Hmm. I don't really know where this came from, to be honest. Maybe I went crazy?! We'll see. I hope you like it, anyway. (And I promise, WAHP will be updated by the end of the week.)
Disclaimer: Not mine.
She had a lot of names.
Caitlin. It means 'pure', you know. Suited her. It was her real name, I suppose. The one on her birth certificate. On her death certificate, too, now. Her mother called her Caitlin. I never met her mother, except to offer my condolences at the funeral, but I know because she would ring sometimes and I would pick up the phone. She never asked for 'Kate', always 'Caitlin', and while I was pretending not to eavesdrop I would hear her, hissing through clenched teeth, informing the woman on the other end of the line that she didn't like being called that.
I never called her Caitlin.
He called her Caitlin. All the time.
I sometimes called her 'Special Agent Todd'. For all those introductions to Navy Personnel or victim's families. She always managed to reassure people, comfort them. I wonder how reassured those people would be if I had ever given into my urge to wrap my arm around her waist and grin at her like she had just found the meaning of life – ta-dah! – and introduce her as 'My Very, Very Special Agent...'
Then of course, there was the generic 'Miss Todd'. What the man she bought milk from called her, and the little boy in the apartment three doors down called her. What I called her, when I didn't want to appear too friendly, or advertise our status as federal agents for one reason or another. When I was leaving her apartment and her suspicious but caring elderly neighbour would poke her nose in, and I would be forced to feign an air of decency and distance (well, we could hardly have the poor old dear thinking we were living in sin, now, could we?) as if I were the man who came to fix the boiler or the man who helped her carry her shopping up the stairs, and not the man who warmed her bed. And sofa. And living room floor and kitchen table, which made my back ache for a week afterwards but was definitely worth it.
And, finally, Kate. What she answered to. What Tony and McGee and Abby and Ducky called her. The name which, when shouted across the bullpen, made her look up in automatic recognition. The name which adorns the gravestone in the cemetery in Indiana. The name which brings a lump to my throat and a stiffness to my back whenever I walk down the street and see a small brunette turn in response to 'Kate, over here!'.
She had a lot of names.
But she will always be Katie to me.