he'd seen her cry, truly cry without attempting to hold back, had been after she'd shot the man who'd committed her mother's murder.
In a way, the two situations, Coonan's and the current, were alarmingly similar.
Though he knew that he had to do something, anything, to ease the pain she felt, he didn't know what he could do, so he instead sat nervously upon his chair while she held the entire couch to herself. She was sitting so normally, with one leg propped up and with her arms leaning against the back of the love-seat, but he could tell that something was off with the way she was based on the discomfort in the contours of her face. And they were so far away from each other, and even their wine glasses weren't touching, and though he'd never known Kate Beckett to be a true cuddler, he had to do something.
So he stood up, walked over to where she was as she looked up to him and questioned what exactly he was doing. When he sat down next to her, she shifted, let both of her feet touch the ground, and leaned away from the back of the lounge.
"Castle?" she asked as he moved closer, wrapped an arm around her back.
Her voice, a meek sound that still had the softness she usually put on the consonants in his name, was something he wasn't familiar with; there was strain within the middle of the one word she'd said, and he could hear her voice cracking. She'd been feeling this way ever since he'd arrived at her apartment that night, and he knew that if she didn't feel release soon, then she would have her shell crack, and he, quite frankly, was afraid of such an outcome.
However, she was open to his arms, gratefully leaned her head down against his shoulder as he drew her in, and even he relaxed at how she formed perfectly to his body and all sorts of other little things about Kate, such as her scent (he knew it was jasmine oil because she'd accidentally left a bottle of the essential oil at his place, so he knew the aroma well), the way her hair framed her face, and, of course, her beautiful, beautiful eyes. As he leaned down to kiss her forehead, she paused the newscast again and instead let her body weight go heavy against him.
"It's been a long day," he said, his lips still against her forehead.
She gave a quiet and humorless laugh to that; if he had been feeling such a thing, then he hadn't a clue as to how she felt. And maybe that was a good thing for him, to not feel the pains she'd experienced, because then he would never have the relatable feeling of understanding, and not understanding and being oblivious were both much, much better for him.
"Kate?"
She looked up, met his eyes.
"Hm?"
He could still see it, that clouded fear masked with rage and agony, deep within her eyes, and he could tell that tears were still just waiting to be shed, and maybe what he was going to say wouldn't be a good idea, but he was going to say it anyway.
"Kate, it's alright, in case you were wondering."
"Because you rejected me the first time around, when I came with just wine," Castle said as he sauntered into her apartment (why had she ever given that intruder a key?), "I brought some other goodies this time."
"By all means, come in," she said dryly as she sat on the couch in her apartment.
He was quick to head into the kitchen, where he placed all of his so-called "goodies" upon the island table. In an attempt to cover all bases, he'd scoured for all of the things he knew that she would want, but part of him hardly had any idea as to what she would want after a hard day of feeling all too vulnerable. He'd thus ruled out an action movie (but damn it, he knew that she loved Ocean's Eleven, so he wished that he could've just brought that) as well as blowing off steam at the shooting range , which coincidentally didn't pair well with the wine he'd planned on bringing. Instead, he'd opted for deep red roses - which he knew were her favorites ever since he'd bought pink ones by accident and had received a long speech about how Kate Beckett couldn't stand pale pink, let alone pale pink flowers - along with one little surprise.
After he'd set down all of the "treats", he paused in the kitchen as he went to find wine glasses; he could hear the television on in the other room.
"Anything good on?" he called as he reached into the familiar place where she put wine glasses. He'd grown to know her kitchen so well that he could navigate the room as though it were his own.
"No."
If Kate Beckett was anything, then she wasn't that brief. No, he knew Kate, and if she was giving one-word answers, then something surely was wrong. But who was he to judge? He knew that Kate must be stewing in the aftermath of the predicament, but just how out of character was she going to be?
That was why he'd learned to love his characters; Richard Castle was a king, a man meant to be in control. Whenever he wrote a scene, he felt the greatness of knowing the psychological profiles of each character, the predictable ways of reaction in certain events. But with Kate? She was too remarkable, too extraordinary, to predict so easily. And the worst part of how human and real she was happened to be that Rick had no idea as to how she would feel after that week's case and how drastic the aftermath would be.
"Kate?"
"Hm?"
He uncorked the wine, poured them both glasses quickly in order to make it to the couch before he could conjure up any stupid ideas in his head regarding comforting her.
"What exactly is on TV right now?"
And as he placed their glasses down, as he sat down in a chair alongside her, he noticed the senator's face being projected on the television screen.
"Kate, it's alright, in case you were wondering."
She raised a questioning eyebrow to him but made little effort to change her facial expression; he added "tired" to the list of emotions he saw in her eyes.
"You've been intimately dealing with that man all week," Rick began as he stared at her in the eyes and brushed a lock of her hair behind her ear. "He's been flooding your mind and for good reason. Because of who he is, you've been forced into situations that no one should ever be forced into. And, Kate? You handled everything thrown your way with such grace that you've proven to most everyone that you're one of the best cops in the city, bar none. In the past week, you've saved a person's life as well as kept a man from being framed. Personally, I think that's remarkable."
