Safe
Chapter Two
Kate Beckett was used to being woken up by phone calls. Whenever a body dropped in the jurisdiction of the 12th Precinct, she was the first detective to be notified, regardless of the time of day or night. She'd be lying if she said it didn't bother her - it always did - but it was a part of the job that she had come to accept with time. Murders aren't like clock work; they don't run on a nine to five schedule. In some cases there may br warning signs leading up to a decision to commit the crime, but when it comes down to it, you just never know when that call is going to come in with the dreadful news. Murder was mostly unpredictable, and with time, she came to accept that. She accepted the part of her job that woke her early in the morning or late at night, the call that interrupted her grocery shopping trip, movie at the theater, or visit with friends. After all these years in homicide, she had just plain gotten used to it.
What she couldn't get used to, even after five months of experiencing them, were the nightmares that shook her from her sleep nearly every night. She was at least thankful for the fact that most nights were less severe than others. On such a mild day, she'd only be startled awake; an unpleasant feeling, but more irritating than anything. There were no lingering, lasting effects to keep her from dropping her head back on the pillow and dozing off again or continuing on with the rest of her day. On a bad day, however, she woke up screaming in a cold sweat, grabbing at her flesh where only the scar of the wound remained, feeling her heart pounding against her chest and trying desperately to catch her breath. Panic attacks, her therapist had told her weeks ago, just another symptom manifesting itself from the PTSD she'd come to develop after the shooting.
Today had unfortunately been another one of those particularly bad days. Not only did she shriek loud enough this morning to alarm a neighbor into knocking on her door (which resulted in a second, rather awkward shout of apology and reassurance that she was fine) she had even bolted out of bed and grabbed her gun. On some subconscious level she was hoping that the feeling of being armed with the Glock 19 would somehow persuade herself that she was protected, and that the nightmare was just that: another horrible nightmare. But it didn't ease her mind at all. The flashbacks recalled such distinct memories of the warm, red vital fluids seeping through her uniform, and the recollection both seared her flesh and ran a chill through her body at the same time. Even with gun in-hand, an unscathed body and empty apartment, she was still quivering with fear. Kate was beginning to hate not only the sniper, but even herself for becoming so weak and fragile in the aftermath of her shooting.
What she would give for it to be one of those dreaded phone calls waking her up instead of that damn nightmare again.
She must have spent an entire hour trembling in bed, trying to shake off her increasing anxiety and debating whether or not to call her therapist before finally grabbing her cell phone and thumbing through the contact list. When she passed by Castle's name, she stopped, her finger lingering there above his name for a moment. A therapist he was not, though he did try to psychoanalyze her now and then, but a source of comfort and distraction from her thoughts? Yeah, he definitely fell into that category lately. Only there was one problem: Today, she was off duty. Today she didn't have a valid reason to call him or have him meet her at the 12th, and he had plans with his mother anyway. What could she possibly say to him even if she called?
"Somehow 'Castle, I had a bad dream'' just doesn't have any merit in it." she muttered aloud, placing her palm to her face, running the tips of her fingers up and down the length of her forehead. God she felt pathetic. "You're thirty-one, Kate. Not three."
Making him even more aware of her recent vulnerability was the last thing she wanted. It made her uncomfortable the way he seemed to be walking on eggshells and yet was still so intent on being immersed in her every thought, feeling and action. He tried to hide it, but she knew she worried him so much these days.
After a brief pause, she continued through the list again, finally coming to the number she sought to call in the first place and yet, once again, she hesitated. Hell, the whole process was one huge hesitation. All she had to do was start typing in letters for his name to pop up and yet she still chose to peruse the list in it's entirety. She chose to come across Castle, her dad, and the names of all the other people she knew and loved who would be more than willing to lend an ear and and talk her down, make her feel secure again. What a vicious cycle, she thought, Castle trying in vain to hide his worry for her, all the while she hid her fears, keeping the demons to herself and causing the necessity for worry in the first place.
Her thumb hovered above the call button and she had second thoughts. What could he, her therapist, do for her? It was always the same advice: telling her in that irritatingly calm voice of his to breathe deeply, make a cup of tea, read a book, turn on some soft music - to simply use coping strategies until the anxiety passed. A lot of good that reiteration would do her right now when she already tried it an hour ago and neither option proved calming to her. In the very least, the chamomile tea managed to stave off her stress-induced cotton mouth.
Burying her face in her shaky hands in frustration, suddenly 'Castle, I had a bad dream' was starting to have a bit more merit in it after all, even if it took a rather significant hit to her pride to admit it.
The more she thought about it though, did she really even need a reason to call him? They weren't just partners, they were friends, too. Friends can just randomly call to say, 'What's up?' or 'How's it going?', right?
Thumbing through her contact list again, she made her way back to Castle's name, her first digit floating just above the send key again. For all she knew, he might not even answer. He might not be awake, or might already be off preparing for his mother's fundraiser. Then what? Back to coping strategies? Back to, "Hey Doc, I'm a mess again" ?
To hell with reasons, she thought, firmly planting her finger down on the key beneath it. She'd figure it the words out once he picked up. If he picked up.
"Please pick up," she pleaded as she brought an unsteady hand with phone to her ear. Three rings later, and 'Well, good morning, Detective'' finally set her heart at ease.
Beckett managed to go back to sleep after her call with Castle. That brief conversation with him helped to give her four, blissful, uninterrupted hours of sleep and she made a mental note to repay him for it later, somehow. She didn't even care that it was half past noon when her eyes drowsily focused in on the time on her cell phone that she had fallen asleep with in her hand. Even she deserved an unproductive, lazy day every now and then, right?
