He stares at the open door, his body thrumming with anger and heartache as he tries to comprehend what just happened.
She…
His feet propel into motion before his brain catches up, before he can even begin to make sense of what she's thinking.
"What the hell, Kate?" He demands, his voice low.
She's standing at the elevator, pressing the button repeatedly, even though she always teases him that it doesn't make the elevator appear any faster.
"What are you doing?"
He tries his best to make it sound light, to give her the option to forget this ever happened so they can go back inside and eat smorelettes and pretend she didn't just rip his heart out and shove it in her overnight bag, but her feet remain rooted on the ground, her back straight, not even twisting to look at him.
He reaches out to rest a hand on her shoulder and she flinches, the agony in her eyes visible for a second before she rights her posture, stepping inside the elevator when the doors open.
But he won't leave it at that. Won't let her do this without an explanation better than 'I have to figure some things out' and 'trust me', even if the anger and betrayal are compounding and he's not sure he can control them long enough to maintain a rational conversation.
She doesn't turn when she enters the elevator, but it works in his favour because he slips in after her, and by the time she registers his presence it's too late. The doors close and he pulls the emergency stop, standing in front of her and refusing to budge.
"Kate."
She sees the fury in his eyes, guilt flitting across her face before her resolve strengthens.
"I have to do this." Her voice is broken, but he's too far gone to care.
"You do not. You have to explain, because if you don't, I'm done. You won't be knocking on that door hopeful that I'll let you in because I won't. Tell me now, Kate. Tell me now what is going through your head or walk out this elevator and never come back."
The thought tears his heart in two, the possibility that she could do just that, but the image of her walking out the front door replays over and over in his mind, anger preventing him from taking back the ultimatum.
She deflates before his eyes. Her whole body sags down onto the floor, as if all the courage and resolve she possessed not two minutes ago has been ripped from her, and in its place is a brokenness that pulls him down to the carpeted floor of the elevator with her.
"I can't let this case go, Castle. Can't let them get away with it. Whoever it was that was working with Bracken, whoever it was that killed my team, my friends – they have to pay."
He nods, allows her the confirmation that he follows her reasoning, at least so far.
"But I can't bring you into it. I can't put you in harm's way, I have to do this on my own. Attachments are liabilities."
She's repeating a mantra, he realises, and he swallows, shifts onto his knees so that he's looking down at her, so that he's all she sees.
"We're married, Beckett," he reminds her. "We're in this together. You think it's going to matter to whoever's behind this that you walked out on me?" His voice cracks, as he tries desperately to undo what's been done, what he's afraid might be a fracture that will never heal. "They won't give a shit. If you go after them on your own, it just means that when they come for me, you won't be there. That isn't keeping me safe, it's putting me in the crosshairs."
She shakes her head, tears streaming down her cheeks as she refuses to look him in the eye.
"We can solve this – together. Just as we have hundreds of other cases, just as we did your mother's."
Something shifts then, her eyes meeting his.
"I don't want you to get hurt," she whispers, her voice throaty with the tears that have finally started to subside. "I don't-"
"This hurts me," he reminds her, the betrayal leaking into his tone as he cuts her off. "Watching you walk out on me, stop believing in us. That hurts. So come back, and we can get through this together."
She reaches for him, the first time she hasn't shied away from his touch since she dropped that bag at the front door.
"Okay."
They stand side by side, her hand clasped in his, as he resumes the elevator's movement, down to the lobby and back up.
When they step out onto their floor she's still clutching her bag like she isn't ready to let go of this ridiculous plan yet, and he's still clutching her hand like this fixes everything. As if her willingness to come back erases the fact that she was able to walk out on them in the first place.
The door to the loft is wide open, the smorelette now blackened in the pan, and after he dumps the thing in the sink to be dealt with later, he rests his hands on the counter, lost for words.
His wife is standing three feet from the door as if she doesn't know what to do now, as if she no longer feels at home after ten minutes away and a small, petty part of him thinks: good.
Her bag is by the couch; she doesn't seem to have any intention of walking out again, and silence descends, painful and heavy in the air.
What now?
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