She refused to break as her eyes filled with more tears; there was his stubborn Kate, the little girl who'd never asked for a night-light. In order to pull herself together, she kept her eyes down, didn't look up to him anymore.
"But," Castle added, leaning his head against hers, "even remarkable people cry sometimes."
And with a sharp breath, she was a heap against him, suddenly letting into all of those tears that she'd been holding in all week. Even though she'd been stronger in the precinct, managed a decent facade during work, she couldn't pull herself together anymore, couldn't remain buttoned-up while in her own apartment. She let go, gave every single sob the attention it needed, and she felt Castle pull her in closer and envelop her in his warm, strong arms; this was what she'd needed. God, this was exactly what she'd needed. No longer would she have to face breakdowns alone after victims had been hit by a sniper, and she wouldn't have to fall apart all alone while in the bathroom or her bedroom and praying that whatever current boyfriend she'd had wouldn't call her during such a time; now she had Castle, a partner in and out of work. He could be there for her when she needed someone to run a background check (actually, that was a stretch from his usual duties, and she knew she didn't trust him with such files due to earlier cases of meddling, but a girl could dream) or when she needed someone to breath soft mantras of it's alright and shh and everything's going to be ok into her ear.
So Kate Beckett, the fearless and remarkable, let herself go within her partner's arms.
She swore that she'd never felt so relieved in her entire life.
"And I would like to especially thank the brave men and women of the New York City Police Department who thwarted this ply."
The newscast carried on with a voice other than the senator's, and Castle could see as Kate looked down that she was trying to avoid his gaze, trying to reduce eye contact, and, quite frankly, he could understand why. Then, Ben Moss came on the screen, and as the newscaster spoke again, Kate turned back to the television but still avoided his gaze.
And, God, she was way too far away from him.
"Oh my God," Castle said from the newscast. "It was Ben Moss."
"Biggest king-maker of 'em all," she added, still avoiding eye contact even after pausing the television.
"But Bracken only had him arrested," Castle continued. "The way he was talking, I half-expected the guy to die in a plane crash or some kind of mysterious car accident."
"No," she said, shifting positions as she dryly gave half a smile. "But this is so much better. Now Bracken's a folk hero, the rare politician willing to stand up to special and interests and fight for what's right even if it costs him his life."
The little eye roll she gave at the end, the way her voice cracked on life, he could tell that she was barely handling this. And to her own credit, he knew truly well that had he been in a similar situation, he wouldn't have lasted five minutes, and she'd gone through years and years of this sheer torture simply because a few people made a few terrible mistakes. He couldn't help but wonder how the world had possibly been so vile.
"You're right; that's a better story," Castle added in hope of comforting her, "the kind of story that could make a guy president."
"He'll slip up eventually, and when he does, I'll be ready," she said with quick nods.
Her voice was far too casual for comfort.
After burrowing her face against his shoulder and being held for what felt similar to hours, she finally forced her tears to stop, and as he coaxed her against himself, softly ran his fingers through her hair, held her so gingerly that she dared not let him go, she finally felt something that she hadn't felt in years. When she and her father had been dealing with the aftermath of her mother's death, she hadn't been able to return to where her mother and father had been living for quite some time; she hadn't been able to stomach seeing her mother's clothes, the Christmas lights still hanging, the familiar jewelry stowed away in a box. For a while, she hadn't been able to feel this feeling most anywhere because she'd been too afraid of the pain that the feeling could cause. But now? She welcomed the feeling graciously, took it in so greatly for it drugged her to a much more comfortable state.
Finally, Kate Beckett felt as though she'd come home.
"I bought you flowers," Rick whispered as her tears just turned to occasional sobs and chokes, nothing in comparison to how she'd been earlier.
And that made her laugh.
"Sap," she accused softly.
"Guilty as charged."
"Did you put them in a vase?"
"No-"
"Castle!"
"I'd had other things on my mind at the time!"
"Nonetheless, Rick."
And though her sentences were in few words, the phrases were still much better than the ones he'd heard earlier, the ones with a single, simple word.
"Do you even own a vase?" he asked, looking down to her and meeting her eyes, which were still a bit watery.
"Says the man who could tell me where I keep all of my forks without even thinking about it."
"Second drawer on the right. And that didn't answer my question."
She laughed lightly as she leaned up to kiss the corner of his mouth softly, and as she went to put away, he gingerly held her chin in his hand and brought her to face him before leaning forward to bring his lips to hers. The kiss was chaste (or, at least, chaste for them), and though the length of the kiss was short, they both still felt those familiar butterflies, the enchanting sensation that hadn't died past the night in which I just want you had been proclaimed. Part of him was amazed that even her kisses could prove her to be extraordinary. How he'd ever been so lucky to find her was something he thought was too complex to comprehend.
"But really," Rick said, meeting her glance again, "do you have a vase?"
She playfully whacked his shoulder and received an apples! in response.
"I do," she said.
"Where?"
"Do you want me to show you?"
"Whatever sounds your trumpet, detective."
That received the eyebrow-raise that it deserved, and as she stood up and headed toward the kitchen, he followed in her footsteps.