As she made her way to the bathroom to freshen up, her cell chimed. Her mouth curled to a smirk as she read the screen. It was a text message from Castle.
[Was it too arrogant of me to think that I'd be worth more than a $5750 bid?]
"Maybe a little bit", she mused to herself. Apparently she'd given Martha a bit too much credit earlier this morning, not to mention given Castle false hope. Her cell chimed again.
[Don't answer that.]
"Too late," she said with a laugh, reaching for her toothbrush as she did.
[But seriously, $5750? Three years ago it was $7000!]
[I'd have paid more...] she tapped in reply. It was passing milliseconds before his reply.
[WHAT?]
Another devilish smirk came to her lips as she responded.
[...if you were Connelly or Patterson.]
Rather than a little chime, now her phone was ringing. She was mid-way through washing her face of last night's makeup she neglected to clean off in the wee hours of the morning and clicked on the speakerphone to answer. "Yes, Castle?"
"If that's how you really feel, maybe I will base my next book on Esposito, after all."
Kate smiled at the empty threat. "I'm not sure if I should I be insulted or thankful?"
"I'm serious!" He insisted, and when she only laughed in reply added, "Come on, I'm having a pseudo-mid-life crisis here. The least you could do is play along and tell me I haven't depreciated with age."
"You haven't depreciated with age, Castle." A truthful statement from the detective, even if she did say it with her characteristic sarcasm.
"At least say it like you mean it."
"I'll put it in terms you can understand. You're more like-" she pondered a moment, "a bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape."
Castle didn't miss a beat. "Red or white?"
"Does it matter?" she asked, cocking her head slightly to the side.
"It does," he affirmed.
"How so?"
"Because you're either implying that you find me spicy and that I've retained my spiciness or that I've become more exotic and therefore more desirable with maturity."
Well, she thought, walked right into that one.
"...my point is - well, was until you just ruined it - you become more...approachable? Until the 12 year-old inevitably comes out."
"Oh."
Awkward silence ensued for about thirty seconds, allowing Beckett ample time to finish patting her face dry before he started again.
"So you think I'm approachable like a fine wine. I'm flattered."
" -until the 12 year-old inevitably comes out," she reiterated.
"That's fine, Detective. I can take solace knowing that at least some of the lovely ladies here beg to differ, and with their wallets no less. On that note, I'm afraid I have to get going."
"Your mother planning to put that mug of yours to use some more?"
"Indeed, or I guess you can say she already has. I'm being whisked off by a Miss Marilyn Devereaux in a bit here."
"Marilyn Devereaux?" Beckett questioned, curiosity more than a little piqued. The given name in itself brought to mind a certain late blonde actress from decades past and she cringed at the thought. "Fancy name. Who is she?"
"The winning bidder. Stage actress and acquaintance of Mother's. She's quite charming, really. I was really worried about this auction thing but she's not so bad. Rather significant age gap but if her bid is any indication, I'm guessing she still finds me quite the Châteauneuf-du-Pape, to use your terms."
"Is that so..." She could tell he was trying to bait her, to get a rise out of her, but even so, it was working. All she could think of was the picture of Rick Castle and some middle-aged blonde bimbo of a cougar arm-in-arm at Le Cirque. It made her skin crawl.
"Mhm. Should be an interesting experience. Been a while since I've done the whole fine dining shindig, especially like this."
He took notice of Kate's uncharacteristic lack of a rebuke and grew concerned. When it came to the swordplay she was almost always game. Perhaps he pushed it too far this time.
"It doesn't bother you, does it?"
"Why would it bother me, Castle?" Beckett replied promptly, more out of habit and reflex than anything else she was feeling. "What or who you choose to do in your personal life has nothing to do with me." Instantly her inner thoughts were screaming out damn it, Kate, what are you saying?
"Which, in a roundabout way, is your way of saying you are bothered." He accused in a teasing tone.
Silence.
"Kate?"
"Castle," she replied in a hushed tone, just barely above a whisper, "enjoy your date."
"I uh-"
Before he even had the chance to reply, she had hit the red button to end the call.
"Great job, Wall." she said to herself in mock congratulation, all the while feeling like a complete idiot. Four hours ago all she could think of was how much she needed him on that phone, and now here she was pushing him away and hanging up on him. Beckett was swiftly becoming an old pro at ruining her chances at happiness and reinforcing the emotional barrier that Castle was trying so hard to break through. They weren't an item, and they never could be if she kept throwing on the brakes every time he made any advances, but that didn't make her feel any less jealous, angry even, though she really had no right to be.
Walking out to living room, she tossed her phone to the couch before returning back to the bathroom, stripping off her clothing and hopping in the shower. Perhaps the rush of water would help cool off that pathetic, impulsive hot-head of hers before she did anything else stupid today.
Being in love was supposed to make you happy, or at least, that's what she'd always thought it would do. After meeting Castle, falling for Castle, and struggling to maintain some semblance of a relationship with Castle, she couldn't help but wonder if she was more broken than initially thought, and the only woman alive who felt miserable rather than happy when it came to love.
When Kate emerged from the shower a short while later, mind and body both refreshed and back to a somewhat level-headed territory, she fluttered down to the couch, retrieved her phone and was met with not one, but three text message notifications. Her brow furrowed while she contemplated opening them. According to the time stamps, the first was sent five minutes after she ended her call with Castle, the remaining two sent within a minute of each other after that.
[Kate?]
[Kate, I'm sorry.]
[Marilyn is 75. Recent widower. I'll call you later, okay?]
"Damn you, Castle," she addressed her phone, an aggravated smile forming in the bottom lip she held captive between her teeth, "Making me jealous of a senior citizen. Really?"
[Okay]
Theirs was such a complicated love.