"You were close with the forks," she said, leaning down below the second drawer on the right in her kitchen, and as she - my, he thought she had good, say, assets - leaned down to open a cabinet, he watched her take out a vase.
"Ah," he said as she handed him the vase. "Purple. Your favorite."
The vase was a deep purple blown glass; Castle had never seen the piece before, and yet it flowed with the aura of her apartment so well that he wondered if it had been out before. Also, he made note to bring her flowers more often because having a boyfriend who doesn't know if you own a vase probably wouldn't be one of Kate Beckett's favorite things.
He was quick to head over to the sink and fill up the vase with water as she sat down at a kitchen stool and looked over all of Castle's goodies; surely enough, red roses were there. She smirked at the sight of them, recalled the time in which she'd complained of pink roses that she'd subsequently let slowly die in retaliation. Oh, who was she kidding? She still had some of those roses hanging by ribbons in her bedroom, but she dared not tell him because she knew that he would never - never - let her live down such complaining followed by sheer adoration for what had been complained about.
Then again, those pink roses had been the first flowers that she'd received since she and Castle had gotten together, and he'd given them to her in honor of a two-week anniversary. Though she only had shown thankfulness that day, she'd been so giggly and happy beneath her surface that she swore she was going mad. Even though she tried to use the ritualistic preservation of flowers as a decent excuse for being clingy, she still found herself lame for clinging to two-week anniversary flowers while most only clung to wedding flowers.
"What else did you bring by?" she asked as he placed the red roses into the vase and arranged them with graceful hands.
He shrugged.
"Just a couple of things," he said with quick nods.
And she knew what this was; he was doing that oh-so-Castle dance around the truth, taunting her with what he knew. Oh, ow she hated whenever he did that!
"What kinds of things?" she asked impatiently.
"See that plastic bag on the seat next to you?"
She looked over and nodded as he continued to arrange flowers.
"Open it up, and you'll see."
She was hasty to pick up the bag, which was heavy with papers, and open it up to see its contents, and as she pulled a clipped-together stack of papers from the bag, she noticed the text on the front, printed in black letters.
Deadly Heat
"Rick?" she asked with surprise as she looked over the thick pile of papers.
He glanced up from his flowers.
"Yes?"
"You brought me Nikki Heat chapters?"
"Yes."
And she curved her lips into a wide smile as she looked down at the manuscript and turned the cover page over. Within seconds, she was following the lines, and-
"Wait up, Speedy Gonzalez," he commented, flipping the cover page back over from across the table. "Don't you want to be somewhere more comfortable to read that?"
"As in?" she asked, biting her lip and meeting his eyes.
"I have my laptop with me, so I can stay and still get work done."
She looked down, smiled to herself this time.
"To cozy up in bed or not to cozy up in bed?" she asked rhetorically.
"The premier," he said, nodding.
Manuscript in one hand and his fingers clasped in the other, she stood up and practically raced to the bedroom in her apartment, and she was quick to bury herself in the royal blue comforter as he snuggled up next to her with his laptop, as he wrapped an arm around her and kissed her cheek.
Though he tried to work as she read, he couldn't seem to put words on paper; all of the stories he would ever want to know were in his arms and in the form of this remarkable woman, someone he couldn't seem to stop loving. And he could see her little smiles and frowns at certain parts - when Nikki had quoted Kate during a pillow-talk scene, Kate truly had a laugh - and he adored how she seemed to treasure each and every word of this manuscript that he'd printed that morning. He wasn't even sure if Paula or Gina would've allowed him to do such a thing, but he didn't care because right then, Kate was happy, and Kate's happiness meant so much more to him than Paula's or Gina's.
So he didn't get any writing done, but so what? He had her right there, and every so often, he could lean down and just kiss her, and sometimes, she would kiss back. All of his life, he'd conjured up images of heaven, and those images had always been of scantily-clad women and booze and dead presidents, but now all he wanted his heaven to be was lying in bed with Kate forever.
He loved her, truly did. Hopefully, she would be able to say those three words to him, and when she did, he knew, for sure, that he would be the happiest man to exist.
"Rick?"
The feeling of her fingertips upon his arm almost startled him.
"Hm?" he questioned.
"Stay the night with me?"
Yes. He knew he would say yes. A million times, yes.
"Only if you say please," he taunted.
The slap he received was deserved.
"That wasn't a please."
"Please stay the night with me?"
"Well, if you insist, detective."
And he tugged her closer, leaned down to kiss her lips again, and as she moved away from his kiss, he felt her lips curve into a smile. No longer were her thoughts of the senator; all she could think about was him. That was how he knew she was ready; she could distract herself but would always have the same mission. No matter what happened, she would eventually take that man down, just not today.
However, they still had today at their disposal, and tomorrow as well, so maybe, just maybe, they could truly embrace this distraction.
"And Rick?"
He glanced up to meet her eyes.
"I may have lied before," she said, biting her lip.
"How so?" he questioned.
"Look over at the ribbons hanging off of the closet door."
And surely enough, there were those pale pink roses, each hanging by a ribbon as they dried out.
His lips curved into a wide smile.